Keep Doing What We Do (Brian/Justin; PG-13)
A treat for all my fellow QAF Woodies out there :-)
Title: Keep Doing What We Do
Author: etharei
Timeline: future
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Queer as Folk and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Showtime, Cowlip Productions and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes, and promise to replenish the condom and lube supply when I’m done.
Summary: "BBC?" Brian frowned. "Developing a kink for stiff British guys, now?"
Author’s Notes: A long time ago, in a post far, far away, the honorable qaffangyrl laid upon me, a challenge: "to write a fic where Justin and Michael got Brian to watch TW with them". The muses took the prompt and went away and fondled it for a good long time, and came back with this.
Spoilers for Torchwood 201 “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang”.
”What can you be doing that’s more important than me?”
- Captain John Hart, Torchwood
keep doing what we do
by etharei
In hindsight, Brian thinks he should have known better than to leave Justin to his own devices for any length of time. Ever. Consider Justin's history: letting Brian's designer possessions get stolen, starting an X-rated gay comic series, bringing down a chief of police mayoral candidate.
The most recent act tops it off, in Brian's opinion: starting the Saturday Night TV Club.
Not that they called themselves that; Justin had thrown a loaded paintbrush at Brian the one time Kinnetik's CEO had used the phrase in the younger man's hearing. Possibly it'd been because of the mocking tone, laced with extra scorn.
Brian had been out of town - in New York, ironically enough - that first Saturday, and had called Justin to check that no new artistic enterprises or social revolutions had taken place in the 12 hours since he left. A conspicuously breathless and husky-voiced Justin had, between monosyllabic words that made Brian grip his cell phone so hard he could hear the plastic creaking, somehow managed to communicate that Michael was arriving in an hour to take advantage of the mansion's ridiculously expensive home entertainment system.
"Wants me to, hmmm, watch some new show with him."
"Keep the spunk off the couch and the carpet," Brian had said, glad that there was a partition between him and the driver. No more common cabs for Brian Kinney. "We only bought them last week, and they're imported."
"We're not watching porn, Brian." A distinct shuffling of cloth. "Though if you want me to take a picture of myself right now..."
Since he was on his way to a business meeting, Brian reluctantly declined. Of course, two minutes before the meeting was due to start, Brian's iPhone gave the discreet blink indicating it had received, say, a message with a photo attached, and would happily hold the image until such a time as Brian would be at liberty to open it. Not surprisingly, Brian has other things on his mind when he flew back the next day than asking what, exactly, was the non-porn thing that Justin had watched with Michael.
He did note that, over the week, Justin's face would adopt a thoughtful expression, turning mildly embarrassed after a few minutes and disappearing with a shake of the head. He also called Michael several times, but Brian had attributed that to Rage-talk, because Justin's voice held the same creative excitement that had started off the whole damn thing.
The next Saturday, a crisis at Babylon had Brian holed up at the club until well past midnight. He returned to Britin - re: leaving Justin to his own devices, including naming things - to find Michael on his couch once again, and this time Emmett sat on the other side of Justin. What sounded like an avid discussion quieted when Brian passes the room, but Brian was too tired to give more than a disinterested nod of greeting and continue on towards the stairs. Voices rose in his wake.
After Emmett came Blake. Brian was still a little ambivalent about the ex-druggie, even after all this time, but Blake greeted him cheerfully in the kitchen and offered to get Brian a beer if he was joining them. A passing comment about Ted working late yet again laid the blame of his presence squarely on Brian's shoulders; this, Brian could respect, and he gracefully declined with "Don't want to intrude on you ladies."
But on Sunday morning, Brian's curiosity finally got the better of him. "So what's so hot about Saturday night TV?"
Justin looked up from his bowl of Cheerios. His voice was affected indifference, but the brightness in his eyes clued Brian in more than anything. "It's this sci-fi show on BBC America."
"BBC?" Brian frowned. "Developing a kink for stiff British guys, now?"
"The male lead is American." But early daylight brought out the faint blush on Justin's face.
Interesting. And it wasn't exactly a no.
"Is he hot?"
The wicked smile on Justin's face relaxed Brian a bit - this was more familiar territory. "Fuck, yeah."
Brian poured himself more coffee. "Details," he requested with a wave of the pot.
"Tall, moderately muscled, brown hair, blue eyes. Great smile."
Hmmm. "Would I fuck him?"
Justin shrugged, smiling in that maddeningly coy way of his. "I'd go so far as to say, under the right circumstances, you might even beg to."
Brian felt his eyebrows shoot up so fast they bounced down off the top of his forehead. "Sunshine, light of my life- is this your roundabout way of telling me that this guy is hotter than me?"
Justin laughed. "Not exactly. You're different types." The blond head tilted to one side, gazing at Brian speculatively. "Though... not all that different." It seemed that some new thought had struck him. Before Brian could say anything else, Justin had disappeared into the living room. Brian blinked, heard the sound of a speed-dial button on the house phone being pressed, followed by Justin saying, "Michael, do you think Jack is, like, Brian without the aliens and time-traveling?"
Recognizing from lifelong experience the universal tone of geeks in discussion mode, Brian had rolled his eyes and gone back to the bedroom to put some clothes on in case the boys decided to continue their conversation in person. Sure enough, Michael turned up in time for lunch; and with a strangely somber expression, handed to Justin a large brown paper bag. From the edges and points poking through the material, Brian deduced it was a DVD boxed set.
The morning exchange with Justin got him even more curious, but there was such a thing as pride. He pointedly avoided the entertainment room whenever Justin was in there, presumably watching the DVDs Michael had lent him. At times he may have lingered a bit on the hallway outside, but there was only so much to be gleaned from loud mechanical noises, the occasional explosion, and unmistakably British voices chattering away in a worryingly upbeat tone.
And instead of waiting for the weekend, Justin had invited "their friends" over for dinner on Wednesday. Predictably, this involved all his previous conspirators, with the addition of a sheepish-looking Hunter. After the meal, they disappeared into the entertainment room. Brian worked in his office, not at all aware of the long stretches of viewer quiet punctuated by several minutes of loud and very vocal discussion.
The next day, Ted asked to be let off early the following Saturday, his not-meeting-the-eye manner giving Brian a healthy wash of foreboding.
Which was the last straw, but Brian had held out until the following week, Wednesday night. Or, technically, very early Thursday morning, because he’s learned to hold off discussions until after fucking, in case unexpected disagreements resulted in a night on the couch.
"What's the show called again?" he asked as they lay in a pleasant post-coital warmth.
Four beats. Brian knew, because Justin's finger tapped them out on his chest. "I think you'll hate it."
"But you want me to watch it anyway."
"I want you with me."
Two beats. "Okay."
"Only if you want to."
Brian rested his chin on the top of Justin's head. "Sunshine, if I can watch Yellow Submarine with you seventeen times in one year, I sure as hell can handle a science fiction TV show."
Justin had insisted he do the thing properly, and watch from the beginning of the season. Brian agreed, in his usual spirit of going in all the way once he stopped resisting. And it had seemed like a good idea, a way to ease him in, especially since he couldn't even remember any more when he'd last spent an evening in front of the TV. Only, word had gotten around, and it turned out that everyone was game for a marathon. ("We're almost half-way through the season," explained Justin in a mournful voice. Apparently that was meant to explain everything.)
Which is why he, Brian Kinney, is sitting on the couch at 7:51 PM on a Friday night, surrounded by a chattering crowd. Enormous bowls full of popcorn, in varying degrees of salt and butter saturation, are ready for their slow circuits around the room. Bottles of alcohol and soda reflect light from the electronic equipment. Knowing that Emmett is in the room, Brian won't be surprised if there's even a rota for runners to fetch things from the kitchen and replenish the food and drink supply.
Once upon a time, Brian had celebrated the start of the weekend by going out, tripping and tricking. How things change.
Then Michael practically falls on top of him in a clumsy hop over the armrest of the leather couch, and Brian is reminded that some things never will.
He's full from dinner, lightly buzzed from the quick cigarette afterwards; there's a glass of Jim Beam in front of him and a very warm Justin ensconced in his side. All things considered, he was as comfortable and amiable as he’s going to get. Though he makes a mental note to ask later why Justin had laughed when he'd asked the little too-smug shit to pass the JB.
Luckily, Brian had always intended for the room to hold a good-sized audience in front of the enormous plasma screen, though extra chairs and a bean bag had to be brought in from the other rooms. It's moderately noisy, chaotic, and the various drinks on the low table are just asking to be spilled onto the plush white carpet.
But it's so familiar, that it feels intimate. Brian looks around and sees faces he's known for years; there’s an ease and safe comfort he’d never had in the house he grew up in, and it occurs to him that maybe this is what Justin has fashioned out of Saturday nights.
Perhaps not, at least not consciously. But, lacking the gleaming hunger of a genre fan, it'll do for Brian.
Fingers curl around his own. Long and dexterous, with little patches of rough, the perpetual streaks of pain under the nails - an artist's hand.
Lights dim, the room settles into quiet as the last ad finishes and the program starts. An empty road and an old lady seem promising enough. The screech of tires comes as no surprise; but Brian admires the shiny red sleekness of the car for all of two seconds, because...
"Is that-?"
"Yup, that's a blowfish," pipes Hunter from somewhere to the left.
Justin digs a warning nail into Brian's palm, probably sensing that Brian is formulating a dirty joke about blowfish. Turns out he needn't, as the camera shifts its attention to a black SUV. Ah, so that's where the title is from.
Come to think of it, he can have a field day with “Torchwood”.
The main characters are all good-looking in a non-Hollywood kind of way. Brian's eye is particularly drawn to the man in the backseat wearing a dark suit and pink shirt. But no one with an American accent, yet.
“If children are out at midnight, they’ve got it coming.” Brian decides that he quite likes the guy behind the wheel, too.
When the male lead Justin's so fond of turns up, there's really no question it's him.
"What do you think?" asks Justin quietly into Brian's ear, as the opening titles flash.
Brian makes a non-committal shrug. "He’s all right."
“He’s the boss,” says Blake from the Schmidt-Wyzecki chair.
“Nothing changes,” Michael chimes in, and there’s a spread of in-joke grinning around the room. Brian is too busy dealing with a breath of déjà vu to feel irritated or left out.
Ten minutes later, "The Captain's fucking that guy in the suit," Brian declares, in the pattern of old. Only this time, nobody complains with a "Not everything is about fucking, Brian." Instead, there are various nods in the darkness.
Brian blinks. "Seriously?"
"Well, Ianto doesn't look too happy with him right now," says Michael.
"But they were fucking through season one,” Justin chimes in.
"Half of it, anyway,” adds Ted.
"That's open to argumentation!" calls Emmett.
Hunter knocks on the table. "Guys, shut up!"
The scene with the girl who has pretty eyes and nice hair leaves Brian confused, though. "Is Captain Jack bi?"
"Omnisexual," choruses the room.
The power chords of 7 blare out in surround sound. Justin leans in close and whispers, "The first time I saw this scene, I got hard."
Brian wills himself to not shift in his seat. "It's hot," he agrees.
Warm lips on the soft skin below his earlobe. "I can tell you are, too. Right now. Want to touch you so badly."
Shivering, Brian turns his head and covers Justin’s parted lips with his. But the hard kiss fast reaches the point where he either has to stop, or pull Justin upstairs, and he reluctantly breaks it off. It annoys him a little that Justin gives him a small smile and a pat on the arm, and goes back to avidly watching the show. It annoys him even more that the shorter Captain in the red coat talking about "murder rehab" draws an amused snort out of him.
”We were partners.”
“In what way?”
“In every way. And then some.”
Brian has been a life-long advocate for the selling value of sex, but even he is impressed by the level of innuendo in the dialogue. It's a sexual free-for-all, too; the two Captains seem equally willing to fuck anybody. Everybody. This is something Brian can admire.
And it's not like he'd set out wanting to hate the show... He's also quite sure that, regardless of what he thinks of it, he's already lost Justin to a tall smarmy hero-type with a tacky dress sense and/or kink for period clothing. Who Brian, it must be said, wouldn't exactly object to fucking, either.
What the hell. Why not make it a threesome?
He snickers alongside Hunter when Captain John turns out to be a double-crossing bastard. Not surprisingly, Justin gives a happy little sigh when Jack scores a date from Cute Guy In The Suit With the Weird Name, who's clearly playing hard to get.
”Going down. Yes, please.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We're a cosmic joke, eye candy. An accident of chemicals and evolution. The jokes, the sex, just cover the fact that nothing means anything. And the only consolation is money. So run, Ianto Jones!”
There's butter and salt and crunchy things between his teeth before Brian even realizes that he's grabbed a handful from a passing popcorn bowl. Oh well, might as well finish it all. He takes a sip of his drink to wash away the salt, and grimaces at the image on the screen. "Ouch."
"Yeah," Justin agrees. Brian notes that the younger man doesn't look at all upset at his television crush's untimely demise.
Minutes later... "Shit!"
"Uh-huh."
More minutes pass. Brian bursts out laughing. "I like that woman."
"Look how happy Ianto is."
Blake's soft voice floats over the couch. "I still don't know what exactly it is you can do with a stopwatch."
"Most of us think that Ianto and Jack are into kink," explains Justin.
"Of course they are." Emmett joins in. "Ianto's suits and Jack's military coat? Not to mention something Martha says in the next episode-"
"Hey!" Hunter shouts. "Gwen's about to be blown up."
A row of heads swivel back towards the screen. But barely a few seconds have passed when Brian can't resist exclaiming, "Is poodle some kind of British slang for-"
"No," Michael answers distractedly. "He does mean, you know, a poodle. As in, dog."
The end comes far quicker than Brian had anticipated. It doesn't feel like 40 minutes have passed. He sits back, face thoughtful, as there's a general shifting of bodies around the room, the exchanging of bottles and bowls, the traditional excavation for the remote control. He finally notices that Justin is looking at him, upper teeth worrying lower lip. "What did you think?"
Justin asks it in a normal voice, and there are conversations taking place all around them, but Brian gets the impression that everyone's holding their breath, or at least listening in.
"It's... quirky. And funny. And the guys are hot."
Justin nods, eyes flickering towards the screen, but the question mark remains on his face.
Brian sighs, jerks his head towards the TV. "Put the next one on."
Title: Keep Doing What We Do
Author: etharei
Timeline: future
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Queer as Folk and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Showtime, Cowlip Productions and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes, and promise to replenish the condom and lube supply when I’m done.
Summary: "BBC?" Brian frowned. "Developing a kink for stiff British guys, now?"
Author’s Notes: A long time ago, in a post far, far away, the honorable qaffangyrl laid upon me, a challenge: "to write a fic where Justin and Michael got Brian to watch TW with them". The muses took the prompt and went away and fondled it for a good long time, and came back with this.
Spoilers for Torchwood 201 “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang”.
”What can you be doing that’s more important than me?”
- Captain John Hart, Torchwood
keep doing what we do
by etharei
In hindsight, Brian thinks he should have known better than to leave Justin to his own devices for any length of time. Ever. Consider Justin's history: letting Brian's designer possessions get stolen, starting an X-rated gay comic series, bringing down a chief of police mayoral candidate.
The most recent act tops it off, in Brian's opinion: starting the Saturday Night TV Club.
Not that they called themselves that; Justin had thrown a loaded paintbrush at Brian the one time Kinnetik's CEO had used the phrase in the younger man's hearing. Possibly it'd been because of the mocking tone, laced with extra scorn.
Brian had been out of town - in New York, ironically enough - that first Saturday, and had called Justin to check that no new artistic enterprises or social revolutions had taken place in the 12 hours since he left. A conspicuously breathless and husky-voiced Justin had, between monosyllabic words that made Brian grip his cell phone so hard he could hear the plastic creaking, somehow managed to communicate that Michael was arriving in an hour to take advantage of the mansion's ridiculously expensive home entertainment system.
"Wants me to, hmmm, watch some new show with him."
"Keep the spunk off the couch and the carpet," Brian had said, glad that there was a partition between him and the driver. No more common cabs for Brian Kinney. "We only bought them last week, and they're imported."
"We're not watching porn, Brian." A distinct shuffling of cloth. "Though if you want me to take a picture of myself right now..."
Since he was on his way to a business meeting, Brian reluctantly declined. Of course, two minutes before the meeting was due to start, Brian's iPhone gave the discreet blink indicating it had received, say, a message with a photo attached, and would happily hold the image until such a time as Brian would be at liberty to open it. Not surprisingly, Brian has other things on his mind when he flew back the next day than asking what, exactly, was the non-porn thing that Justin had watched with Michael.
He did note that, over the week, Justin's face would adopt a thoughtful expression, turning mildly embarrassed after a few minutes and disappearing with a shake of the head. He also called Michael several times, but Brian had attributed that to Rage-talk, because Justin's voice held the same creative excitement that had started off the whole damn thing.
The next Saturday, a crisis at Babylon had Brian holed up at the club until well past midnight. He returned to Britin - re: leaving Justin to his own devices, including naming things - to find Michael on his couch once again, and this time Emmett sat on the other side of Justin. What sounded like an avid discussion quieted when Brian passes the room, but Brian was too tired to give more than a disinterested nod of greeting and continue on towards the stairs. Voices rose in his wake.
After Emmett came Blake. Brian was still a little ambivalent about the ex-druggie, even after all this time, but Blake greeted him cheerfully in the kitchen and offered to get Brian a beer if he was joining them. A passing comment about Ted working late yet again laid the blame of his presence squarely on Brian's shoulders; this, Brian could respect, and he gracefully declined with "Don't want to intrude on you ladies."
But on Sunday morning, Brian's curiosity finally got the better of him. "So what's so hot about Saturday night TV?"
Justin looked up from his bowl of Cheerios. His voice was affected indifference, but the brightness in his eyes clued Brian in more than anything. "It's this sci-fi show on BBC America."
"BBC?" Brian frowned. "Developing a kink for stiff British guys, now?"
"The male lead is American." But early daylight brought out the faint blush on Justin's face.
Interesting. And it wasn't exactly a no.
"Is he hot?"
The wicked smile on Justin's face relaxed Brian a bit - this was more familiar territory. "Fuck, yeah."
Brian poured himself more coffee. "Details," he requested with a wave of the pot.
"Tall, moderately muscled, brown hair, blue eyes. Great smile."
Hmmm. "Would I fuck him?"
Justin shrugged, smiling in that maddeningly coy way of his. "I'd go so far as to say, under the right circumstances, you might even beg to."
Brian felt his eyebrows shoot up so fast they bounced down off the top of his forehead. "Sunshine, light of my life- is this your roundabout way of telling me that this guy is hotter than me?"
Justin laughed. "Not exactly. You're different types." The blond head tilted to one side, gazing at Brian speculatively. "Though... not all that different." It seemed that some new thought had struck him. Before Brian could say anything else, Justin had disappeared into the living room. Brian blinked, heard the sound of a speed-dial button on the house phone being pressed, followed by Justin saying, "Michael, do you think Jack is, like, Brian without the aliens and time-traveling?"
Recognizing from lifelong experience the universal tone of geeks in discussion mode, Brian had rolled his eyes and gone back to the bedroom to put some clothes on in case the boys decided to continue their conversation in person. Sure enough, Michael turned up in time for lunch; and with a strangely somber expression, handed to Justin a large brown paper bag. From the edges and points poking through the material, Brian deduced it was a DVD boxed set.
The morning exchange with Justin got him even more curious, but there was such a thing as pride. He pointedly avoided the entertainment room whenever Justin was in there, presumably watching the DVDs Michael had lent him. At times he may have lingered a bit on the hallway outside, but there was only so much to be gleaned from loud mechanical noises, the occasional explosion, and unmistakably British voices chattering away in a worryingly upbeat tone.
And instead of waiting for the weekend, Justin had invited "their friends" over for dinner on Wednesday. Predictably, this involved all his previous conspirators, with the addition of a sheepish-looking Hunter. After the meal, they disappeared into the entertainment room. Brian worked in his office, not at all aware of the long stretches of viewer quiet punctuated by several minutes of loud and very vocal discussion.
The next day, Ted asked to be let off early the following Saturday, his not-meeting-the-eye manner giving Brian a healthy wash of foreboding.
Which was the last straw, but Brian had held out until the following week, Wednesday night. Or, technically, very early Thursday morning, because he’s learned to hold off discussions until after fucking, in case unexpected disagreements resulted in a night on the couch.
"What's the show called again?" he asked as they lay in a pleasant post-coital warmth.
Four beats. Brian knew, because Justin's finger tapped them out on his chest. "I think you'll hate it."
"But you want me to watch it anyway."
"I want you with me."
Two beats. "Okay."
"Only if you want to."
Brian rested his chin on the top of Justin's head. "Sunshine, if I can watch Yellow Submarine with you seventeen times in one year, I sure as hell can handle a science fiction TV show."
Justin had insisted he do the thing properly, and watch from the beginning of the season. Brian agreed, in his usual spirit of going in all the way once he stopped resisting. And it had seemed like a good idea, a way to ease him in, especially since he couldn't even remember any more when he'd last spent an evening in front of the TV. Only, word had gotten around, and it turned out that everyone was game for a marathon. ("We're almost half-way through the season," explained Justin in a mournful voice. Apparently that was meant to explain everything.)
Which is why he, Brian Kinney, is sitting on the couch at 7:51 PM on a Friday night, surrounded by a chattering crowd. Enormous bowls full of popcorn, in varying degrees of salt and butter saturation, are ready for their slow circuits around the room. Bottles of alcohol and soda reflect light from the electronic equipment. Knowing that Emmett is in the room, Brian won't be surprised if there's even a rota for runners to fetch things from the kitchen and replenish the food and drink supply.
Once upon a time, Brian had celebrated the start of the weekend by going out, tripping and tricking. How things change.
Then Michael practically falls on top of him in a clumsy hop over the armrest of the leather couch, and Brian is reminded that some things never will.
He's full from dinner, lightly buzzed from the quick cigarette afterwards; there's a glass of Jim Beam in front of him and a very warm Justin ensconced in his side. All things considered, he was as comfortable and amiable as he’s going to get. Though he makes a mental note to ask later why Justin had laughed when he'd asked the little too-smug shit to pass the JB.
Luckily, Brian had always intended for the room to hold a good-sized audience in front of the enormous plasma screen, though extra chairs and a bean bag had to be brought in from the other rooms. It's moderately noisy, chaotic, and the various drinks on the low table are just asking to be spilled onto the plush white carpet.
But it's so familiar, that it feels intimate. Brian looks around and sees faces he's known for years; there’s an ease and safe comfort he’d never had in the house he grew up in, and it occurs to him that maybe this is what Justin has fashioned out of Saturday nights.
Perhaps not, at least not consciously. But, lacking the gleaming hunger of a genre fan, it'll do for Brian.
Fingers curl around his own. Long and dexterous, with little patches of rough, the perpetual streaks of pain under the nails - an artist's hand.
Lights dim, the room settles into quiet as the last ad finishes and the program starts. An empty road and an old lady seem promising enough. The screech of tires comes as no surprise; but Brian admires the shiny red sleekness of the car for all of two seconds, because...
"Is that-?"
"Yup, that's a blowfish," pipes Hunter from somewhere to the left.
Justin digs a warning nail into Brian's palm, probably sensing that Brian is formulating a dirty joke about blowfish. Turns out he needn't, as the camera shifts its attention to a black SUV. Ah, so that's where the title is from.
Come to think of it, he can have a field day with “Torchwood”.
The main characters are all good-looking in a non-Hollywood kind of way. Brian's eye is particularly drawn to the man in the backseat wearing a dark suit and pink shirt. But no one with an American accent, yet.
“If children are out at midnight, they’ve got it coming.” Brian decides that he quite likes the guy behind the wheel, too.
When the male lead Justin's so fond of turns up, there's really no question it's him.
"What do you think?" asks Justin quietly into Brian's ear, as the opening titles flash.
Brian makes a non-committal shrug. "He’s all right."
“He’s the boss,” says Blake from the Schmidt-Wyzecki chair.
“Nothing changes,” Michael chimes in, and there’s a spread of in-joke grinning around the room. Brian is too busy dealing with a breath of déjà vu to feel irritated or left out.
Ten minutes later, "The Captain's fucking that guy in the suit," Brian declares, in the pattern of old. Only this time, nobody complains with a "Not everything is about fucking, Brian." Instead, there are various nods in the darkness.
Brian blinks. "Seriously?"
"Well, Ianto doesn't look too happy with him right now," says Michael.
"But they were fucking through season one,” Justin chimes in.
"Half of it, anyway,” adds Ted.
"That's open to argumentation!" calls Emmett.
Hunter knocks on the table. "Guys, shut up!"
The scene with the girl who has pretty eyes and nice hair leaves Brian confused, though. "Is Captain Jack bi?"
"Omnisexual," choruses the room.
The power chords of 7 blare out in surround sound. Justin leans in close and whispers, "The first time I saw this scene, I got hard."
Brian wills himself to not shift in his seat. "It's hot," he agrees.
Warm lips on the soft skin below his earlobe. "I can tell you are, too. Right now. Want to touch you so badly."
Shivering, Brian turns his head and covers Justin’s parted lips with his. But the hard kiss fast reaches the point where he either has to stop, or pull Justin upstairs, and he reluctantly breaks it off. It annoys him a little that Justin gives him a small smile and a pat on the arm, and goes back to avidly watching the show. It annoys him even more that the shorter Captain in the red coat talking about "murder rehab" draws an amused snort out of him.
”We were partners.”
“In what way?”
“In every way. And then some.”
Brian has been a life-long advocate for the selling value of sex, but even he is impressed by the level of innuendo in the dialogue. It's a sexual free-for-all, too; the two Captains seem equally willing to fuck anybody. Everybody. This is something Brian can admire.
And it's not like he'd set out wanting to hate the show... He's also quite sure that, regardless of what he thinks of it, he's already lost Justin to a tall smarmy hero-type with a tacky dress sense and/or kink for period clothing. Who Brian, it must be said, wouldn't exactly object to fucking, either.
What the hell. Why not make it a threesome?
He snickers alongside Hunter when Captain John turns out to be a double-crossing bastard. Not surprisingly, Justin gives a happy little sigh when Jack scores a date from Cute Guy In The Suit With the Weird Name, who's clearly playing hard to get.
”Going down. Yes, please.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We're a cosmic joke, eye candy. An accident of chemicals and evolution. The jokes, the sex, just cover the fact that nothing means anything. And the only consolation is money. So run, Ianto Jones!”
There's butter and salt and crunchy things between his teeth before Brian even realizes that he's grabbed a handful from a passing popcorn bowl. Oh well, might as well finish it all. He takes a sip of his drink to wash away the salt, and grimaces at the image on the screen. "Ouch."
"Yeah," Justin agrees. Brian notes that the younger man doesn't look at all upset at his television crush's untimely demise.
Minutes later... "Shit!"
"Uh-huh."
More minutes pass. Brian bursts out laughing. "I like that woman."
"Look how happy Ianto is."
Blake's soft voice floats over the couch. "I still don't know what exactly it is you can do with a stopwatch."
"Most of us think that Ianto and Jack are into kink," explains Justin.
"Of course they are." Emmett joins in. "Ianto's suits and Jack's military coat? Not to mention something Martha says in the next episode-"
"Hey!" Hunter shouts. "Gwen's about to be blown up."
A row of heads swivel back towards the screen. But barely a few seconds have passed when Brian can't resist exclaiming, "Is poodle some kind of British slang for-"
"No," Michael answers distractedly. "He does mean, you know, a poodle. As in, dog."
The end comes far quicker than Brian had anticipated. It doesn't feel like 40 minutes have passed. He sits back, face thoughtful, as there's a general shifting of bodies around the room, the exchanging of bottles and bowls, the traditional excavation for the remote control. He finally notices that Justin is looking at him, upper teeth worrying lower lip. "What did you think?"
Justin asks it in a normal voice, and there are conversations taking place all around them, but Brian gets the impression that everyone's holding their breath, or at least listening in.
"It's... quirky. And funny. And the guys are hot."
Justin nods, eyes flickering towards the screen, but the question mark remains on his face.
Brian sighs, jerks his head towards the TV. "Put the next one on."