Catching a Late Night Read 14.10
Title: Catching a Late Night Read
Fandom: RPS
Story: Highway: Reconnected 14.10
Characters: Alan Davies and Robert Sean Leonard
Authors: michelleann68 + evila_elf = evila_ann
Prompt: None
Word Count: 2002
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Alan and Robert are unable to sleep, so Alan asks Robert to read to him.
Authors’ Notes: Feel free to friend us if you want to read a day ahead of the communities.
Where it all began:
Big table of prompts is here:
Order of the story is here:
Previous story:
Picnic
Alan woke, as if Robert's fleeting presence had alerted him. His calves protested as he flexed them, still sore from the walk a couple days ago and threatening to cramp up if he wasn't careful. He maneuvered himself vertical and tenderly got out of bed. It was nearing midnight and he figured he would get a glass of water and check up on Robert, wondering if he was going to come to bed any time soon. Trying not to step too loudly, he first went to the living room, pausing to soak in the sight of his boyfriend.
Robert was hunched over a book, his glasses slipping down his nose and he was so engrossed that he probably wouldn't notice until they slipped clean off. His hand was poised, ready to change the page at a word's notice and the corner of his bottom lip was sucked into his mouth. His feet were bare and resting on the edge of the coffee table, his toes moving back and forth slowly, a gentle pattern. A light on Robert's right landed softly on the page, casting a warm hue across a swath of the room. A creak alerted him and he started, then turned, smiling as Alan approached, unaware that he had been watched for the past five minutes. "What are you doing up?" He patted the couch, motioning for Alan to sit next to him.
"Needed to stretch if I plan on walking any tomorrow." He tilted Robert's book forward to catch the title, Catcher in the Rye. "Read to me?"
"I thought you didn't like my literature?"
"I thought it would help me sleep."
Robert gently swatted Alan on the shoulder.
Alan sat back on the couch, mirroring Robert's position, but could not get comfortable. He straightened his legs, then tucked them underneath him on the couch.
Robert looked over at Alan, making sure he had stopped fidgeting, then started reading, his voice was soft as he picked up where he left off, voice seeping into the quiet room:
" D.B. took Phoebe and I to see it last year. He treated us to lunch first, and then he took us. He'd already seen it, and the way he talked about it at lunch, I was anxious as hell to see it, too. But I didn't enjoy it much. I just don't see what's so marvelous about Sir Laurence Olivier, that's all. He has a terrific voice, and he's a helluva handsome guy, and he's very nice to watch when he's walking or dueling or something, but he wasn't at all the way D.B. said Hamlet was. He was too much like a goddam general, instead of a sad, screwed-up type guy."
"That's not very nice." Alan looked over at Robert interrupting him.
"What?"
"The Olivier comments."
Robert set the book down and wondered if Alan wanted to talk, or to listen, it was hard to tell. They had both been so talkative in the last week, saying more then they had had in the previous year it seemed. "Want me to keep reading?"
"Yes, sorry." Alan just wanted to hear Robert talk. He did not care what he said really, he just craved hearing his voice and feeling him near. This was one of their last moments until once again duty called and they went to separate countries and earning their livings, until they could find another week or two to be together.
Robert began again:
"The best part in the whole picture was when old Ophelia's brother--the one that gets in the duel with Hamlet at the very end--was going away and his father was giving him a lot of advice. While the father kept giving him a lot of advice, old Ophelia was sort of horsing around with her brother, taking his dagger out of the holster, and teasing him and all while he was trying to look interested in the bull his father was shooting."
Robert paused and looked over at Alan. He was fidgeting, unfolding his legs once again and taking one of the pillows from the couch and stuffing it behind his head. "Are you even listening?"
"Trying to get comfortable."
"Lay down." Robert lifted the book and nodded to indicate Alan utilize his lap.
Alan smiled and took advantage of the offer. He stretched his body out along the couch and gently rested his head on Robert's lap, across his thighs. He was on his side, his head turned, looking out at the pool shimmering in the dark moonlight. He leaned forward and kissed Robert's knee, before resuming his gaze out the glass window.
"Comfy?"
"Yep."
Robert smiled fondly, holding the book higher and adjusting his glasses before continuing:
"That was nice. I got a big bang out of that. But you don't see that kind of stuff much. The only thing old Phoebe liked was when Hamlet patted this dog on the head. She thought that was funny and nice, and it was. What I'll have to do is, I'll have to read that play. The trouble with me is, I always have to read that stuff by myself. If an actor acts it out, I hardly listen. I keep worrying about whether he's going to do something phony every minute."
Alan chuckled.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Alan nodded, his hair scratching at Robert's lap.
Robert ran his hand across Alan's shoulder in a reassuring way. Picking up the book he started again.
"After I got the tickets to the Lunts' show, I took a cab up to the park. I should've taken a subway or something, because I was getting slightly low on dough, but I wanted to get off that damn Broadway as fast as I could. It was lousy in the park. It wasn't too cold, but the sun still wasn't out, and there didn't look like there was anything in the park except dog crap and globs of spit and cigar butts from old men, and the benches all looked like they'd be wet if you sat down on them. It made you depressed, and every once in a while, for no reason, you got goose flesh while you walked."
"That's not our Central Park."
Robert ran his hand down towards Alan's hip. "No, it's not. It’s not always clean, or safe."
"You love it."
"It's home," he said softly.
Alan closed his eyes, feeling a little sad. He wanted Robert to think of him as home, but he was always competing with New York and that irritated him. But he felt the same way about London, so it wasn't really fair of him to get too upset, but he hoped one of them would be able to give up their city to live nearer to each other.
"It didn't seem at all like Christmas was coming soon," Robert continued, not noticing Alan's mood change. "It didn't seem like anything was coming. But I kept walking over to the Mall anyway, because that's where Phoebe usually goes when she's in the park. She likes to skate near the bandstand. It's funny. That's the same place I used to like to skate when I was a kid.
When I got there, though, I didn't see her around anywhere. There were a few kids around, skating and all, and two boys were playing Flys Up with a soft ball, but no Phoebe. I saw one kid about her age, though, sitting on a bench all by herself, tightening her skate. I thought maybe she might know Phoebe and could tell me where she was or something, so I went over and sat down next to her and asked her, "Do you know Phoebe Caulfield, by any chance?"
"Who?" she said. All she had on was jeans and about twenty sweaters. You could tell her mother made them for her, because they were lumpy as hell.”
Robert ran his hand down across Alan's back and rubbed his fingers back and forth gently. He thought Alan started to purr, but he could not be sure. He did know that Alan just tucked his head into his lap even more, his breathing slowing down. Robert left his hand on Alan's back and kept reading as maintained the gentle rubbing, lowering his voice even more:
”"Phoebe Caulfield. She lives on Seventy-first Street. She's in the fourth grade, over at--"
"You know Phoebe?"
"Yeah, I'm her brother. You know where she is?"
"She's in Miss Callon's class, isn't she?" the kid said.
"I don't know. Yes, I think she is."
"She's prob'ly in the museum, then. We went last Saturday," the kid said.
"Which museum?" I asked her.
She shrugged her shoulders, sort of. "I don't know," she said. "The museum."
"I know, but the one where the pictures are, or the one where the Indians are?"
"The one where the Indians.""
Robert stopped again and was not surprised that he didn't get a protest from the warm body draped across his lap. Alan had drifted off to sleep. Robert's face broke into a sleepy smile. He really did love moments like this: no pressure, no need to talk or think, just being together. Alan always seemed so peaceful when he was sleeping. Robert remembered even when Alan was in the hospital and white as a ghost that there was a tranquility to his face as he laid there after he had fallen asleep.
Robert ran his hand up Alan's back and across his shoulder and over his scalp. He looked for the small reminder of the injury, but could not find it. Even the wound on his chest had miraculously managed to not scar. It seemed like a life time ago, but it was only a little over a year. So much had changed and Robert felt the emotions rise in him. He blinked back tears that threatened to spill over his half closed eyes. Rubbing a thumb across Alan's temple, Robert returned to the book, to finish up the section in a quiet whisper.
""Thanks a lot," I said. I got up and started to go, but then I suddenly remembered it was Sunday. "This is Sunday," I told the kid.
She looked up at me. "Oh. Then she isn't."
She was having a helluva time tightening her skate. She didn't have any gloves on or anything and her hands were all red and cold. I gave her a hand with it. Boy, I hadn't had a skate key in my hand for years. It didn't feel funny, though. You could put a skate key in my hand fifty years from now, in pitch dark, and I'd still know what it is. She thanked me and all when I had it tightened for her. She was a very nice, polite little kid. God, I love it when a kid's nice and polite when you tighten their skate for them or something. Most kids are. They really are. I asked her if she'd care to have a hot chocolate or something with me, but she said no, thank you. She said she had to meet her friend. Kids always have to meet their friend. That kills me."
Robert's voice trailed off and he yawned. He thought that he could now finally fall asleep. He knew they should make it into bed because they would both be a tangle of knots if they stayed there all night, but Robert was loathe to get up if it meant waking Alan. He set the book down and scrubbed his hand across his face, thumbs rubbing up under his glasses, deciding that he would sit here for half an hour then wake up his boyfriend and drag them both to bed. Staring down at Alan's sleeping face, Robert traced it with his finger, memorizing every bit. He yawned again and rested his head back against the couch, fingers brushing through Alan's hair. Maybe he should close his eyes for a few minutes and enjoy the warmth...
14.11 Pool Party Picnic
Fandom: RPS
Story: Highway: Reconnected 14.10
Characters: Alan Davies and Robert Sean Leonard
Authors: michelleann68 + evila_elf = evila_ann
Prompt: None
Word Count: 2002
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Alan and Robert are unable to sleep, so Alan asks Robert to read to him.
Authors’ Notes: Feel free to friend us if you want to read a day ahead of the communities.
Where it all began:
Big table of prompts is here:
Order of the story is here:
Previous story:
Picnic
Alan woke, as if Robert's fleeting presence had alerted him. His calves protested as he flexed them, still sore from the walk a couple days ago and threatening to cramp up if he wasn't careful. He maneuvered himself vertical and tenderly got out of bed. It was nearing midnight and he figured he would get a glass of water and check up on Robert, wondering if he was going to come to bed any time soon. Trying not to step too loudly, he first went to the living room, pausing to soak in the sight of his boyfriend.
Robert was hunched over a book, his glasses slipping down his nose and he was so engrossed that he probably wouldn't notice until they slipped clean off. His hand was poised, ready to change the page at a word's notice and the corner of his bottom lip was sucked into his mouth. His feet were bare and resting on the edge of the coffee table, his toes moving back and forth slowly, a gentle pattern. A light on Robert's right landed softly on the page, casting a warm hue across a swath of the room. A creak alerted him and he started, then turned, smiling as Alan approached, unaware that he had been watched for the past five minutes. "What are you doing up?" He patted the couch, motioning for Alan to sit next to him.
"Needed to stretch if I plan on walking any tomorrow." He tilted Robert's book forward to catch the title, Catcher in the Rye. "Read to me?"
"I thought you didn't like my literature?"
"I thought it would help me sleep."
Robert gently swatted Alan on the shoulder.
Alan sat back on the couch, mirroring Robert's position, but could not get comfortable. He straightened his legs, then tucked them underneath him on the couch.
Robert looked over at Alan, making sure he had stopped fidgeting, then started reading, his voice was soft as he picked up where he left off, voice seeping into the quiet room:
" D.B. took Phoebe and I to see it last year. He treated us to lunch first, and then he took us. He'd already seen it, and the way he talked about it at lunch, I was anxious as hell to see it, too. But I didn't enjoy it much. I just don't see what's so marvelous about Sir Laurence Olivier, that's all. He has a terrific voice, and he's a helluva handsome guy, and he's very nice to watch when he's walking or dueling or something, but he wasn't at all the way D.B. said Hamlet was. He was too much like a goddam general, instead of a sad, screwed-up type guy."
"That's not very nice." Alan looked over at Robert interrupting him.
"What?"
"The Olivier comments."
Robert set the book down and wondered if Alan wanted to talk, or to listen, it was hard to tell. They had both been so talkative in the last week, saying more then they had had in the previous year it seemed. "Want me to keep reading?"
"Yes, sorry." Alan just wanted to hear Robert talk. He did not care what he said really, he just craved hearing his voice and feeling him near. This was one of their last moments until once again duty called and they went to separate countries and earning their livings, until they could find another week or two to be together.
Robert began again:
"The best part in the whole picture was when old Ophelia's brother--the one that gets in the duel with Hamlet at the very end--was going away and his father was giving him a lot of advice. While the father kept giving him a lot of advice, old Ophelia was sort of horsing around with her brother, taking his dagger out of the holster, and teasing him and all while he was trying to look interested in the bull his father was shooting."
Robert paused and looked over at Alan. He was fidgeting, unfolding his legs once again and taking one of the pillows from the couch and stuffing it behind his head. "Are you even listening?"
"Trying to get comfortable."
"Lay down." Robert lifted the book and nodded to indicate Alan utilize his lap.
Alan smiled and took advantage of the offer. He stretched his body out along the couch and gently rested his head on Robert's lap, across his thighs. He was on his side, his head turned, looking out at the pool shimmering in the dark moonlight. He leaned forward and kissed Robert's knee, before resuming his gaze out the glass window.
"Comfy?"
"Yep."
Robert smiled fondly, holding the book higher and adjusting his glasses before continuing:
"That was nice. I got a big bang out of that. But you don't see that kind of stuff much. The only thing old Phoebe liked was when Hamlet patted this dog on the head. She thought that was funny and nice, and it was. What I'll have to do is, I'll have to read that play. The trouble with me is, I always have to read that stuff by myself. If an actor acts it out, I hardly listen. I keep worrying about whether he's going to do something phony every minute."
Alan chuckled.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Alan nodded, his hair scratching at Robert's lap.
Robert ran his hand across Alan's shoulder in a reassuring way. Picking up the book he started again.
"After I got the tickets to the Lunts' show, I took a cab up to the park. I should've taken a subway or something, because I was getting slightly low on dough, but I wanted to get off that damn Broadway as fast as I could. It was lousy in the park. It wasn't too cold, but the sun still wasn't out, and there didn't look like there was anything in the park except dog crap and globs of spit and cigar butts from old men, and the benches all looked like they'd be wet if you sat down on them. It made you depressed, and every once in a while, for no reason, you got goose flesh while you walked."
"That's not our Central Park."
Robert ran his hand down towards Alan's hip. "No, it's not. It’s not always clean, or safe."
"You love it."
"It's home," he said softly.
Alan closed his eyes, feeling a little sad. He wanted Robert to think of him as home, but he was always competing with New York and that irritated him. But he felt the same way about London, so it wasn't really fair of him to get too upset, but he hoped one of them would be able to give up their city to live nearer to each other.
"It didn't seem at all like Christmas was coming soon," Robert continued, not noticing Alan's mood change. "It didn't seem like anything was coming. But I kept walking over to the Mall anyway, because that's where Phoebe usually goes when she's in the park. She likes to skate near the bandstand. It's funny. That's the same place I used to like to skate when I was a kid.
When I got there, though, I didn't see her around anywhere. There were a few kids around, skating and all, and two boys were playing Flys Up with a soft ball, but no Phoebe. I saw one kid about her age, though, sitting on a bench all by herself, tightening her skate. I thought maybe she might know Phoebe and could tell me where she was or something, so I went over and sat down next to her and asked her, "Do you know Phoebe Caulfield, by any chance?"
"Who?" she said. All she had on was jeans and about twenty sweaters. You could tell her mother made them for her, because they were lumpy as hell.”
Robert ran his hand down across Alan's back and rubbed his fingers back and forth gently. He thought Alan started to purr, but he could not be sure. He did know that Alan just tucked his head into his lap even more, his breathing slowing down. Robert left his hand on Alan's back and kept reading as maintained the gentle rubbing, lowering his voice even more:
”"Phoebe Caulfield. She lives on Seventy-first Street. She's in the fourth grade, over at--"
"You know Phoebe?"
"Yeah, I'm her brother. You know where she is?"
"She's in Miss Callon's class, isn't she?" the kid said.
"I don't know. Yes, I think she is."
"She's prob'ly in the museum, then. We went last Saturday," the kid said.
"Which museum?" I asked her.
She shrugged her shoulders, sort of. "I don't know," she said. "The museum."
"I know, but the one where the pictures are, or the one where the Indians are?"
"The one where the Indians.""
Robert stopped again and was not surprised that he didn't get a protest from the warm body draped across his lap. Alan had drifted off to sleep. Robert's face broke into a sleepy smile. He really did love moments like this: no pressure, no need to talk or think, just being together. Alan always seemed so peaceful when he was sleeping. Robert remembered even when Alan was in the hospital and white as a ghost that there was a tranquility to his face as he laid there after he had fallen asleep.
Robert ran his hand up Alan's back and across his shoulder and over his scalp. He looked for the small reminder of the injury, but could not find it. Even the wound on his chest had miraculously managed to not scar. It seemed like a life time ago, but it was only a little over a year. So much had changed and Robert felt the emotions rise in him. He blinked back tears that threatened to spill over his half closed eyes. Rubbing a thumb across Alan's temple, Robert returned to the book, to finish up the section in a quiet whisper.
""Thanks a lot," I said. I got up and started to go, but then I suddenly remembered it was Sunday. "This is Sunday," I told the kid.
She looked up at me. "Oh. Then she isn't."
She was having a helluva time tightening her skate. She didn't have any gloves on or anything and her hands were all red and cold. I gave her a hand with it. Boy, I hadn't had a skate key in my hand for years. It didn't feel funny, though. You could put a skate key in my hand fifty years from now, in pitch dark, and I'd still know what it is. She thanked me and all when I had it tightened for her. She was a very nice, polite little kid. God, I love it when a kid's nice and polite when you tighten their skate for them or something. Most kids are. They really are. I asked her if she'd care to have a hot chocolate or something with me, but she said no, thank you. She said she had to meet her friend. Kids always have to meet their friend. That kills me."
Robert's voice trailed off and he yawned. He thought that he could now finally fall asleep. He knew they should make it into bed because they would both be a tangle of knots if they stayed there all night, but Robert was loathe to get up if it meant waking Alan. He set the book down and scrubbed his hand across his face, thumbs rubbing up under his glasses, deciding that he would sit here for half an hour then wake up his boyfriend and drag them both to bed. Staring down at Alan's sleeping face, Robert traced it with his finger, memorizing every bit. He yawned again and rested his head back against the couch, fingers brushing through Alan's hair. Maybe he should close his eyes for a few minutes and enjoy the warmth...
14.11 Pool Party Picnic