Fic: Reasons 2, RPS: HL/RSL
Title: Reasons, part 2/?
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairing: RSP HL/RSL, and H/W
Rating: PG still
Disclaimer: I own none of this... I think that should cover it.
A/N: Thanks for the encouraging response, everyone. Enjoy!
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In Britain, people drank tea to unwind, relax. In America, they drank coffee to coil up their stress for future use and go bouncing away into work-work-work again.
Hugh figured if he wrote another book, it would be entitled A Clash of Cultures: Europe meets America. The cover would only sound serious so it would be taken seriously, but a reader would soon discover by page two that it was complete rambling.
America is roughly a half-year behind European fashion. However, there is a small, psychiatrically-disturbed percentage that claims being out of fashion makes them in fashion.
What’s sad was that he’d had that very discussion with his agent, who was suggesting what he should wear to the Emmy’s for the second year in a row.
“You went classic last year with the black suit and white shirt. But that was conservative. People know who you are now, Hugh; you could get away with a little color statement."
“But I’m not even nominated for an award. Must I go?” He realized he was starting to sound like his children did when he and Jo tried to drag them out on family excursions that didn’t include headphones, friends, and TV.
“But the show is, and you’re the star of the show, so you have to be there. Sorry. It comes with the job.”
It was amazing what all that small print in the contracts included.
The show had also put a lid on him riding the Triumph, so Hugh didn’t show up on set with the motorcycle anymore. He rode it anyway, but made sure he was far enough away from David and the other producers so they couldn’t smell the sweet, velvet scent of gasoline or leather jackets.
“I’ve only ever had one accident,” he’d tried to insist. “When I was seventeen. I’ve been an able bike rider for…” He squinted, smiling to lighten the mood. “Well, let’s not do the math. For quite some time.”
David was a rock. “Absolutely not. Not during the season. Ben Roethlisberger ring a bell to you?”
“Um-” He feebly ran through a list of actors he knew who rode. It was rather short and unhelpful. David’s NFL metaphor would have wielded the same impact to Martians. “Uh, I don’t believe so.”
“Look, we’ll give you some sort of monetary compensation to make up for it-”
“No. Why?” Hugh couldn’t help feeling like he was being bribed to not be himself. House was coming first in his life; how had that happened?
He said he wouldn’t ride the bike, but he didn’t take the money. He knew he’d be riding it somewhere, sometime, even if it had to be on a whole different continent so no one would catch wind of it.
Sans bike now, Hugh accepted a ride from Robert, who found them a ubiquitous Starbucks in downtown Hollywood. The last time they'd been out together was after the finale last year. They'd shared company at the end-of-the-season party, but hadn't spoken much during vacation. The time difference between England and New York wasn't exactly advantageous for keeping in touch.
The nice thing about being famous in a city with a bunch of famous people was that there was always someone more noteworthy than you were. Hugh and Robert could enjoy some slender anonymity, relying on Jack Nicholson or Paris Hilton to soak up the majority of the paparazzi’s camera flashes.
Robert ordered a mocha latte that sounded French and nasally; Hugh got his typical coffee, one sugar and a milk. Usually he took two sugars, but the taste was less strong in America.
They settled down outside under one of the patio tables for two. It was nearing six in the evening, but Hugh was glad they’d settled for coffee instead of dinner. His stomach wasn’t too fond of food at the moment.
“Got a call from Ethan this morning,” Robert said between a sip of his drink. He pursed his lips, reacting to the scalding temperature. “Said he’s thinking of reviving our theatre company in New York.”
Hugh had met Ethan only once, when Robert had invited both of them out for a day of cruising the Southern California music scene. He figured Ethan was either constantly high or a deeply introspective person. Together, Robert and Ethan were like a moth to a flame, though Hugh hadn’t quite sorted out who was the bright light and who was fluttering close enough to get burned.
He nodded now, considering the silver steam from his coffee. “So you have a new side-project then?”
“If I ever get time to fly out there. I wish he’d brought this up last summer, not now, while we’re shooting.” He paused, leaning back into his chair. The plastic seat was hard, but designed to look tasteful and expensive. It could apparently be one, not both. “Hugh… You never felt obligated to do those shows with Stephen?”
“Obligated? As in, ‘I’d rather not, but since it’s you asking…’”
“Yeah.”
Hugh had started stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger. He’d already had half the cast point out how incredibly British he was when he mused. David had mentioned something about not lapsing into Thinker stance while he was portraying House. It was far too European. So Hugh had developed the “chin-drop,” as Robert referred to it, when he’d let his head sink to his chest, pondering the latest differential.
“I’m sure Stephen felt obligated just as much,” Hugh answered after a moment. “But I guess-like you and Ethan-you know each other for so long, you’re able to tell who has whose best interest in mind. And Stephen and I, we’re still very good friends. I don’t regret any of the shows I did with him.”
Robert looked like he wanted to add something, but went back to his latte. The heat made his lips a swollen shade of pink. Hugh turned his head, keeping himself amused by surveying the area around him.
He frowned slightly as he saw a pack of cameras trailing a heavy-clothed woman across the street. Some actress, apparently-Hugh couldn’t identify her from beneath those face-consuming shades. She’d reluctantly surrendered her hurried pace, giving herself up for a brief interview and some pictures in exchange for a few minutes of breathing room.
“How is it,” Hugh began offhandedly, “that Americans love their privacy, but they hate giving other people it?”
“When the government taps phones, it’s a national crisis,” Robert agreed. “Everyone has to buy The Sun, though. Don’t try to reason it out. Hollywood doesn’t work by reality’s rules.”
“Is that why you hate it?”
“Strong word. I wouldn’t mind it, actually. If only the scripts were better.”
“Lifestyle doesn’t bother you?”
Robert shrugged. “Look, I was born in Jersey. My excitement was racing go-carts down the street.”
Hugh smiled. He’d heard a few of those stories since they started working together. Over the past few seasons, it had become obvious that Robert liked to entertain, and he equally liked to be entertained. It took increasingly more to keep him interested, Hugh learned. He’d grown up in the business, and he was numb to a lot of the stimuli.
He’d never been one to prod, but Robert was clearly debating something over in his head.
“So why hesitate to do the theatre project with Ethan then?” Hugh asked carefully. “Scripts are better for stage. And it isn’t like you’re lacking connections to get the company up and going again.”
Robert smiled wryly. “No. Connections are what weave this business together. And that’s the problem. You know-” He consulted his coffee for a second, then let his eyes trail across the patio before circling back to Hugh. “When I was younger, acting was security. It wasn’t secure in itself, but it felt safe, to be lost in a role, or a production, to have a huge extended family in your costars. But then the emphasis shifts. It becomes ‘proving this person wrong,’ or doing a project as a favor for this person. It becomes…” He chewed the thought over. “It’s very selfishly selfless.”
“In theatre or in television?”
“In both. It’s not so bad when you’re in the middle of a play or a season. But it’s how you get there, it’s how you pull the strings.”
Robert had occasionally hinted at his discomfort after table reads. It was just slight details he questioned quietly, and usually only to Hugh. There might be a certain conflict that seemed too forceful to cram into the script; too much ambiguity between characters’ histories; a lack of personal development.
Hugh watched him with careful interest late last season. Robert had paged through the script a few times, skimmed his lines, performed them seamlessly at the reading, then seemed to drift off in his head. His eyes followed along in the script, but they were distant.
“You’d rather be reading Shaw, wouldn’t you?” Hugh had asked him afterwards.
“A couple scenes a week here is all right. Can’t complain.” Robert had paused. “Just sometimes, Wilson is… I don’t know, confining. He’s either confused or amused. Or slightly annoyed. That’s really it. And I don’t want to overact him, but…” He’d frowned slightly, shrugging. “He doesn’t really change.”
“He changes House.” Hugh waited until Robert glanced up, then let his own eyes wander the air. “That’s something, isn’t it? He gets House to look at himself objectively. No other character does that.”
Now, contemplating over coffee, Hugh dredged up the old line. “You’d rather be reading Shaw, wouldn’t you?”
That earned a smile, Robert’s eyes crinkling. “Doesn’t pay that well though. And Gaby and I are getting married next spring, so it’ll be nice to have something in the bank other than a Tony award.”
“This the old ‘selling-out’ guilt creeping in?” Hugh asked.
“My theatre buddies already had me come to terms with that. They said next time I did something on stage, they’d tell everyone to break a leg-since I’m a six-figure-income doctor now, I’d be able to fix it.”
Hugh laughed with him, the mood lifting slightly when Robert allowed some self-deprecation. Taking yourself seriously only did so much good before it turned the tables on your ego, even one that was not constantly nurtured by the media. Having Hugh around had been humbling.
“Will they give you grief now that Wilson kissed House?” Hugh asked.
Robert seemed slightly surprised that Hugh, who’d dreaded that scene since they read the script two weeks ago, would bring it up again.
“No. No, I don’t think so. I mean, they might give Wilson a rough time, but not me.”
“Wilson was rather aggressive.” Hugh glanced over at him, returning a second later to the sanctuary of his coffee.
“Wilson is when he’s needy. I think David said something about how Wilson’s waited some time for this to happen, and he’s not really used to restraining his emotions. Particularly in relationships. So he probably wouldn’t be hesitant about it.”
Hugh nodded because it seemed the polite way to acknowledge him. “Good God, I hope they cut that,” he muttered anyway.
“Why? It wasn’t so bad.”
“Bobby. They’ll be throwing those scenes in every other show.”
“David’s always tried to be controversial.”
“Controversial, but with a point,” Hugh replied. “It still has to fit the storyline.”
“The storyline’s subjective to writer’s whims,” Robert replied. He’d learned quickly not to expect anything constant when it came to scripts. This wasn’t stage acting, where the lines were learned to the exact detail, where every syllable seemed to have a home upon a performer’s tongue.
In theatre, actors existed in the very womb of the story. They were stable and unchanged. TV was like being born in the back of a truck each week-highly unpredictable, with the chance of reactions swaying 180 degrees based on what emerged.
Hugh didn’t really feel like having the show be dropped because the latest love interest in House’s life would not fit seamlessly into the living room of viewing audiences. Looks like it was back to the ten-o’clock time slot.
Robert raised an eyebrow at the bothered look on Hugh’s face. “I didn’t think you’d be nervous about kissing a guy.”
“No, it’s not that.”
"Having people watch you kiss a guy?”
Hugh sensed Robert becoming defensive. He drew himself up a bit more in his chair, but kept his voice easy.
“I frankly don’t care, Bobby,” he said. “But I do have a family back home that might. I have kids that have to finish up school, and I really would rather they not be harried just because their father’s character did something according to a script. Don’t you have anyone that might…bristle over it?”
“I played a few roles that could have made my parents or brother uncomfortable. They got used to it.” Robert shrugged. “A couple years back I kissed Scott Foley in The Violet Hour and no one made a big deal about anything.”
“Romantically?”
“Platonically. And I don’t see why either one should make a difference.”
The conversation had hit a nice little divot. That was an odd occurrence--even during the first season, when they were strangers, rarely was there ever uncomfortable silences between them.
Hugh listened to the jargon of talking Californians elbow its way between them. Robert was looking rather unfavorably at his latte, which had suddenly grown cold, even under the evening’s early July sun.
tbc... http://nakannalee.livejournal.com/4759.html