Fic: Somewhere, A Clock Is Ticking (RPF, Gareth David-Lloyd, John Barrowman, Gen)
Title: Somewhere, A Clock Is Ticking
Characters/Pairing: Gareth David Lloyd, John Barrowman; canonreal life pairings alluded to, but not explored in detail.
Author: kalichan
Rating/Warning: RPF (R for language)
Summary: Counting down to the end.
Wordcount: ~1,332 words
Author's Note: It occurs to me I only seem to write RPF when people leave. Woe! Anyway, here is another sexless, completely fictional RPF, this one written for yuletide, and for my writing partner, rm. You don't know how hard it was not to tell you I was doing it!
When Gareth gets the call from his agent, he has just struggled out of the shower, still bleary-eyed (even the hot water didn't really help) and battling a hangover from the previous night's show. His throat feels like a frozen road that someone has scraped and then sown with salt; it's all he can do to rasp out hello when the phone rings. Peter, his agent, on the other hand, is the reverse of a punk rocker on the morning after, but he doesn't particularly sound happy, Gareth realises; in fact, he sounds like someone has run over a great-aunt who he didn't know very well, and who hasn't left him the bequest he was hoping for either; there's the hushed, funereal, yet somehow detached, plummy tone - well, it was her time, no we weren't that close, in lieu of flowers, please send…. Gareth is definitely too fucking tired for this shit.
"So… we got the contracts…," Peter says. "For Torchwood."
Gareth is really not liking the tone. He opens the refrigerator, locates orange juice and drinks it straight from the carton, then looks for a beer, because Gemma has drunk the last Red Bull. Again. "Yeah?"
"You should know that we're still working out the money, so don't worry about that."
"I wasn't…?"
"I'll just cut to the chase, shall I?"
"Yeah?" Gareth says, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
"They want you for four episodes."
There is a silence. Gareth puts the beer gently down to the countertop and sits down. "Which four?" he asks, hoping against hope, but he already knows the truth.
"The first," Peter says.
"Oh," he says. "Right."
"I think we can still get you a good deal, all things considered."
"Right," he says again, his voice echoing weirdly in his skull.
"We'll keep you posted though."
"Yeah."
"This opens you up a bit," says Peter, sounding uncomfortable. "We've plenty of other irons in the fire, after all. I'll talk to Steve, if you like, so he can get going with things on that end. LA's nice this time of year."
"Yeah. I know."
"Usual rules apply," Peter informs him. "Don't talk to any press about it."
"Of course not," Gareth says automatically. Right, it's his turn now. Like Burn and Naoko, keep a lid on this thing so it can break properly, lie like it's going out of style. Smile like that too. Fucking great.
"Not the end of the world, is it? Time to branch out a bit."
"Right," Gareth says, and puts down the phone. It's 11:30am and he has now only one goal in mind: get blisteringly drunk. He has any number of mates he could ring up who'd be happy to drink with him before lunchtime, but he doesn't really want to do that, he just wants to be alone with a bottle of vodka and the rest of the afternoon.
One hour and six screwdrivers in, he's ringing up Barrowman.
"You're finally getting rid of me," he says into the phone. It's possible that he's not sounding as clear as he'd fondly imagined. He might, in fact, be slurring. Still, best to soldier through, right? "Your wandering eye is now free to… wander."
"Gaz, are you drunk? It's only twelve-thirty. Even for you--"
"I'm dead," he carols. "D - E - D, dead! How d'you think they're going to do it?"
"What are you doing?"
"Scott and I are having lunch at the Ivy. What are you doing?"
"Oh," Gareth says sadly. "You should get back to him."
"I will, in a minute. What's going on with you?"
"I got the news. They're killing me. No more Ianto. Gone, gone, gone."
"WHAT? WHY? Hang on." He hears a rustle, some muffled conversation, and then the sound of traffic on West Street at lunchtime comes through the phone.
He thinks about pouring himself another screwdriver - but there's only enough orange juice left to give the vodka a slight yellow tinge. Oh well, he thinks, and knocks the drink back. Here's to you, Ianto Jones.
John comes back on the line. "Now give it to me straight," he orders, and Gareth giggles like a school girl. He can't help it.
"You said straight!" Somehow this is the funniest thing he has ever heard, and he realizes he's actually three sheets to the wind, if not more.
"Gareth," John says exasperatedly, and Gareth belatedly remembers that Barrowman is fine with people taking the piss except when he's not.
"I got the call from Peter. They've only signed me for four episodes. You know what that means." He is embarrassed to hear his voice crack as he says it.
"That is just not happening," John says, and maybe it's that he's drunk, but Gareth can hear good old Captain Jack in it. "There's no reason for that to happen. No reason at all. I'm calling Russell. I'm calling everyone. It's not set in stone, you hear me?"
"I hear you," he says, and drinks again. There's a long pause, and then he adds, "you know it's no good, right?"
"No," John says. "I don't. I don't know that at all."
Gareth finds himself smiling. It's a bit nice actually, the irrational defense. Warming, even. "It'll be for the story," he says. "They wouldn't do it just for the hell of it."
"I don't care!"
"I just… no one knows him like I do, you know? I know.. it's stupid, but…" Gareth hears his voice break again, and he stops. "I'm just… I'll miss the stupid bugger and his stupid suits and stupid, stupid dinosaur."
"It's not going to happen," John says. "Everyone loves you. Ianto. You know what I mean."
"It wasn't just that it was my big break, you know. It was…"
"Yeah." John is silent for a moment. Then, "I just don't think they've thought it through."
"It's Russell," Gareth says. "He'll have thought it through."
"I'm calling everyone anyway, I don't even care."
"I just hope I… he gets a good death, you know? I hope he does."
"Look, where are you headed next? Do you want to come to London? Or something?"
Gareth laughs. "No, mate. I'm off to Georgia soon anyway. It's that dragon con thing."
"Right. Look… don't get into any trouble, okay?"
"Or what?"
"Just…" John sighs. "Never mind."
"I'm not going to tell," Gareth says. "Don't fucking worry."
"Right, you're a big boy."
"You know it," Gareth says as saucily as he can. His head is spinning a bit.
"It's not over yet," John says.
"Not yet," Gareth says. He imagines the table read, trying to get through the lines, John yelling at Russell until he realizes that there's no hope or gets used to the idea, whichever comes first, his last day at work, saying goodbye to the crew, waving at Kai and Eve, whatever his last scene will be, the death - whatever it is - something romantic maybe, or something else, that he can't yet imagine. Kissing Jack the last time, and his heart gives a pang for Ianto at the thought. "Let's give 'em a hell of a show on the way out, eh?"
"You know it," John says, and Gareth can hear the clock ticking now, mindlessly devouring the hours till it's over, all this crazy family, all the weird magic, all gone, gone, gone. He thinks he may just want to stay very, very drunk until it's all done.
"Go back to Scott. He must be wondering what's happened to you."
"Right," John says, but doesn't end the call.
There's a pause, and then Gareth says, "Have a drink for Ianto, okay?"
John doesn't answer straight away. Then he says roughly, "I will," and Gareth can hear all the people in it. Without another goodbye, the phone clicks into silence, and he looks at the half empty bottle of vodka.
"It ain't over till it's over," he says to himself and tries to smile.
Characters/Pairing: Gareth David Lloyd, John Barrowman; canonreal life pairings alluded to, but not explored in detail.
Author: kalichan
Rating/Warning: RPF (R for language)
Summary: Counting down to the end.
Wordcount: ~1,332 words
Author's Note: It occurs to me I only seem to write RPF when people leave. Woe! Anyway, here is another sexless, completely fictional RPF, this one written for yuletide, and for my writing partner, rm. You don't know how hard it was not to tell you I was doing it!
When Gareth gets the call from his agent, he has just struggled out of the shower, still bleary-eyed (even the hot water didn't really help) and battling a hangover from the previous night's show. His throat feels like a frozen road that someone has scraped and then sown with salt; it's all he can do to rasp out hello when the phone rings. Peter, his agent, on the other hand, is the reverse of a punk rocker on the morning after, but he doesn't particularly sound happy, Gareth realises; in fact, he sounds like someone has run over a great-aunt who he didn't know very well, and who hasn't left him the bequest he was hoping for either; there's the hushed, funereal, yet somehow detached, plummy tone - well, it was her time, no we weren't that close, in lieu of flowers, please send…. Gareth is definitely too fucking tired for this shit.
"So… we got the contracts…," Peter says. "For Torchwood."
Gareth is really not liking the tone. He opens the refrigerator, locates orange juice and drinks it straight from the carton, then looks for a beer, because Gemma has drunk the last Red Bull. Again. "Yeah?"
"You should know that we're still working out the money, so don't worry about that."
"I wasn't…?"
"I'll just cut to the chase, shall I?"
"Yeah?" Gareth says, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
"They want you for four episodes."
There is a silence. Gareth puts the beer gently down to the countertop and sits down. "Which four?" he asks, hoping against hope, but he already knows the truth.
"The first," Peter says.
"Oh," he says. "Right."
"I think we can still get you a good deal, all things considered."
"Right," he says again, his voice echoing weirdly in his skull.
"We'll keep you posted though."
"Yeah."
"This opens you up a bit," says Peter, sounding uncomfortable. "We've plenty of other irons in the fire, after all. I'll talk to Steve, if you like, so he can get going with things on that end. LA's nice this time of year."
"Yeah. I know."
"Usual rules apply," Peter informs him. "Don't talk to any press about it."
"Of course not," Gareth says automatically. Right, it's his turn now. Like Burn and Naoko, keep a lid on this thing so it can break properly, lie like it's going out of style. Smile like that too. Fucking great.
"Not the end of the world, is it? Time to branch out a bit."
"Right," Gareth says, and puts down the phone. It's 11:30am and he has now only one goal in mind: get blisteringly drunk. He has any number of mates he could ring up who'd be happy to drink with him before lunchtime, but he doesn't really want to do that, he just wants to be alone with a bottle of vodka and the rest of the afternoon.
One hour and six screwdrivers in, he's ringing up Barrowman.
"You're finally getting rid of me," he says into the phone. It's possible that he's not sounding as clear as he'd fondly imagined. He might, in fact, be slurring. Still, best to soldier through, right? "Your wandering eye is now free to… wander."
"Gaz, are you drunk? It's only twelve-thirty. Even for you--"
"I'm dead," he carols. "D - E - D, dead! How d'you think they're going to do it?"
"What are you doing?"
"Scott and I are having lunch at the Ivy. What are you doing?"
"Oh," Gareth says sadly. "You should get back to him."
"I will, in a minute. What's going on with you?"
"I got the news. They're killing me. No more Ianto. Gone, gone, gone."
"WHAT? WHY? Hang on." He hears a rustle, some muffled conversation, and then the sound of traffic on West Street at lunchtime comes through the phone.
He thinks about pouring himself another screwdriver - but there's only enough orange juice left to give the vodka a slight yellow tinge. Oh well, he thinks, and knocks the drink back. Here's to you, Ianto Jones.
John comes back on the line. "Now give it to me straight," he orders, and Gareth giggles like a school girl. He can't help it.
"You said straight!" Somehow this is the funniest thing he has ever heard, and he realizes he's actually three sheets to the wind, if not more.
"Gareth," John says exasperatedly, and Gareth belatedly remembers that Barrowman is fine with people taking the piss except when he's not.
"I got the call from Peter. They've only signed me for four episodes. You know what that means." He is embarrassed to hear his voice crack as he says it.
"That is just not happening," John says, and maybe it's that he's drunk, but Gareth can hear good old Captain Jack in it. "There's no reason for that to happen. No reason at all. I'm calling Russell. I'm calling everyone. It's not set in stone, you hear me?"
"I hear you," he says, and drinks again. There's a long pause, and then he adds, "you know it's no good, right?"
"No," John says. "I don't. I don't know that at all."
Gareth finds himself smiling. It's a bit nice actually, the irrational defense. Warming, even. "It'll be for the story," he says. "They wouldn't do it just for the hell of it."
"I don't care!"
"I just… no one knows him like I do, you know? I know.. it's stupid, but…" Gareth hears his voice break again, and he stops. "I'm just… I'll miss the stupid bugger and his stupid suits and stupid, stupid dinosaur."
"It's not going to happen," John says. "Everyone loves you. Ianto. You know what I mean."
"It wasn't just that it was my big break, you know. It was…"
"Yeah." John is silent for a moment. Then, "I just don't think they've thought it through."
"It's Russell," Gareth says. "He'll have thought it through."
"I'm calling everyone anyway, I don't even care."
"I just hope I… he gets a good death, you know? I hope he does."
"Look, where are you headed next? Do you want to come to London? Or something?"
Gareth laughs. "No, mate. I'm off to Georgia soon anyway. It's that dragon con thing."
"Right. Look… don't get into any trouble, okay?"
"Or what?"
"Just…" John sighs. "Never mind."
"I'm not going to tell," Gareth says. "Don't fucking worry."
"Right, you're a big boy."
"You know it," Gareth says as saucily as he can. His head is spinning a bit.
"It's not over yet," John says.
"Not yet," Gareth says. He imagines the table read, trying to get through the lines, John yelling at Russell until he realizes that there's no hope or gets used to the idea, whichever comes first, his last day at work, saying goodbye to the crew, waving at Kai and Eve, whatever his last scene will be, the death - whatever it is - something romantic maybe, or something else, that he can't yet imagine. Kissing Jack the last time, and his heart gives a pang for Ianto at the thought. "Let's give 'em a hell of a show on the way out, eh?"
"You know it," John says, and Gareth can hear the clock ticking now, mindlessly devouring the hours till it's over, all this crazy family, all the weird magic, all gone, gone, gone. He thinks he may just want to stay very, very drunk until it's all done.
"Go back to Scott. He must be wondering what's happened to you."
"Right," John says, but doesn't end the call.
There's a pause, and then Gareth says, "Have a drink for Ianto, okay?"
John doesn't answer straight away. Then he says roughly, "I will," and Gareth can hear all the people in it. Without another goodbye, the phone clicks into silence, and he looks at the half empty bottle of vodka.
"It ain't over till it's over," he says to himself and tries to smile.