Best thing that I’ve ever found; Actor RPS (Tom/Chris/Ben)
Title: Best thing that I’ve ever found
Pairing: Tom Hardy/Chris Pine/Benedict Cumberbatch
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 8400
Disclaimer: This is fiction. Blame my lizard brain.
Summary: Chris has a problem, Tom has a solution, and Ben is magical. (But not really.)
"Oh for fuck’s sake, Tom," Tom hears as the door opens behind him.
"You're an eavesdropping bastard," Tom says as he turns, and Benedict is standing the doorway, his ivory button down rolled halfway up his forearms, hands on his hips.
"You flew me out here to sleep with your costar?" Ben asks, eyebrows almost to his hairline.
Warnings for first time fic, voyeurism, wordiness. Apologies to Vancouver, which I hear is actually a really awesome town. Sadly, that did not work for my purposes. Title from Jenny Lewis - Handle With Care. Thanks to miznarrator for the prodding, zillahseye for the encouragement, and schuyler for the last-minute beta. Posted as Part 1 of my “Sunday NaNo Fics” - hey, it’s still Sunday in a lot of places!
Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch are stupidly in love, and still bff!
See - Benny still gets asked questions about whether Tom is a gaymo him in magazines!
Don’t believe they are in love? Watch this. Now watch THIS. Yeah. So.
And you know, I’m SURE, that Tom and Chris just finished wrapping a film in Vancouver.
So.
This is just LOGICAL, right? Right!
Now, the fic!
“So, what you’re saying is that he doesn’t want to date you because you’ve never dated a man.”
“Right.”
“But he’s not keen on you dating men who aren’t him.”
“Correct.”
“And you aren’t keen to sleep with men who aren’t him, because it’s outside of your area of expertise, but you also don’t want to sleep with him with no hot gay sex experience whatsoever under your belt.”
“Yeah.”
Tom blinks at Chris a few times before passing him the saltshaker from the room service tray. “Mate, I think you’re fucked,” he says, and Chris sighs.
“I really thought you’d be more help than that, asshole.”
Tom just laughs, the fucker.
It’s their third week filming in Vancouver, a city so lovely and so dull that Chris and Tom have had nothing but time to get to know each other. So far Chris has learned that Tom doesn’t drink, but that Tom loves to get other people drunk. “Vulnerable,” Tom said with a wink the fourth time Chris woke up in Tom’s room with a raging headache and the feeling he’d said too much niggling at the back of his mind. “Drunks tell the best stories.”
“Explains the Irish,” Chris had said with a shrug.
It’s not that Tom wasn’t a sharing kind of person. In fact, Chris would bet a million dollars that half of Tom’s ‘get ‘em drunk and talking’ plans were enacted just so he would be able to share his tales of sex, drugs and... well, mostly sex and drugs, and still have enough blackmail material on his companion at the end of an evening that he’d be assured no tongues would wag.
And now Chris has gone and spilled the whole Zach situation, which is so messed up and convoluted that even John basically washed his hands of it after the premieres. “We’ll try this again in a year, shall we, my emotionally stunted friend? Maybe you can work on that sexuality crisis in the meantime.” Chris was not emotionally stunted, but he was totally out of his depth in terms of wanting to climb Zach like a tree. Tom had, according to all sources, climbed more than a few boys like a tree and still managed to be cool with his own status as a lady-killer. It’s a skill Chris could use, okay?
*
Really, the issue is that Tom is starved for human contact about ninety percent of the day. “You’re such a touch slut,” Charlotte tells him at least once a week, and Tom would agree. He’s all sorts of slut, actually. And here, half a world away from Charlotte and his baby and his gang of friends who would happily let Tom pass out on them, Tom is making friends with Chris and getting him used to Tom’s over-friendliness the best way he knows how - beer.
And so far Chris has not disappointed him. In fact, Chris has gone around the bend from “not really my scene” to “what happens when you like a boy and he doesn’t like you back?” in under three weeks, which Tom considers a personal fucking record. He and Char have a complicated arrangement of what is okay and what is not, and who is okay and who is not, and sadly, Chris Pine is not on the okay list, but. BUT. Chris is sad and lovely and smart and fucking pretty, and if there is anything Tom likes, it’s pushing buttons and bending rules. Charlotte will forgive him, because she knows him well enough that it’s scary. And Tom isn’t going to break any rules, not really, but he is pushing it. Oh, is he pushing it.
"Shove over,” Tom says later that night, and Chris just lets him slide into the bed, under the duvet but over the sheets. Chris is no longer wearing any pants, so that is probably a good call. He sighs and tucks his nose into the crook of Tom’s neck.
"You're not going to sleep in here, are you?" Chris asks, even as the arm around Tom's waist tightens.
"Might," Tom says, a little cheeky, and it's blissful, the way Chris smiles against his skin. Tom lets his mind drift a little, his fingers scratching lightly over the back of Chris's neck. It's been a good shoot - not the complex kind of script he loves, but fun and engaging and the clothes are nice and the inside of his head isn't cluttered with the kind of dangerous thoughts he took home on Bronson or Stuart. Maybe it's thinking about Stuart and the flood of memories that always comes with it that distracts Tom enough that he doesn't notice when Chris's light breaths along his throat turn into kisses, slow and tentative and oh, fuck, Tom's dick is about to be so pissed off at him.
"Chris," he says, his fingers tightening at the back of Chris's neck, then pulling him back a little. "Baby, I can't." Chris's whole body tenses and Tom sighs, wraps his arm around Chris's neck and pulls him in for a hug. "It's complicated. Trust me, in this instance 'it's not you, it's me' is incredibly accurate."
"I just..." Chris grits out, but he doesn't really struggle to get away. Finally he sighs. "Fuck you, Hardy," he says and Tom kisses the top of his head.
"I wish," Tom says, and fuck, he really means that. Chris is one fucked up guy, and Tom has been that guy, Tom wrote the book on that guy. And Tom remembers that when he was where Chris is now, there was exactly one person who could put him back on his feet again, and... Oh. Tom kisses the top of Chris's head again and grins at the ceiling.
Sometimes Tom is not afraid to admit that he is one brilliant motherfucker.
*
It's uncomfortable for about five minutes, because Chris went out on a limb there and it was stupid, because he knows the rules, or at least that there are rules for Tom's weird affections, and he has clearly gone and broken one. But Tom doesn't seem upset and he certainly won't let Chris get up and go be mortified in the bathroom, and he's showing no signs of not sleeping in Chris's bed for the rest of the night so. Fine. Whatever. Chris will just pretend this never happened. That's the Guy Code, and he's done it more than once, after a few minor bad idea indiscretions in his youth.
"Hey," Tom says a few moments later. His fingers are back at the nape of Chris's neck, nails scratching just hard enough to not tickle. Chris can hear the smile in his voice. "Did you know that I made it through six years of being a junkie and somehow managed to wait until I was properly sober to get properly fucked?"
Chris stifles a groan against Tom's shoulder. Of course, Tom Hardy doesn't exist in the same universe as regular people. Tom doesn't want to forget things happened; he wants to open them up and examine motivation and talk about feelings. Of course. Of fucking course. Why can't Chris ever make a move on a normal dude?
"Is that so," Chris says dryly, hoping they really aren't going to go there. He's half hard, which Tom definitely knows, and it's just unfair to hear about other people's sexual exploits when they have just shot you down.
"Mmmm," Tom hums. "Lucky fucking bastard, I was. Would have been a disaster otherwise. I was scared shitless of it, you know - not something to be entered into lightly - and then I met this bloke and he was fucking fantastic and just said 'Tom, whatever you need, I've got you' and I thought, fuck. Why the fuck not? And it's not like I was suddenly not scared shitless, but I trusted him, you know? He has that way about him, where he just understood when to stop and when to push me and it was, no lie, one of the best nights of my goddamn life. And I thank whatever deity is up there every day that I didn't get there before I met this guy."
"That's... good," Chris manages, because Tom is kind of the worst asshole ever. Does he think Chris needs to wait for some gay messiah to send him his perfect guy? Chris doesn't want a perfect guy, he wants Zach, who is about as far from perfect is as possible to be and still function as a person. What he needs is to get his hand down someone's pants and just... test-drive the merchandise before he buys into the whole lifestyle. He should have just gotten it over with in WeHo when one of Zach's friends offered to blow him in the coatroom of that club.
"Waiting for the right moment is better than random anonymous hookups," Tom says, like he's reading Chris's mind. "Trust is the key part, Chris."
And the thing is, Chris actually knows this. "I trust you," he says, because he doesn't know Tom as well as a lot of people, but somehow he really does trust that Tom wouldn't fuck him over on this.
"Good," Tom says, almost smugly. "Now go to sleep."
Chris hates Tom so fucking much sometimes.
*
It takes three dozen emails, two cajoling phone calls, one check-in with Charlotte and a full week, but somehow, by the next free night on Chris and Tom's shooting schedule, Tom has pulled off his minor miracle with aplomb. He and Chris walk into their hotel a hair past eight o'clock that night, and when Tom glances in to the bar, there he is, his long limbs stuffed in a sturdy English peacoat, his piercing eyes as always undercut by his truly delighted grin when he sees Tom. "Hey there, Benny. What are you doing in town?" he asks with mock surprise. He strolls up to where Benny is lounging against the bar, glass of red wine dangling between two long fingers. Tom can feel his whole body start to reboot, a hum under his skin that is completely ignoring the fact that he's been up for fifteen hours. "Miss me that much?"
"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" Benedict says, and Tom gives him a big enough bear hug to lift him off his feet.
"Um," Chris says behind him, and the hum under Tom's skin turns into a buzz. Steady as she goes, he tells himself, and turns with a smile.
"Chris Pine, meet Benedict Cumberbatch," Tom says with a flourish of his hand. "I called him up from the reserves to put a little spit and polish on this town."
"Nice to meet you," Chris says, and Tom watches them shake hands. They both have nearly identical looks of mild confusion.
"So, we're going out tonight?" Benedict asks, and Tom wants to laugh, because Benny is the most thoughtful person on earth, but he really is not into nightlife. Of any sort. At all.
"Do you like hockey?" Chris asks with a wry tilt of his lips.
"Er, no."
"Then no, we probably shouldn't go out tonight," Tom finishes for him. "We could get a gorgeous meal somewhere, though?"
"Well, considering it's about four am for me, I'm not sure I'm fit for polite company," Benedict notes. Tom had really, really been counting on that, but he hides his glee well.
"Tom's never fit for polite company anyway," Chris tells him, and Benny, the traitor, agrees with a nod.
"You're both wankers," he says, strolling toward the elevators.
"Should I," Chris demurs, "I mean, I can just hole up with the script tonight, if you guys want to catch up."
"Fuck no," Tom waves him off. "You'd fall asleep by ten and I would weep for your manhood. We should get room service and let Ben tell us all about his travels."
"Right, because Heathrow to Vancouver is so exciting," Benedict says with a shake of his head. He's staring at Tom like he knows something is up, and Tom loves how well Benny knows him, but Tom is a very good actor when he wants to be.
They make it to Tom's room and Benedict drops his bags on the floor. It's a lovely room - there's a common area with a table and chairs, a plush sofa against the wall, but only one bed in the room, and Tom watches Chris's surprised reaction when Ben doesn't even mention it. Ben shoots Tom an even look, then glances at Chris with a questioning quirk of his eyebrows. "I'm going to freshen up," he says firmly, before shutting himself in the washroom. Tom glances over at where Chris is standing by the window. Chris is an incredibly smart boy, and Tom is counting on the two of them catching up pretty damn... "Hey, can I talk to you?" Chris asks quietly, and honestly, Tom's impressed.
"Hmm?" Tom asks.
"You sure you don't want me out of your hair?" Chris asks, "Because it looks like you have plans for the evening." Tom grins at him.
"I do indeed have plans," Tom nods and kicks off his shoes. "But they really do not include you getting out of my hair," he adds, and pulls his t-shirt over his head.
"Tom," Chris starts, but Tom cuts him off.
"You trust me," he says firmly, a statement between them more than a question.
"Jesus, Tom," Chris huffs. "What the hell --"
"Look, we both know you're not keen on waiting until you find the perfect guy for all this, so I'm lending you mine," Tom says softly. He watches as Chris's mouth snaps shut, a blush forming high on his cheeks.
"Oh for fuck’s sake, Tom," Tom hears as the door opens behind him.
"You're an eavesdropping bastard," Tom says as he turns, and Benedict is standing the doorway, his ivory button down rolled halfway up his forearms, hands on his hips.
"You flew me out here to sleep with your costar?" Ben asks, eyebrows almost to his hairline.
"Don't get all high-and-mighty on me," Tom says, finger wagging in Ben's direction. "You knew full well this was a booty call when you got on that plane."
"Yes, fine, but I did figure it would be your booty," Ben replies and Tom giggles, because Benedict saying 'booty' is fucking brilliant. Ben looks past Tom to Chris, and his expression softens to one of apology. "I had no idea, just so you know."
"That makes two of us," Chris replies, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Hey," he says to Tom, "I thought you and Charlotte had rules about this." He sounds a little hurt.
"We do."
"I'm on the safe list," Ben chimes in.
"You are the safe list," Tom informs him, and Ben's jaw drops open a fraction.
"That's... what?" Ben says, and Tom should maybe have waited to drop that on him until they weren't in the middle of something, shit.
"O-okay," Chris says. "That looks like my cue to --"
"Don't fucking move," Tom huffs out a sigh of annoyance. "Look, before you both get your panties in a twist, know that my only motivation here is to get us all laid."
"Well," Ben says, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. "That makes it all just fine."
"It's a perfectly honorable motivation!" Tom needs to work quickly now. He has to plant the idea, then back off of it quickly so they can just ruminate on it over dinner. He knows Benny and he thinks he knows Chris, and really, all they need is some decent wine, a few nice steaks, and time. "Christopher needs someone to pop his cherry, and you're the best cherry popper I know," Tom says and Chris sits down on the edge of the bed and buries his face in his hands. Benedict gapes at him. "Besides, I haven't had a threesome in ages."
"And you're allowed a threesome now?" Ben asks, skeptically. Benedict and Olivia have had an open relationship for ages, and Ben’s shoulder is the one Tom is most likely to cry on every time things with Charlotte get extra complicated. Ben knows that Charlotte is bending a handful of her own rules for them to even be having this conversation.
"Sort of. Ish," Tom concedes. "But I can definitely watch!"
"You are controlled almost exclusively by your lizard brain, aren't you," Ben says, almost impressed.
"No, I'm not," Tom replies, because they have to get that he really does think this is a fantastic plan, and it is just a bonus that he'll probably have orgasms somewhere in there. "And we can certainly forget the whole thing and just have dinner, if you're both against the idea."
"Yes," Ben replies, and Chris pipes up with "Yeah, that's a much better plan," and when Benedict adds a bottle of Pinot to their dinner order over the phone, Tom tries to look downtrodden and not incredibly smug.
*
Benedict is really, really charming, Chris thinks, and he's almost certain that's not due to the half a bottle of wine he's consumed over the course of the evening. They're lounging around Tom's room, and Tom still hasn't put his damn shirt back on. He looks perfectly comfortable, with his big, stupid tattoos shifting every time he talks with his hands. Chris, on the other hand, is feeling mighty warm. He's pretty sure that isn't the wine, either. Tom is just the kind of guy who will jack up the thermostat when no one is looking. Ben looks flushed too, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, his arm draped artfully over the side.
"It's hard, you know?" he's saying to Chris, "Being compared to every damn actor who's had the role before you."
"That's all theater is, though," Chris says. "The fine line between stealing bits of craft from those giants who came before you and injecting yourself into your role is the essence of character building in Shakespeare, in O'Neill, even in Mamet."
"True," Tom says from under Chris's elbow. His head is pillowed on Chris's thigh, his feet in Ben's lap. Chris has no idea how they ended up like that.
"Yes, but in theater, most of the giants who came before you are long forgotten by the public who sees you," Ben counters. "In film, the audience is nothing but elephants who never forget."
"It's not that bad," Chris scoffs.
Benedict quirks his mouth. "Remember, though, that I'm following three generations of Sherlocks. You're following Shatner."
"They nearly booed me off stage at Comic Con!" Chris protests, and Benedict tosses his head back and laughs.
"Apologies, Captain, angry nerds trump snide English reviews every time."
Chris flips him off, but he's smiling. Ben smiles back at him, and Chris notices that Ben's other hand is wrapped around Tom's foot, his thumb kneading pressure points that make Tom tense and relax below them. He's not jealous, not really. Zach used to do that for Chris some days after long shoots where Chris spent most of the day getting fake-beaten-up by someone or another. It looks comfortable.
Chris really should go back to his own room and let them have some privacy. Because staying much longer would be admitting that he's way more intrigued by Tom's idea than he's letting on. He remembers Tom talking about Ben, the way his voice had this quiet excitement to it. He remembers how jealous he was, and thinks Tom's right - he wasn't jealous of some strange, nameless guy. He was jealous of Tom and his idyllic experience. And, getting to know Ben, he can see why Tom remembers it so fondly.
"Hey," Tom says, tangling his fingers with Chris's. "You should stay," he says, and Chris knows he's been played here, and he should say no, he's going to say no, but when he looks up, Ben is looking right at him, and his eyes are kind of intense and mesmerizing, and instead Chris says, "Yeah?" in this stupid breathy way.
"Yeah," Ben replies, and his voice is lower than it was a second ago. Chris doesn't look away and neither does Ben, but that doesn't stop Ben from quirking his lips. "Don't even," he says with a pinch to Tom's ankle and Tom laughs, his face pressed into Chris's side. "He's going to be insufferable," Ben says with a sigh.
"Yeah, but he's going to be insufferable from halfway across the room, poor bastard," and Tom's annoyed "god damn it," shakes all the tension loose from the room.
Chris and Ben both start giggling, and Chris thinks that Ben is really, really attractive in that incredibly English way, like Rickman or, hell, like Tom. It just sort of sneaks up on you, all elegant lines and rounded vowels and snippets of literature tossed into conversation. Ben pushes Tom's feet off his lap and stands up, and Chris suddenly has serious butterflies in his stomach, because sleeping with Tom is one thing, but sleeping with someone you just met two hours ago is... well, if Chris is being honest with himself, it's pretty much exactly what he usually does, with women. Shit.
"C'mere," Ben says, and puts a hand out to pull Chris to his feet. Tom grabs at him, his head bouncing off the cushions as Chris stands, but Chris bats him away.
"Your own fault, Hardy," Chris says, and playing this off as a joke on Tom is way less terrifying than what it really is, which is Ben sliding a hand around the back of Chris's neck and pulling him close enough that their noses brush.
"You're sure about this?" Ben asks quietly, and Chris blinks.
Tom pipes up from behind him: "Your safeword is 'Spock'."
"I hate you," Chris laughs and Ben closes the distance with a warm smile. It's a nice kiss, slow and soft and easy. Ben steers them, tilting Chris's head back a fraction, keeping it nearly chaste. Chris's hands settle on Ben's hips, and he can feel Ben smile against his lips. They both rock a fraction closer, and Chris can hear Tom shuffling around behind them, probably angling for a better view. Chris always does better with an audience, he knows this, but he's never really tested that theory in the bedroom. Now, with Tom's gaze heavy on his back, Chris lets his tongue slip lightly along Ben's lower lip. Ben doesn't miss a beat, his mouth opening just enough that Chris can taste him, dark and sharp from the wine. It's heady and hot; he can feel the pinpricks of anticipation sliding under his skin and it makes him shiver.
Ben breaks away from Chris's mouth and trails his lips along Chris's jaw to his ear, pressing his tongue to the sensitive spots along his neck. Chris keep his eyes closed but he's aware of the whole room, of his own rabbit heartbeat, of Tom's uneven breaths, of his the way his hands are fisted in the fabric of Ben's expensive shirt. Behind him, Tom says a quiet "yeah," just before Ben slides his hand up and under the hem of Chris's shirt, his palms huge and warm on Chris's skin, and he wonders if Ben and Tom have some sort of shorthand, if Tom knows what Ben is going to do before he does.
Or not, he thinks, because Ben is pulling away suddenly and Tom makes a noise of frustration that Chris nearly echoes. Ben just shakes his head, still smiling at them both. He starts taking small steps backward, toward the bed, as his fingers deftly undo the buttons of his shirt. "Bit warm in here, isn't it," he says wryly, and Chris knows that Tom messed with the thermostat now. "Come on, off." Chris tugs his t-shirt gracefully over his head and tosses it less gracefully into a corner. Ben pauses with three buttons to go. "Oh, this is so not fair," he says over Chris's shoulder. Tom is sitting back against the sofa, his legs spread wide, one hand rubbing at his own bare stomach. "Between you and the American, I'm going to look like a pasty English twat."
*
"Shut up," Tom says fondly, and watches as Chris runs a hand through his hair. Tom's in good shape - great shape - and Chris is as all-American as they come - lean pecs and abs and a fine line of hair that slips under the low waist of his jeans. Tom sighs. As confident as Benny is in the bedroom, he's never really understood his own appeal. "Pine, can you get that bastard's bloody shirt off so we can all have a show?" he says, and Chris, god bless him, doesn't even flinch. He takes three steps toward Ben and undoes the last few buttons, slipping Ben's shirt back over his shoulders, his fingers skating over Ben's pale skin. It's fucking gorgeous, and Tom digs his fingers into the sofa cushions to keep from standing up to join them. This is going to be the best night he's had in a while, but it's also going to be the worst, he can feel it. "Now his belt," Tom says, and Chris pauses for a deep breath before he reaches for it.
Chris always does best with clear direction, Tom remembers.
Ben doesn't look away from Chris's face as his belt slides free of each loop, always watching, always so fucking there, and Tom tries not to be jealous. "Now kiss him again," Tom says, and Ben's lips twitch.
"No one likes a backseat driver," Chris chides, but he's leaning in, his lips skidding over Ben's throat. Ben's eyes are half-closed, but he's looking at Tom now, his fingers tracing along Chris's side. Tom reaches down and pops the button on his jeans. Ben closes his eyes with a gasp, and maybe Chris made him do that, or maybe not, or maybe even Benedict isn't as cool as he pretends to be sometimes. Tom certainly isn't.
"Tom was nice enough to provide us with an insanely huge bed," Ben murmurs against Chris's shoulder. "We should use it, I think."
Tom watches them find their way around each other on the bed, shifting until Ben plants his hands on Chris's hips and says, "Stay still, oh my god," with a laugh. Then they're kissing again, making out like teenagers, and Ben's hands are steady and sure and everywhere at once, and Chris is groaning deep in his chest. Ben unbuttons his pants and Chris's jeans all without breaking contact, and then he's sliding down Chris's body, planting kisses as he slowly peels Chris's jeans past his hips, kicking his pants off until they're both down to their underwear. Tom has never seen that trick from this angle, and he's kind of glad - Benny looks frankly ridiculous. It doesn't help that, next to Chris in his grey boxer-briefs, Ben is in his Big Ben boxers, a gag gift from Tom over a year ago. "What in the hell," Chris laughs. Ben slides up his body in one fluid move.
"They're Tom's favorites," Ben says with a shrug. "I hope he's enjoying them," he says a little louder, and Tom flips them both off. They're whispering now, the bastards, and then Benedict hooks a hand under his thigh and pulls them closer together and Chris's hips buck up off the bed. Tom swears under his breath.
The bed is huge, and really, really far away.
This is such utter bullshit.
He's on his feet before he can overthink it, and drags one of the dining chairs across the carpet. He stops just short of the bed, his back to the window, and sits down hard, propping his feet up on the mattress. "Bad angle," is all he says when they both stop and look at him. "Please, continue."
*
Chris isn't sure whether to be incredibly embarrassed by Tom's blatant voyeurism, or incredibly turned on. The mixture of both is heady and strange and makes Chris's skin hot, but that's also Benedict, who right now has his fingers tracing under the leg of Chris's underwear. The touch is light enough to not be pushy, but purposeful enough to not really be a question. Which is good, because Chris isn't sure what his answer would be. So far, this is all in the realm of 'normal shit Chris has done with dudes, even if just for a role,' but as soon as Ben's hand drifts a fraction to the right, that will be entirely out the window. But Ben doesn't go there; he just slides his hand over Chris's hip again, then down, light over the cotton fabric, until he's hovering a hare's breath from Chris's dick. "Oh my God," Chris grits out in frustration, and he twists his hips over and up, until Ben's hand closes around him, still not quite enough through a layer of clothing, but better. Way fucking better, but Chris keeps his eyes closed.
"Ah, now we're drifting into new territory," Ben says over him. His hand doesn't stop moving, thumb pressing against the underside of Chris's dick just hard enough to make his hands twitch on the mattress. There is something really male about it, about how big Benedict is, the strength of his grip. Chris takes a deep, unsteady breath, then another one. "Oh, no. This is not the part where you lie back and think of England. Open your eyes, Chris." When he does Ben is smiling down at him, and his eyes are focused, searching. "You're alright?" he asks seriously, but his hand is rubbing gently against Chris's balls, so it's a kind of ridiculous question.
"Yeah, good," Chris says, because what else is he going to do? Tom snorts. "Shut up," Chris and Ben say in unison, and they both laugh.
"Okay, here's what we're doing from this point on. If you want me to stop, we stop. End of story." Chris nods, because he's pretty sure he doesn't want this to stop, at all, and the sooner they get back to it, the less panicked Chris is going to feel. He presses his hips up into Ben's hand, reaches up to pull him back down into a kiss. But Ben's not moving so easily. "No, Jesus, don't be a macho asshole about it," Ben sighs. "There's a middle point, between stop and go, and that's fine too."
"A pause button," Tom adds quietly. "Just in case you need a second to catch up." Ben glances over at him and Chris doesn't miss the heat in it.
"Pause," Ben says to Chris. "Just tell me to pause, and we'll wait for you."
Chris is pretty sure Ben doesn't catch the "we" in that statement, but Chris does. He's not sure if it's against the rules or not, but he reaches out and curls his hand around Tom's ankle. "Okay," he says, and when he looks over, Tom looks nearly as wrecked as Chris feels.
"Okay," Ben nods, and just like that, they're naked, Chris's underwear and Ben's stupid boxers tossed to the floor, and Ben's hand is on him for real now, strong and hot and oh, god, Chris is totally okay with this part. Totally okay, no pause button needed at all, just as long as Ben keeps touching him. Ben stretches out over Chris again, propped on one elbow as he slowly jerks Chris off until he's pretty sure that's it, that's all there is, there is no actual way he can be harder than he is right now. Then Tom makes a low, frustrated groan and Ben snaps at him, "Look, just fucking do it, neither one of us is going to stop you, honestly," and Tom is shimmying his jeans down his hips until he can wrap his fist around himself. He bites his lip and his hips jerk a fraction and Chris thinks, oh, okay, I guess I can get harder, good to know.
"Jesus, his mouth is obscene," Ben murmurs in his ear, and Chris knows that Ben is commenting from experience, that Ben has probably had that mouth actually wrapped around his dick on more than one occasion, and he doesn't know why this is happening exactly, but he's kind of grateful that he's here, that Tom thought he was special enough to share with Benedict, or maybe the other way around. Chris traces his knuckles down Ben's chest - and if he checks to make sure Tom is watching, so what - and he closes his fist around Ben's dick. Ben drops his forehead to Chris's shoulder and shudders a little, and it's only a little strange to feel him thrusting into the tight circle of Chris's hand. Chris tilts his head to suck lightly at Ben's neck, finds the spot that Ben seemed to love from before, just above his jugular, and lets his teeth scrape over that spot as his thumb swipes over the slick head of Ben's dick.
"Goddamned overachiever," Ben laughs breathlessly, and pulls Chris's hand away before pushing himself to his knees. He grins at Tom like Chris is an exceptionally thoughtful gift, and then Tom lifts his hand from his dick and sucks his own thumb into his mouth with a moan, and Benedict clearly forgets what he was about to say. Chris really doesn't blame him.
Ben clears his throat. "That's... right. Okay," he says, then, "Lube?" and Chris has to laugh.
*
Of course Tom has lube; Tom has enough lube to drown a small city, purchased exactly for this occasion, and exactly the kind Benny most likes. Tom is offended at the question. Though he has to admit a small satisfaction in the breathless way it was asked. "What do you think," he says, and motions to the bedside table.
"Pretty confident, were you?" Ben says when he finds it, nestled next to a brand new box of his favorite condoms.
"I'd say I was just confident enough," Tom replies and he savors the way Chris's eyes keep cutting over to him as he jerks himself with slow, lazy twists of his wrist. He can still feel where Chris's fingers were pressed to his ankle minutes ago.
"What did I tell you - insufferable," Ben says to Chris and Tom just sighs. He's set up a perfect evening and he's got to settle for his own right hand for most of it (though he's going to sneak in a quick rub and tug with Benny before the night is over, honestly, he's only human), so Tom is not up for feeling anything like guilt about his obvious rightness. He's going to say as much, but Ben is snapping open the top of the lube and Tom can see where Chris starts to tense up, and Tom just leans back in his chair to watch because this where Benedict goes from pretty damned capable in bed to downright magical.
"Look at me," Ben says to Chris, and his voice is enough to make Tom's cock jump. Ben's hand is drifting slowly down, around, one knuckle pressed under Chris's balls. "Chris, hey," Ben says again, all warmth and strength. "Pause button, anytime," he says, and Chris nods. "Okay," Ben smiles. "Now, this hand is going to do... well, exactly what you think it's going to do. And this hand," he says, holding up his other one, "is going to help out. I'm going to touch you, and you're going to relax that spot on your body, okay? Just that one spot, just focus there." Chris raises one eyebrow and Tom grins. He remembers thinking this was complete bullshit, and he also remembers how totally and absolutely wrong he was. God, Benny was fucking made for this.
"Humor me?" Ben says with an impish grin and Chris huffs out a nervous laugh.
"Fine, okay," he says.
Ben slides his forefinger over Chris's perineum until Chris's thighs are shaking from it, and then he presses one finger into the meaty part of Chris's hip. "Right here, relax this," he says, and Tom watches Chris focus, watches the way his hip drops toward the mattress as he does it. "Now this," Ben says, pressing hard into the flesh at the back of Chris's thigh. Then the muscle right over his groin, his inner thigh, the center of Chris's chest. Tom's so busy watching all the places on Chris's body slowly relax that he's surprised right alongside Chris when Benedict slides one finger inside him with almost no resistance.
"OH, whoa, okay," Chris says, eyes wide. His fingers are clutching at the duvet, his breaths coming fast and short.
"Chris," Ben says sharply. "Focus. Right here," he says, and presses on the iron-tight muscle along Chris's side. Tom watches the muscle twitch and shift as Chris takes a deeper breath and tries to relax. "Not there, here," Ben says with a laugh. "Trust me."
Chris's eyes flutter closed and he does, he just lets Ben talk him through each tiny press of his fingers until Ben's got two fingers buried in Chris's ass enough that, when he crooks them, Chris's whole body jumps. "See, that's not so bad," Ben says, and Tom wants to kiss that ridiculous smile right off his face.
"Definitely not, no," Chris says, shaky and smiling, and Tom's really actually positive that he'd never have lasted this long, that he'd have pressed Chris's wrists into the bed and fucked him silly by now. But that is why Tom imported Benedict. Because some things need the patience of saints, and Benny is as close to saintly as Tom's ever known.
"One more?" Ben asks, and Tom and Chris both groan. Tom's is certainly out of frustration - he's been keeping himself just at the edge for a while now, not wanting to skip ahead of them. Chris seems agitated too, like this is all a little more - not worse, just more - than he'd signed up for. Ben is amazingly still as Chris breaths, thinks.
"Yeah, okay, go," he says, and Tom watches as Chris just relaxes on his own, one, two three, like he's walking through blocking. Ben sees it too, and shakes his head at Tom in wonder.
"Where did you find him," he mouths, and Tom shrugs.
"He was just on set when I showed up," he says, a little too loudly.
"Wha - " Chris blinks his eyes open, blue and unfocused, and fuck everything, Tom reaches out and runs one foot along the swell of Chris's hip. "Tom, fuck," Chris shudders and then he's clutching at Ben's shoulder and from Tom's angle it looks like half of Ben's hand is in Chris's ass, and Tom tips his head back and squeezes the base of his cock hard enough to make him tear up.
"Ben, Benny, please," Chris is stuttering, somewhere outside the realm of Tom's available consciousness, and Tom should not open his eyes, because then it will be all over, then Tom will lose it entirely. He can hear the shushing sound of Ben's voice, the way their skin slides against the bedcovers, and then suddenly Tom feels something whack him on the leg.
"A little help?" Ben says pointedly and nods to the condoms.
"You're serious?" Tom manages, and his voice is completely gone, holy shit. Ben glares at him, but he doesn't make Tom move, just reaches over, grabs one, rips it open with his teeth and slides it on, all one-handed. "See, that is what I remember," Tom says, because, his Benny is magic.
Benedict pulls his fingers out slowly and presses his cock against the slick entrance to Chris's body. "Wait, hold on," Chris pants.
"Need me to pause?" Ben says softly, and lord, if he's not sainted someday, Tom will eat his own hat. Tom can see the lines of tension thrumming through Ben's body, but he's totally still. Chris shifts down a fraction, then Tom watches in wonder as Chris wraps both legs snugly around Ben's waist, pulling him closer, tugging his head down until Chris can lean up and kiss him.
"Better," Chris says, "Go."
"Where did you even come from?" Tom asks, breathless, and Benedict just laughs into Chris's shoulder as he pushes inside, so fucking slowly. It doesn't take long, not after all that, not when Chris is still hard, was hard through the whole thing, because Ben is a magical fairy person. It doesn't take long before Chris is keening, and Ben's hand is on his dick, whispering encouragement as he's pulling him toward the edge. Tom's hand is moving too, matching every stroke Ben takes.
"Oh god, oh fuck, Ben, Ben," Chris is gasping, and Benny's breathing hard, his hips pushing nearly to hard, too fast. "I can, come on, I can take it," Chris says, and he's talking to Ben, but he's looking at Tom, and that's it, that's all she wrote, Tom comes all over his fist, his ass actually coming up off the chair from the force of it.
Chris shifts a fraction and Ben pauses, again, how, and Chris just fists his hand Ben's hair and pulls and says, "Just fuck me, Ben, I know you want to, come on baby." Hell, Tom knew he was already a little in love with Chris Pine, but this, combined with the look Chris gets from Ben, well. Tom has seen Benedict in some pretty spectacular sex-related situations over the past three years, but nothing compares to the way he just locks eyes with Chris and fucking goes for it, his hips slamming into Chris hard enough to shake the bed frame. Chris arches back into it, his heel pressed to Ben's lower back and Ben is nearly gone, Tom can tell from the set of his shoulders.
"He's not going to come first," Tom says, and Chris has to know this, it's fairly obvious that Benny is going to fuck his brains literally out of his body, but it takes them another long minute of gasps and groans and Benedict saying "Fuck, fuck, fuck," over and over - which is, honestly, enough to get Tom's dick interested again - before Chris finally lets go and comes all over Ben's stomach, without a hand on him. Ben follows after about fifteen seconds, which, considering how long he had to be holding on, is a minor miracle in Tom's book.
*
Chris blinks his eyes open. Benedict is still collapsed on top of him, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Tom is slouched low in a chair five feet away, his pants open, eyes at half-mast. Chris knows that tomorrow he's going to hurt almost everywhere, but for right now, he's riding a ridiculous high of post-orgasm endorphins.
"Holy shit," he says. "Holy. Shit."
"About sums it up, yeah," Tom says and Ben just sighs happily. Chris is pretty sure they should move, but his eyes drift shut again.
When he wakes up, Tom is sitting with his back against the headboard, Benedict nestled between his thighs, his back pressed to Tom’s chest. They’re talking quietly, Ben laughing at something Tom’s saying, low in his ear. There’s a blanket tossed casually over Chris’s hips and Ben is wearing a bathrobe with the hotel logo. Tom, as far as Chris can tell, is wearing the Big Ben boxers.
“Hey,” he says, and when he shifts on the mattress, his whole body twinges in surprise. “Ow.”
“Good morning, sunshine,” Tom smiles down at him.
Ben reaches out and runs his fingers through Chris’s hair. “Not quite morning. And if you’re conscious, Tommy can run you a bath. It’ll help.”
“Oh, I can run you a bath?” Tom scoffs and Ben gives him a wide, innocent look.
“I’m a guest. And you wouldn’t make Chris run his own bath, not after all that,” Ben chides.
“After all that?” Tom says, incredulous. “After all that ‘sorry Hardy, we’re going to have a shag without you’ business? That?”
“It was your bloody idea, moron,” Ben says affectionately and twists around just enough to capture Tom’s mouth in a kiss. It lasts long enough that Chris looks away, cheeks flushing.
“Seriously, I should let you have your room back,” Chris says, pulling the blanket tight around his waist and struggling to sit up. But sitting up is really not actually comfortable at all, he thinks as his whole lower back protests, and how the hell do guys do this?
“No, that’s. Stop it,” Benedict says and pulls Chris back down with an arm over his chest. “We’re all staying, stop trying to move. Sleep, bath, breakfast. That’s all we’ve got on the docket for now.”
Tom crawls over Ben and pushes himself between them, rearranging limbs until Chris has Tom half wrapped around him and Ben spooned up on Tom’s other side. “Comfortable?” Ben asks with just a hint of sarcasm and Tom just sighs against Chris’s chest.
“Infinitely,” he yawns, and Chris grins at Ben over his head.
The next morning is just not as weird as Chris would have expected. As promised, there is a hot bath waiting when he wakes up, and Chris lets himself have a good long soak, even freshening up the hot water when he hears desperate cursing on the other side of the wall. By the time he’s clean and unwound and mostly human, wrapped in a warm robe and almost done processing the fact that yes, holy shit, that whole thing did happen, and he has the sore muscles to prove it, he opens the door to a wild-eyed Tom and a smug looking Benedict.
“We get the shower,” Tom mutters and pulls Ben in to the bathroom with him.
“Sorry! Order something!” Ben yells from the other side and Chris thinks that actors really do make the oddest friends. He settles in to watch the morning news cycle from the CBC and orders a solid half of the room service breakfast menu - it’s Tom’s room, fuck it - and he’s halfway through his oatmeal and bacon when Tom and Ben finally emerge, a plume of steam wafting out behind them. Tom looks almost drugged, eyes at half mast and his mouth more swollen than normal. He walks over to the table with a visible swagger. Ben is wearing Tom’s old sweatsuit and he has at least two visible hickeys.
“Subtle,” Chris snorts, and Ben just sighs.
“Lizard brain.”
They eat, they talk, they even make it out to a gallery that Tom read about in some guest magazine the hotel left in his room. It’s a good day, a really nice day, and after lunch, Chris heads back to his own room. He only sees them once in the next forty-eight hours, a farewell drink at the hotel bar where Ben wraps Chris in a tight hug. “Thanks,” Chris says, because it seems like the right thing to say. Ben just laughs, eyes bright.
“You are more than welcome,” he returns, and then he does a scan of the room before planting a quick kiss to Tom’s lips and walking out to the taxi stand with a wave.
They sit in silence for a few long minutes before Tom looks up at him, eyes uncertain. “We’re good, right?” he asks, like this is actually the right time to be contemplating all of the complications that might come from flying your not-boyfriend in from another country to sleep with your virginal costar.
“You’re insane,” Chris grins at him, and takes a swig of his beer. “Yeah, we’re good.”
*
A month later, Chris gets off his plane at LAX and has five text messages waiting for him - two from his mom, reminding him to pick up the dog; one from his publicist - he deletes it; one from Zach that is mostly nonsense about fall leaves, but ends on a note that might mean he’ll be in LA later that month; and one from Tom.
Go get ‘em, tiger.
Pairing: Tom Hardy/Chris Pine/Benedict Cumberbatch
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 8400
Disclaimer: This is fiction. Blame my lizard brain.
Summary: Chris has a problem, Tom has a solution, and Ben is magical. (But not really.)
"Oh for fuck’s sake, Tom," Tom hears as the door opens behind him.
"You're an eavesdropping bastard," Tom says as he turns, and Benedict is standing the doorway, his ivory button down rolled halfway up his forearms, hands on his hips.
"You flew me out here to sleep with your costar?" Ben asks, eyebrows almost to his hairline.
Warnings for first time fic, voyeurism, wordiness. Apologies to Vancouver, which I hear is actually a really awesome town. Sadly, that did not work for my purposes. Title from Jenny Lewis - Handle With Care. Thanks to miznarrator for the prodding, zillahseye for the encouragement, and schuyler for the last-minute beta. Posted as Part 1 of my “Sunday NaNo Fics” - hey, it’s still Sunday in a lot of places!
Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch are stupidly in love, and still bff!
See - Benny still gets asked questions about whether Tom is a gaymo him in magazines!
Don’t believe they are in love? Watch this. Now watch THIS. Yeah. So.
And you know, I’m SURE, that Tom and Chris just finished wrapping a film in Vancouver.
So.
This is just LOGICAL, right? Right!
Now, the fic!
“So, what you’re saying is that he doesn’t want to date you because you’ve never dated a man.”
“Right.”
“But he’s not keen on you dating men who aren’t him.”
“Correct.”
“And you aren’t keen to sleep with men who aren’t him, because it’s outside of your area of expertise, but you also don’t want to sleep with him with no hot gay sex experience whatsoever under your belt.”
“Yeah.”
Tom blinks at Chris a few times before passing him the saltshaker from the room service tray. “Mate, I think you’re fucked,” he says, and Chris sighs.
“I really thought you’d be more help than that, asshole.”
Tom just laughs, the fucker.
It’s their third week filming in Vancouver, a city so lovely and so dull that Chris and Tom have had nothing but time to get to know each other. So far Chris has learned that Tom doesn’t drink, but that Tom loves to get other people drunk. “Vulnerable,” Tom said with a wink the fourth time Chris woke up in Tom’s room with a raging headache and the feeling he’d said too much niggling at the back of his mind. “Drunks tell the best stories.”
“Explains the Irish,” Chris had said with a shrug.
It’s not that Tom wasn’t a sharing kind of person. In fact, Chris would bet a million dollars that half of Tom’s ‘get ‘em drunk and talking’ plans were enacted just so he would be able to share his tales of sex, drugs and... well, mostly sex and drugs, and still have enough blackmail material on his companion at the end of an evening that he’d be assured no tongues would wag.
And now Chris has gone and spilled the whole Zach situation, which is so messed up and convoluted that even John basically washed his hands of it after the premieres. “We’ll try this again in a year, shall we, my emotionally stunted friend? Maybe you can work on that sexuality crisis in the meantime.” Chris was not emotionally stunted, but he was totally out of his depth in terms of wanting to climb Zach like a tree. Tom had, according to all sources, climbed more than a few boys like a tree and still managed to be cool with his own status as a lady-killer. It’s a skill Chris could use, okay?
*
Really, the issue is that Tom is starved for human contact about ninety percent of the day. “You’re such a touch slut,” Charlotte tells him at least once a week, and Tom would agree. He’s all sorts of slut, actually. And here, half a world away from Charlotte and his baby and his gang of friends who would happily let Tom pass out on them, Tom is making friends with Chris and getting him used to Tom’s over-friendliness the best way he knows how - beer.
And so far Chris has not disappointed him. In fact, Chris has gone around the bend from “not really my scene” to “what happens when you like a boy and he doesn’t like you back?” in under three weeks, which Tom considers a personal fucking record. He and Char have a complicated arrangement of what is okay and what is not, and who is okay and who is not, and sadly, Chris Pine is not on the okay list, but. BUT. Chris is sad and lovely and smart and fucking pretty, and if there is anything Tom likes, it’s pushing buttons and bending rules. Charlotte will forgive him, because she knows him well enough that it’s scary. And Tom isn’t going to break any rules, not really, but he is pushing it. Oh, is he pushing it.
"Shove over,” Tom says later that night, and Chris just lets him slide into the bed, under the duvet but over the sheets. Chris is no longer wearing any pants, so that is probably a good call. He sighs and tucks his nose into the crook of Tom’s neck.
"You're not going to sleep in here, are you?" Chris asks, even as the arm around Tom's waist tightens.
"Might," Tom says, a little cheeky, and it's blissful, the way Chris smiles against his skin. Tom lets his mind drift a little, his fingers scratching lightly over the back of Chris's neck. It's been a good shoot - not the complex kind of script he loves, but fun and engaging and the clothes are nice and the inside of his head isn't cluttered with the kind of dangerous thoughts he took home on Bronson or Stuart. Maybe it's thinking about Stuart and the flood of memories that always comes with it that distracts Tom enough that he doesn't notice when Chris's light breaths along his throat turn into kisses, slow and tentative and oh, fuck, Tom's dick is about to be so pissed off at him.
"Chris," he says, his fingers tightening at the back of Chris's neck, then pulling him back a little. "Baby, I can't." Chris's whole body tenses and Tom sighs, wraps his arm around Chris's neck and pulls him in for a hug. "It's complicated. Trust me, in this instance 'it's not you, it's me' is incredibly accurate."
"I just..." Chris grits out, but he doesn't really struggle to get away. Finally he sighs. "Fuck you, Hardy," he says and Tom kisses the top of his head.
"I wish," Tom says, and fuck, he really means that. Chris is one fucked up guy, and Tom has been that guy, Tom wrote the book on that guy. And Tom remembers that when he was where Chris is now, there was exactly one person who could put him back on his feet again, and... Oh. Tom kisses the top of Chris's head again and grins at the ceiling.
Sometimes Tom is not afraid to admit that he is one brilliant motherfucker.
*
It's uncomfortable for about five minutes, because Chris went out on a limb there and it was stupid, because he knows the rules, or at least that there are rules for Tom's weird affections, and he has clearly gone and broken one. But Tom doesn't seem upset and he certainly won't let Chris get up and go be mortified in the bathroom, and he's showing no signs of not sleeping in Chris's bed for the rest of the night so. Fine. Whatever. Chris will just pretend this never happened. That's the Guy Code, and he's done it more than once, after a few minor bad idea indiscretions in his youth.
"Hey," Tom says a few moments later. His fingers are back at the nape of Chris's neck, nails scratching just hard enough to not tickle. Chris can hear the smile in his voice. "Did you know that I made it through six years of being a junkie and somehow managed to wait until I was properly sober to get properly fucked?"
Chris stifles a groan against Tom's shoulder. Of course, Tom Hardy doesn't exist in the same universe as regular people. Tom doesn't want to forget things happened; he wants to open them up and examine motivation and talk about feelings. Of course. Of fucking course. Why can't Chris ever make a move on a normal dude?
"Is that so," Chris says dryly, hoping they really aren't going to go there. He's half hard, which Tom definitely knows, and it's just unfair to hear about other people's sexual exploits when they have just shot you down.
"Mmmm," Tom hums. "Lucky fucking bastard, I was. Would have been a disaster otherwise. I was scared shitless of it, you know - not something to be entered into lightly - and then I met this bloke and he was fucking fantastic and just said 'Tom, whatever you need, I've got you' and I thought, fuck. Why the fuck not? And it's not like I was suddenly not scared shitless, but I trusted him, you know? He has that way about him, where he just understood when to stop and when to push me and it was, no lie, one of the best nights of my goddamn life. And I thank whatever deity is up there every day that I didn't get there before I met this guy."
"That's... good," Chris manages, because Tom is kind of the worst asshole ever. Does he think Chris needs to wait for some gay messiah to send him his perfect guy? Chris doesn't want a perfect guy, he wants Zach, who is about as far from perfect is as possible to be and still function as a person. What he needs is to get his hand down someone's pants and just... test-drive the merchandise before he buys into the whole lifestyle. He should have just gotten it over with in WeHo when one of Zach's friends offered to blow him in the coatroom of that club.
"Waiting for the right moment is better than random anonymous hookups," Tom says, like he's reading Chris's mind. "Trust is the key part, Chris."
And the thing is, Chris actually knows this. "I trust you," he says, because he doesn't know Tom as well as a lot of people, but somehow he really does trust that Tom wouldn't fuck him over on this.
"Good," Tom says, almost smugly. "Now go to sleep."
Chris hates Tom so fucking much sometimes.
*
It takes three dozen emails, two cajoling phone calls, one check-in with Charlotte and a full week, but somehow, by the next free night on Chris and Tom's shooting schedule, Tom has pulled off his minor miracle with aplomb. He and Chris walk into their hotel a hair past eight o'clock that night, and when Tom glances in to the bar, there he is, his long limbs stuffed in a sturdy English peacoat, his piercing eyes as always undercut by his truly delighted grin when he sees Tom. "Hey there, Benny. What are you doing in town?" he asks with mock surprise. He strolls up to where Benny is lounging against the bar, glass of red wine dangling between two long fingers. Tom can feel his whole body start to reboot, a hum under his skin that is completely ignoring the fact that he's been up for fifteen hours. "Miss me that much?"
"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" Benedict says, and Tom gives him a big enough bear hug to lift him off his feet.
"Um," Chris says behind him, and the hum under Tom's skin turns into a buzz. Steady as she goes, he tells himself, and turns with a smile.
"Chris Pine, meet Benedict Cumberbatch," Tom says with a flourish of his hand. "I called him up from the reserves to put a little spit and polish on this town."
"Nice to meet you," Chris says, and Tom watches them shake hands. They both have nearly identical looks of mild confusion.
"So, we're going out tonight?" Benedict asks, and Tom wants to laugh, because Benny is the most thoughtful person on earth, but he really is not into nightlife. Of any sort. At all.
"Do you like hockey?" Chris asks with a wry tilt of his lips.
"Er, no."
"Then no, we probably shouldn't go out tonight," Tom finishes for him. "We could get a gorgeous meal somewhere, though?"
"Well, considering it's about four am for me, I'm not sure I'm fit for polite company," Benedict notes. Tom had really, really been counting on that, but he hides his glee well.
"Tom's never fit for polite company anyway," Chris tells him, and Benny, the traitor, agrees with a nod.
"You're both wankers," he says, strolling toward the elevators.
"Should I," Chris demurs, "I mean, I can just hole up with the script tonight, if you guys want to catch up."
"Fuck no," Tom waves him off. "You'd fall asleep by ten and I would weep for your manhood. We should get room service and let Ben tell us all about his travels."
"Right, because Heathrow to Vancouver is so exciting," Benedict says with a shake of his head. He's staring at Tom like he knows something is up, and Tom loves how well Benny knows him, but Tom is a very good actor when he wants to be.
They make it to Tom's room and Benedict drops his bags on the floor. It's a lovely room - there's a common area with a table and chairs, a plush sofa against the wall, but only one bed in the room, and Tom watches Chris's surprised reaction when Ben doesn't even mention it. Ben shoots Tom an even look, then glances at Chris with a questioning quirk of his eyebrows. "I'm going to freshen up," he says firmly, before shutting himself in the washroom. Tom glances over at where Chris is standing by the window. Chris is an incredibly smart boy, and Tom is counting on the two of them catching up pretty damn... "Hey, can I talk to you?" Chris asks quietly, and honestly, Tom's impressed.
"Hmm?" Tom asks.
"You sure you don't want me out of your hair?" Chris asks, "Because it looks like you have plans for the evening." Tom grins at him.
"I do indeed have plans," Tom nods and kicks off his shoes. "But they really do not include you getting out of my hair," he adds, and pulls his t-shirt over his head.
"Tom," Chris starts, but Tom cuts him off.
"You trust me," he says firmly, a statement between them more than a question.
"Jesus, Tom," Chris huffs. "What the hell --"
"Look, we both know you're not keen on waiting until you find the perfect guy for all this, so I'm lending you mine," Tom says softly. He watches as Chris's mouth snaps shut, a blush forming high on his cheeks.
"Oh for fuck’s sake, Tom," Tom hears as the door opens behind him.
"You're an eavesdropping bastard," Tom says as he turns, and Benedict is standing the doorway, his ivory button down rolled halfway up his forearms, hands on his hips.
"You flew me out here to sleep with your costar?" Ben asks, eyebrows almost to his hairline.
"Don't get all high-and-mighty on me," Tom says, finger wagging in Ben's direction. "You knew full well this was a booty call when you got on that plane."
"Yes, fine, but I did figure it would be your booty," Ben replies and Tom giggles, because Benedict saying 'booty' is fucking brilliant. Ben looks past Tom to Chris, and his expression softens to one of apology. "I had no idea, just so you know."
"That makes two of us," Chris replies, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Hey," he says to Tom, "I thought you and Charlotte had rules about this." He sounds a little hurt.
"We do."
"I'm on the safe list," Ben chimes in.
"You are the safe list," Tom informs him, and Ben's jaw drops open a fraction.
"That's... what?" Ben says, and Tom should maybe have waited to drop that on him until they weren't in the middle of something, shit.
"O-okay," Chris says. "That looks like my cue to --"
"Don't fucking move," Tom huffs out a sigh of annoyance. "Look, before you both get your panties in a twist, know that my only motivation here is to get us all laid."
"Well," Ben says, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. "That makes it all just fine."
"It's a perfectly honorable motivation!" Tom needs to work quickly now. He has to plant the idea, then back off of it quickly so they can just ruminate on it over dinner. He knows Benny and he thinks he knows Chris, and really, all they need is some decent wine, a few nice steaks, and time. "Christopher needs someone to pop his cherry, and you're the best cherry popper I know," Tom says and Chris sits down on the edge of the bed and buries his face in his hands. Benedict gapes at him. "Besides, I haven't had a threesome in ages."
"And you're allowed a threesome now?" Ben asks, skeptically. Benedict and Olivia have had an open relationship for ages, and Ben’s shoulder is the one Tom is most likely to cry on every time things with Charlotte get extra complicated. Ben knows that Charlotte is bending a handful of her own rules for them to even be having this conversation.
"Sort of. Ish," Tom concedes. "But I can definitely watch!"
"You are controlled almost exclusively by your lizard brain, aren't you," Ben says, almost impressed.
"No, I'm not," Tom replies, because they have to get that he really does think this is a fantastic plan, and it is just a bonus that he'll probably have orgasms somewhere in there. "And we can certainly forget the whole thing and just have dinner, if you're both against the idea."
"Yes," Ben replies, and Chris pipes up with "Yeah, that's a much better plan," and when Benedict adds a bottle of Pinot to their dinner order over the phone, Tom tries to look downtrodden and not incredibly smug.
*
Benedict is really, really charming, Chris thinks, and he's almost certain that's not due to the half a bottle of wine he's consumed over the course of the evening. They're lounging around Tom's room, and Tom still hasn't put his damn shirt back on. He looks perfectly comfortable, with his big, stupid tattoos shifting every time he talks with his hands. Chris, on the other hand, is feeling mighty warm. He's pretty sure that isn't the wine, either. Tom is just the kind of guy who will jack up the thermostat when no one is looking. Ben looks flushed too, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, his arm draped artfully over the side.
"It's hard, you know?" he's saying to Chris, "Being compared to every damn actor who's had the role before you."
"That's all theater is, though," Chris says. "The fine line between stealing bits of craft from those giants who came before you and injecting yourself into your role is the essence of character building in Shakespeare, in O'Neill, even in Mamet."
"True," Tom says from under Chris's elbow. His head is pillowed on Chris's thigh, his feet in Ben's lap. Chris has no idea how they ended up like that.
"Yes, but in theater, most of the giants who came before you are long forgotten by the public who sees you," Ben counters. "In film, the audience is nothing but elephants who never forget."
"It's not that bad," Chris scoffs.
Benedict quirks his mouth. "Remember, though, that I'm following three generations of Sherlocks. You're following Shatner."
"They nearly booed me off stage at Comic Con!" Chris protests, and Benedict tosses his head back and laughs.
"Apologies, Captain, angry nerds trump snide English reviews every time."
Chris flips him off, but he's smiling. Ben smiles back at him, and Chris notices that Ben's other hand is wrapped around Tom's foot, his thumb kneading pressure points that make Tom tense and relax below them. He's not jealous, not really. Zach used to do that for Chris some days after long shoots where Chris spent most of the day getting fake-beaten-up by someone or another. It looks comfortable.
Chris really should go back to his own room and let them have some privacy. Because staying much longer would be admitting that he's way more intrigued by Tom's idea than he's letting on. He remembers Tom talking about Ben, the way his voice had this quiet excitement to it. He remembers how jealous he was, and thinks Tom's right - he wasn't jealous of some strange, nameless guy. He was jealous of Tom and his idyllic experience. And, getting to know Ben, he can see why Tom remembers it so fondly.
"Hey," Tom says, tangling his fingers with Chris's. "You should stay," he says, and Chris knows he's been played here, and he should say no, he's going to say no, but when he looks up, Ben is looking right at him, and his eyes are kind of intense and mesmerizing, and instead Chris says, "Yeah?" in this stupid breathy way.
"Yeah," Ben replies, and his voice is lower than it was a second ago. Chris doesn't look away and neither does Ben, but that doesn't stop Ben from quirking his lips. "Don't even," he says with a pinch to Tom's ankle and Tom laughs, his face pressed into Chris's side. "He's going to be insufferable," Ben says with a sigh.
"Yeah, but he's going to be insufferable from halfway across the room, poor bastard," and Tom's annoyed "god damn it," shakes all the tension loose from the room.
Chris and Ben both start giggling, and Chris thinks that Ben is really, really attractive in that incredibly English way, like Rickman or, hell, like Tom. It just sort of sneaks up on you, all elegant lines and rounded vowels and snippets of literature tossed into conversation. Ben pushes Tom's feet off his lap and stands up, and Chris suddenly has serious butterflies in his stomach, because sleeping with Tom is one thing, but sleeping with someone you just met two hours ago is... well, if Chris is being honest with himself, it's pretty much exactly what he usually does, with women. Shit.
"C'mere," Ben says, and puts a hand out to pull Chris to his feet. Tom grabs at him, his head bouncing off the cushions as Chris stands, but Chris bats him away.
"Your own fault, Hardy," Chris says, and playing this off as a joke on Tom is way less terrifying than what it really is, which is Ben sliding a hand around the back of Chris's neck and pulling him close enough that their noses brush.
"You're sure about this?" Ben asks quietly, and Chris blinks.
Tom pipes up from behind him: "Your safeword is 'Spock'."
"I hate you," Chris laughs and Ben closes the distance with a warm smile. It's a nice kiss, slow and soft and easy. Ben steers them, tilting Chris's head back a fraction, keeping it nearly chaste. Chris's hands settle on Ben's hips, and he can feel Ben smile against his lips. They both rock a fraction closer, and Chris can hear Tom shuffling around behind them, probably angling for a better view. Chris always does better with an audience, he knows this, but he's never really tested that theory in the bedroom. Now, with Tom's gaze heavy on his back, Chris lets his tongue slip lightly along Ben's lower lip. Ben doesn't miss a beat, his mouth opening just enough that Chris can taste him, dark and sharp from the wine. It's heady and hot; he can feel the pinpricks of anticipation sliding under his skin and it makes him shiver.
Ben breaks away from Chris's mouth and trails his lips along Chris's jaw to his ear, pressing his tongue to the sensitive spots along his neck. Chris keep his eyes closed but he's aware of the whole room, of his own rabbit heartbeat, of Tom's uneven breaths, of his the way his hands are fisted in the fabric of Ben's expensive shirt. Behind him, Tom says a quiet "yeah," just before Ben slides his hand up and under the hem of Chris's shirt, his palms huge and warm on Chris's skin, and he wonders if Ben and Tom have some sort of shorthand, if Tom knows what Ben is going to do before he does.
Or not, he thinks, because Ben is pulling away suddenly and Tom makes a noise of frustration that Chris nearly echoes. Ben just shakes his head, still smiling at them both. He starts taking small steps backward, toward the bed, as his fingers deftly undo the buttons of his shirt. "Bit warm in here, isn't it," he says wryly, and Chris knows that Tom messed with the thermostat now. "Come on, off." Chris tugs his t-shirt gracefully over his head and tosses it less gracefully into a corner. Ben pauses with three buttons to go. "Oh, this is so not fair," he says over Chris's shoulder. Tom is sitting back against the sofa, his legs spread wide, one hand rubbing at his own bare stomach. "Between you and the American, I'm going to look like a pasty English twat."
*
"Shut up," Tom says fondly, and watches as Chris runs a hand through his hair. Tom's in good shape - great shape - and Chris is as all-American as they come - lean pecs and abs and a fine line of hair that slips under the low waist of his jeans. Tom sighs. As confident as Benny is in the bedroom, he's never really understood his own appeal. "Pine, can you get that bastard's bloody shirt off so we can all have a show?" he says, and Chris, god bless him, doesn't even flinch. He takes three steps toward Ben and undoes the last few buttons, slipping Ben's shirt back over his shoulders, his fingers skating over Ben's pale skin. It's fucking gorgeous, and Tom digs his fingers into the sofa cushions to keep from standing up to join them. This is going to be the best night he's had in a while, but it's also going to be the worst, he can feel it. "Now his belt," Tom says, and Chris pauses for a deep breath before he reaches for it.
Chris always does best with clear direction, Tom remembers.
Ben doesn't look away from Chris's face as his belt slides free of each loop, always watching, always so fucking there, and Tom tries not to be jealous. "Now kiss him again," Tom says, and Ben's lips twitch.
"No one likes a backseat driver," Chris chides, but he's leaning in, his lips skidding over Ben's throat. Ben's eyes are half-closed, but he's looking at Tom now, his fingers tracing along Chris's side. Tom reaches down and pops the button on his jeans. Ben closes his eyes with a gasp, and maybe Chris made him do that, or maybe not, or maybe even Benedict isn't as cool as he pretends to be sometimes. Tom certainly isn't.
"Tom was nice enough to provide us with an insanely huge bed," Ben murmurs against Chris's shoulder. "We should use it, I think."
Tom watches them find their way around each other on the bed, shifting until Ben plants his hands on Chris's hips and says, "Stay still, oh my god," with a laugh. Then they're kissing again, making out like teenagers, and Ben's hands are steady and sure and everywhere at once, and Chris is groaning deep in his chest. Ben unbuttons his pants and Chris's jeans all without breaking contact, and then he's sliding down Chris's body, planting kisses as he slowly peels Chris's jeans past his hips, kicking his pants off until they're both down to their underwear. Tom has never seen that trick from this angle, and he's kind of glad - Benny looks frankly ridiculous. It doesn't help that, next to Chris in his grey boxer-briefs, Ben is in his Big Ben boxers, a gag gift from Tom over a year ago. "What in the hell," Chris laughs. Ben slides up his body in one fluid move.
"They're Tom's favorites," Ben says with a shrug. "I hope he's enjoying them," he says a little louder, and Tom flips them both off. They're whispering now, the bastards, and then Benedict hooks a hand under his thigh and pulls them closer together and Chris's hips buck up off the bed. Tom swears under his breath.
The bed is huge, and really, really far away.
This is such utter bullshit.
He's on his feet before he can overthink it, and drags one of the dining chairs across the carpet. He stops just short of the bed, his back to the window, and sits down hard, propping his feet up on the mattress. "Bad angle," is all he says when they both stop and look at him. "Please, continue."
*
Chris isn't sure whether to be incredibly embarrassed by Tom's blatant voyeurism, or incredibly turned on. The mixture of both is heady and strange and makes Chris's skin hot, but that's also Benedict, who right now has his fingers tracing under the leg of Chris's underwear. The touch is light enough to not be pushy, but purposeful enough to not really be a question. Which is good, because Chris isn't sure what his answer would be. So far, this is all in the realm of 'normal shit Chris has done with dudes, even if just for a role,' but as soon as Ben's hand drifts a fraction to the right, that will be entirely out the window. But Ben doesn't go there; he just slides his hand over Chris's hip again, then down, light over the cotton fabric, until he's hovering a hare's breath from Chris's dick. "Oh my God," Chris grits out in frustration, and he twists his hips over and up, until Ben's hand closes around him, still not quite enough through a layer of clothing, but better. Way fucking better, but Chris keeps his eyes closed.
"Ah, now we're drifting into new territory," Ben says over him. His hand doesn't stop moving, thumb pressing against the underside of Chris's dick just hard enough to make his hands twitch on the mattress. There is something really male about it, about how big Benedict is, the strength of his grip. Chris takes a deep, unsteady breath, then another one. "Oh, no. This is not the part where you lie back and think of England. Open your eyes, Chris." When he does Ben is smiling down at him, and his eyes are focused, searching. "You're alright?" he asks seriously, but his hand is rubbing gently against Chris's balls, so it's a kind of ridiculous question.
"Yeah, good," Chris says, because what else is he going to do? Tom snorts. "Shut up," Chris and Ben say in unison, and they both laugh.
"Okay, here's what we're doing from this point on. If you want me to stop, we stop. End of story." Chris nods, because he's pretty sure he doesn't want this to stop, at all, and the sooner they get back to it, the less panicked Chris is going to feel. He presses his hips up into Ben's hand, reaches up to pull him back down into a kiss. But Ben's not moving so easily. "No, Jesus, don't be a macho asshole about it," Ben sighs. "There's a middle point, between stop and go, and that's fine too."
"A pause button," Tom adds quietly. "Just in case you need a second to catch up." Ben glances over at him and Chris doesn't miss the heat in it.
"Pause," Ben says to Chris. "Just tell me to pause, and we'll wait for you."
Chris is pretty sure Ben doesn't catch the "we" in that statement, but Chris does. He's not sure if it's against the rules or not, but he reaches out and curls his hand around Tom's ankle. "Okay," he says, and when he looks over, Tom looks nearly as wrecked as Chris feels.
"Okay," Ben nods, and just like that, they're naked, Chris's underwear and Ben's stupid boxers tossed to the floor, and Ben's hand is on him for real now, strong and hot and oh, god, Chris is totally okay with this part. Totally okay, no pause button needed at all, just as long as Ben keeps touching him. Ben stretches out over Chris again, propped on one elbow as he slowly jerks Chris off until he's pretty sure that's it, that's all there is, there is no actual way he can be harder than he is right now. Then Tom makes a low, frustrated groan and Ben snaps at him, "Look, just fucking do it, neither one of us is going to stop you, honestly," and Tom is shimmying his jeans down his hips until he can wrap his fist around himself. He bites his lip and his hips jerk a fraction and Chris thinks, oh, okay, I guess I can get harder, good to know.
"Jesus, his mouth is obscene," Ben murmurs in his ear, and Chris knows that Ben is commenting from experience, that Ben has probably had that mouth actually wrapped around his dick on more than one occasion, and he doesn't know why this is happening exactly, but he's kind of grateful that he's here, that Tom thought he was special enough to share with Benedict, or maybe the other way around. Chris traces his knuckles down Ben's chest - and if he checks to make sure Tom is watching, so what - and he closes his fist around Ben's dick. Ben drops his forehead to Chris's shoulder and shudders a little, and it's only a little strange to feel him thrusting into the tight circle of Chris's hand. Chris tilts his head to suck lightly at Ben's neck, finds the spot that Ben seemed to love from before, just above his jugular, and lets his teeth scrape over that spot as his thumb swipes over the slick head of Ben's dick.
"Goddamned overachiever," Ben laughs breathlessly, and pulls Chris's hand away before pushing himself to his knees. He grins at Tom like Chris is an exceptionally thoughtful gift, and then Tom lifts his hand from his dick and sucks his own thumb into his mouth with a moan, and Benedict clearly forgets what he was about to say. Chris really doesn't blame him.
Ben clears his throat. "That's... right. Okay," he says, then, "Lube?" and Chris has to laugh.
*
Of course Tom has lube; Tom has enough lube to drown a small city, purchased exactly for this occasion, and exactly the kind Benny most likes. Tom is offended at the question. Though he has to admit a small satisfaction in the breathless way it was asked. "What do you think," he says, and motions to the bedside table.
"Pretty confident, were you?" Ben says when he finds it, nestled next to a brand new box of his favorite condoms.
"I'd say I was just confident enough," Tom replies and he savors the way Chris's eyes keep cutting over to him as he jerks himself with slow, lazy twists of his wrist. He can still feel where Chris's fingers were pressed to his ankle minutes ago.
"What did I tell you - insufferable," Ben says to Chris and Tom just sighs. He's set up a perfect evening and he's got to settle for his own right hand for most of it (though he's going to sneak in a quick rub and tug with Benny before the night is over, honestly, he's only human), so Tom is not up for feeling anything like guilt about his obvious rightness. He's going to say as much, but Ben is snapping open the top of the lube and Tom can see where Chris starts to tense up, and Tom just leans back in his chair to watch because this where Benedict goes from pretty damned capable in bed to downright magical.
"Look at me," Ben says to Chris, and his voice is enough to make Tom's cock jump. Ben's hand is drifting slowly down, around, one knuckle pressed under Chris's balls. "Chris, hey," Ben says again, all warmth and strength. "Pause button, anytime," he says, and Chris nods. "Okay," Ben smiles. "Now, this hand is going to do... well, exactly what you think it's going to do. And this hand," he says, holding up his other one, "is going to help out. I'm going to touch you, and you're going to relax that spot on your body, okay? Just that one spot, just focus there." Chris raises one eyebrow and Tom grins. He remembers thinking this was complete bullshit, and he also remembers how totally and absolutely wrong he was. God, Benny was fucking made for this.
"Humor me?" Ben says with an impish grin and Chris huffs out a nervous laugh.
"Fine, okay," he says.
Ben slides his forefinger over Chris's perineum until Chris's thighs are shaking from it, and then he presses one finger into the meaty part of Chris's hip. "Right here, relax this," he says, and Tom watches Chris focus, watches the way his hip drops toward the mattress as he does it. "Now this," Ben says, pressing hard into the flesh at the back of Chris's thigh. Then the muscle right over his groin, his inner thigh, the center of Chris's chest. Tom's so busy watching all the places on Chris's body slowly relax that he's surprised right alongside Chris when Benedict slides one finger inside him with almost no resistance.
"OH, whoa, okay," Chris says, eyes wide. His fingers are clutching at the duvet, his breaths coming fast and short.
"Chris," Ben says sharply. "Focus. Right here," he says, and presses on the iron-tight muscle along Chris's side. Tom watches the muscle twitch and shift as Chris takes a deeper breath and tries to relax. "Not there, here," Ben says with a laugh. "Trust me."
Chris's eyes flutter closed and he does, he just lets Ben talk him through each tiny press of his fingers until Ben's got two fingers buried in Chris's ass enough that, when he crooks them, Chris's whole body jumps. "See, that's not so bad," Ben says, and Tom wants to kiss that ridiculous smile right off his face.
"Definitely not, no," Chris says, shaky and smiling, and Tom's really actually positive that he'd never have lasted this long, that he'd have pressed Chris's wrists into the bed and fucked him silly by now. But that is why Tom imported Benedict. Because some things need the patience of saints, and Benny is as close to saintly as Tom's ever known.
"One more?" Ben asks, and Tom and Chris both groan. Tom's is certainly out of frustration - he's been keeping himself just at the edge for a while now, not wanting to skip ahead of them. Chris seems agitated too, like this is all a little more - not worse, just more - than he'd signed up for. Ben is amazingly still as Chris breaths, thinks.
"Yeah, okay, go," he says, and Tom watches as Chris just relaxes on his own, one, two three, like he's walking through blocking. Ben sees it too, and shakes his head at Tom in wonder.
"Where did you find him," he mouths, and Tom shrugs.
"He was just on set when I showed up," he says, a little too loudly.
"Wha - " Chris blinks his eyes open, blue and unfocused, and fuck everything, Tom reaches out and runs one foot along the swell of Chris's hip. "Tom, fuck," Chris shudders and then he's clutching at Ben's shoulder and from Tom's angle it looks like half of Ben's hand is in Chris's ass, and Tom tips his head back and squeezes the base of his cock hard enough to make him tear up.
"Ben, Benny, please," Chris is stuttering, somewhere outside the realm of Tom's available consciousness, and Tom should not open his eyes, because then it will be all over, then Tom will lose it entirely. He can hear the shushing sound of Ben's voice, the way their skin slides against the bedcovers, and then suddenly Tom feels something whack him on the leg.
"A little help?" Ben says pointedly and nods to the condoms.
"You're serious?" Tom manages, and his voice is completely gone, holy shit. Ben glares at him, but he doesn't make Tom move, just reaches over, grabs one, rips it open with his teeth and slides it on, all one-handed. "See, that is what I remember," Tom says, because, his Benny is magic.
Benedict pulls his fingers out slowly and presses his cock against the slick entrance to Chris's body. "Wait, hold on," Chris pants.
"Need me to pause?" Ben says softly, and lord, if he's not sainted someday, Tom will eat his own hat. Tom can see the lines of tension thrumming through Ben's body, but he's totally still. Chris shifts down a fraction, then Tom watches in wonder as Chris wraps both legs snugly around Ben's waist, pulling him closer, tugging his head down until Chris can lean up and kiss him.
"Better," Chris says, "Go."
"Where did you even come from?" Tom asks, breathless, and Benedict just laughs into Chris's shoulder as he pushes inside, so fucking slowly. It doesn't take long, not after all that, not when Chris is still hard, was hard through the whole thing, because Ben is a magical fairy person. It doesn't take long before Chris is keening, and Ben's hand is on his dick, whispering encouragement as he's pulling him toward the edge. Tom's hand is moving too, matching every stroke Ben takes.
"Oh god, oh fuck, Ben, Ben," Chris is gasping, and Benny's breathing hard, his hips pushing nearly to hard, too fast. "I can, come on, I can take it," Chris says, and he's talking to Ben, but he's looking at Tom, and that's it, that's all she wrote, Tom comes all over his fist, his ass actually coming up off the chair from the force of it.
Chris shifts a fraction and Ben pauses, again, how, and Chris just fists his hand Ben's hair and pulls and says, "Just fuck me, Ben, I know you want to, come on baby." Hell, Tom knew he was already a little in love with Chris Pine, but this, combined with the look Chris gets from Ben, well. Tom has seen Benedict in some pretty spectacular sex-related situations over the past three years, but nothing compares to the way he just locks eyes with Chris and fucking goes for it, his hips slamming into Chris hard enough to shake the bed frame. Chris arches back into it, his heel pressed to Ben's lower back and Ben is nearly gone, Tom can tell from the set of his shoulders.
"He's not going to come first," Tom says, and Chris has to know this, it's fairly obvious that Benny is going to fuck his brains literally out of his body, but it takes them another long minute of gasps and groans and Benedict saying "Fuck, fuck, fuck," over and over - which is, honestly, enough to get Tom's dick interested again - before Chris finally lets go and comes all over Ben's stomach, without a hand on him. Ben follows after about fifteen seconds, which, considering how long he had to be holding on, is a minor miracle in Tom's book.
*
Chris blinks his eyes open. Benedict is still collapsed on top of him, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Tom is slouched low in a chair five feet away, his pants open, eyes at half-mast. Chris knows that tomorrow he's going to hurt almost everywhere, but for right now, he's riding a ridiculous high of post-orgasm endorphins.
"Holy shit," he says. "Holy. Shit."
"About sums it up, yeah," Tom says and Ben just sighs happily. Chris is pretty sure they should move, but his eyes drift shut again.
When he wakes up, Tom is sitting with his back against the headboard, Benedict nestled between his thighs, his back pressed to Tom’s chest. They’re talking quietly, Ben laughing at something Tom’s saying, low in his ear. There’s a blanket tossed casually over Chris’s hips and Ben is wearing a bathrobe with the hotel logo. Tom, as far as Chris can tell, is wearing the Big Ben boxers.
“Hey,” he says, and when he shifts on the mattress, his whole body twinges in surprise. “Ow.”
“Good morning, sunshine,” Tom smiles down at him.
Ben reaches out and runs his fingers through Chris’s hair. “Not quite morning. And if you’re conscious, Tommy can run you a bath. It’ll help.”
“Oh, I can run you a bath?” Tom scoffs and Ben gives him a wide, innocent look.
“I’m a guest. And you wouldn’t make Chris run his own bath, not after all that,” Ben chides.
“After all that?” Tom says, incredulous. “After all that ‘sorry Hardy, we’re going to have a shag without you’ business? That?”
“It was your bloody idea, moron,” Ben says affectionately and twists around just enough to capture Tom’s mouth in a kiss. It lasts long enough that Chris looks away, cheeks flushing.
“Seriously, I should let you have your room back,” Chris says, pulling the blanket tight around his waist and struggling to sit up. But sitting up is really not actually comfortable at all, he thinks as his whole lower back protests, and how the hell do guys do this?
“No, that’s. Stop it,” Benedict says and pulls Chris back down with an arm over his chest. “We’re all staying, stop trying to move. Sleep, bath, breakfast. That’s all we’ve got on the docket for now.”
Tom crawls over Ben and pushes himself between them, rearranging limbs until Chris has Tom half wrapped around him and Ben spooned up on Tom’s other side. “Comfortable?” Ben asks with just a hint of sarcasm and Tom just sighs against Chris’s chest.
“Infinitely,” he yawns, and Chris grins at Ben over his head.
The next morning is just not as weird as Chris would have expected. As promised, there is a hot bath waiting when he wakes up, and Chris lets himself have a good long soak, even freshening up the hot water when he hears desperate cursing on the other side of the wall. By the time he’s clean and unwound and mostly human, wrapped in a warm robe and almost done processing the fact that yes, holy shit, that whole thing did happen, and he has the sore muscles to prove it, he opens the door to a wild-eyed Tom and a smug looking Benedict.
“We get the shower,” Tom mutters and pulls Ben in to the bathroom with him.
“Sorry! Order something!” Ben yells from the other side and Chris thinks that actors really do make the oddest friends. He settles in to watch the morning news cycle from the CBC and orders a solid half of the room service breakfast menu - it’s Tom’s room, fuck it - and he’s halfway through his oatmeal and bacon when Tom and Ben finally emerge, a plume of steam wafting out behind them. Tom looks almost drugged, eyes at half mast and his mouth more swollen than normal. He walks over to the table with a visible swagger. Ben is wearing Tom’s old sweatsuit and he has at least two visible hickeys.
“Subtle,” Chris snorts, and Ben just sighs.
“Lizard brain.”
They eat, they talk, they even make it out to a gallery that Tom read about in some guest magazine the hotel left in his room. It’s a good day, a really nice day, and after lunch, Chris heads back to his own room. He only sees them once in the next forty-eight hours, a farewell drink at the hotel bar where Ben wraps Chris in a tight hug. “Thanks,” Chris says, because it seems like the right thing to say. Ben just laughs, eyes bright.
“You are more than welcome,” he returns, and then he does a scan of the room before planting a quick kiss to Tom’s lips and walking out to the taxi stand with a wave.
They sit in silence for a few long minutes before Tom looks up at him, eyes uncertain. “We’re good, right?” he asks, like this is actually the right time to be contemplating all of the complications that might come from flying your not-boyfriend in from another country to sleep with your virginal costar.
“You’re insane,” Chris grins at him, and takes a swig of his beer. “Yeah, we’re good.”
*
A month later, Chris gets off his plane at LAX and has five text messages waiting for him - two from his mom, reminding him to pick up the dog; one from his publicist - he deletes it; one from Zach that is mostly nonsense about fall leaves, but ends on a note that might mean he’ll be in LA later that month; and one from Tom.
Go get ‘em, tiger.