Crack Fic: When in Rome
Oct. 5th, 2008 04:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
peg22Title: When in Rome
RPS - DS/PMG with a side of the Fry . . .
So I have tons upon tons of real live homework to do, but the boys insist on showing up on odd Italian talk shows, swaggering and carrying roses in their teeth, flirting with everyone in sight, including and especially each other , so I asks ya . . . what's a girl to do???
I hope this answers the burning question: WTF? Italy? Seriously, Italy?
Lately there are so many more questions than answers with our boys . . . which is just brilliantly beautiful to me.
When In Rome
by Kaye
The ringing echoed around the cavern at the exact moment Paul turned the key in the lock to open the door. The door began to melt and, as he drifted back to consciousness, he cursed. Behind that door had been all the answers to all the questions of the universe and he hadn’t stood on that threshold in a very long time. Not since the last time Davey had . . .
He felt the bed move beside him, heard the muffled moan, and jolted up as the ring grew louder, more insistent. Even half awake, he knew Davey would never answer his own phone at this hour. He reached over him and scrabbled for the phone on the bedside table. He fell back on his pillow, flipped it open and took a breath, ready to unleash his frustration on whoever had the indecency to call them at seven a.m. on a Sunday morning.
“What the fuck do you fucking want?”
“My, my, my – could this really be my darling Paul Michael Starsky? Do my ears deceive me? What did you do – swallow Davey whole?”
“Wha . . . who is this?”
“Well, I appear to be the person who apparently called the wrong number at the right time. The old lion too tired to answer his own phone? Momentous occasion. I must ring the Times.”
“Stephen. Fuck off.”
“Yes, yes, all in due time – now, tell me if I’m wrong, but I had you prattling off with that bulbous blonde skirt from the telly – not cracking the chariot with the old flame. You two are sooo Greco-Roman.”
Paul sighed. He felt a headache creeping its way up his neck. “Davey is sleeping, Stephen. Because it’s seven in the morning.”
“Really? Then those must be the cathedral bells. Pealing madly I think. You and David Soul doing the wicked nasty in the shadow of the Vatican. Check the chimney I say.”
“I’m hanging up now, Stephen. Go bother Hugh. I’ll tell Davey you called-“
Davey took the phone and rolled onto his back. “Fry, why don’t you do what my partner here told you and fuck off. We’re on vacation.”
Paul watched as Davey’s eyes closed and then opened wide. “Don’t even kid about that, asshole. You have no idea about Paulie and me. You got it?”
Paul rubbed his eyes and sighed. This was all he needed – Davey pissed off at seven in the morning. He laid a hand on Davey’s chest. Davey switched the phone to his other ear and laid his hand on top of Paul’s, lacing his fingers, his eyes closed again, a smile starting.
“Oh yeah? Well, you fucking poofter, that’s rich. Talk about the pot calling the kettle . . . oh, yes you do. You’re just pissed because Hughie has forgotten all about you in his run at - what’s his name this time – ‘anyone but Stephen?’”
Paul chuckled. And winced as his hand was squeezed hard. And then Davey was holding the phone out to him.
“He wants another go at you. See if you can get him to call one of his dandies to send us some coffee. And a newspaper.” Davey set the phone on Paul’s chest and rolled over. “I’m going back to sleep – you wore me out.”
Paul picked up the phone, which was vibrating with Stephen’s loud laugh. “Stephen . . . shut up.”
“Oh lord above . . . okay, dokey Officer. Shutting up. But you must admit this is delicious. Delectable. A veritable smorgasbord of deviant delectables.”
“Stephen, cut the crap. If I swallowed Davey, then you seem to have deep throated the entire OED.”
Davey snorted and nudged Paul’s calf. “Be nice, or he’ll fly over here and ruin our vacation.”
Paul grimaced. “That’s all we need.”
He turned his attention back to the phone and the job of ending this conversation. They had another interview with another blonde Italian journalist at eleven. He still hadn’t figured out how Davey had lined up interviews – especially since neither one had anything to do with Italian TV in 20 years. Yet here they were, marching out the old horse and pony show, climbing in red striped Ferraris and sipping champagne between fake boobs and foreign verbs. And Davey had even managed to collect just enough appearance fees to fund this little “mini-break holiday,” he had dreamt up in a late night phone call after he’d watched Bridget Jones’ Diary . . .
“Come on, Paulie. I’m tired of coming in last with you. I want to go away. On a mini-break. For a few days, a fortnight, maybe-“
“Davey, no one calls it a fortnight anymore – what the hell are you drinking? And what the hell is a mini-break? You still remember you were born in the U.S., right?”
“You know what a mini-break is, I just told you – it’s that thing Bridget goes on with
Mark Darcy . . .”
“Well, as long as I don’t have to gain back 30lbs . . .”
“Is that a yes?”
“Oh hell, Davey – you’re going to bug the shit out of me until I say yes, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Did you say yes or did I say yes?”
“Davey, just go to bed and call me tomorrow with the awful details.”
“The only detail you need to know is that I’ll meet you in Rome on Thursday.”
“Well, then, email me the information – tomorrow, Davey. When you remember what a spectacularly bad idea this is.”
“Oh, you’ll be thanking me. I’ve got plans for you . . .”
“Yeah and if Hugh Grant shows up – you’re going to be on a permanent mini-break.”
“With you? Sounds perfect.”
Paulie put the phone back to his ear, where Stephen had never stopped.
“And I haven’t even gotten around to asking about the Maestro’s mighty stick. Not to mention that little cum catcher you have sprouting on the end of your chinny chin chin.”
“That’s disgusting – it’s for a role.”
“Oh, is that what you colonists call it now – a role? You know I could write you a little panto where you could actually use that Soul patch . . .”
“Seriously, Stephen. Davey and I are here for another three days and I for one would like them to be peaceful. Quiet. And just us.”
“Oh, unroll the knickers, gorgeous. I have no plans to interrupt your little, what? Honeymoon?”
“Mini-break. We’re on a mini-break.”
“Don’t tease me like that, Paul Bunyan Glaser. A mini-break? Really? Like all the ten and six birds on Oxford Street?”
“No, like, I haven’t see David in six months, we thought it’d be nice to see the Coliseum, toss a couple of coins in the fountain, see a show, mini-break. Now, do you really have guys on standby at every hotel in Europe?”
“Yes, of course. How do you think I know where you are? Giovanni called the minute you arrived. I’ll send him up the minute we’re done. I take it you’re still herbal tea and a bran muffin?”
“How much is it going to cost me?”
“Oh you suspicious, darling, boy. You know it’s a miracle I haven’t sunk my teeth into that angelic ass of yours yet. I’m getting soft in my old age. Can’t be said of your derrière though. I have to ask. Pilates? Yoga? Do tell. It’s still so scrumptious.”
“Stephen, I’m hanging up. You can call David on Friday. He’ll be in London. You can take him out for drinks and grill him for hours. Right now we need sleep, coffee, and the London Times. So if you can’t help us with any of those, I suggest you hang up and go find someone else to bother.
“But you’re so deliciously bother-worthy – you know you’re my very favorite Primetime Policemen Has-been Homos. Are you suggesting I ring up the likes of Wopat? Or Hasselhoff. I shudder at the very notion. I have standards . . . plus I hear Estrada’s been deported . . .”
Paul ran a hand through his hair. There was hardly any stopping Stephen Fry. But he had to try.
“Stephen, I know what you can do. Isn’t it like ten o’clock in L.A.? Call Hugh. Tell him you found us holed up in a hotel in Rome celebrating our honeymoon. Tell him Davey is singing at Mass this morning. Tell him I got him pregnant and we’re over here asking the Pope for special dispensation. I don’t care. Just call him. And leave us alone.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Perfect idea. I’ll ring up Hugh, steal him away from all the House nonsense, and we’ll meet you at the Coliseum tomorrow morning. Beside the statue of Caesar Augustus. He was an ass man as well . . .”
“Don’t you dare.”
“My dear boy. What is a mini-break without a little bacchanalian soirée? And I now consider it my responsibility to play tour guide to your Roman holiday. I’m a pro, you know. Just wrote a book all about America . . .”
Paul clicked the phone shut. He was tired of protesting. And he knew from experience that either Stephen was winding him up, or that he would see him peeking out from under a statue’s legs some time tomorrow. Nothing he could do about any of it. Stephen was a force unto himself.
David rolled over and pulled Paul towards him. “You get rid of him?”
Paul set the phone on the table and turned to David. “Maybe.”
“Should I be worried?” David burrowed his face in Paul’s shoulder. “Do we have time for a quickie?”
“No, don’t worry. I think he just loves to fuck with us.”
“He’d love to fuck us. That’s the problem. Had a crush on you since the old days.”
“Yeah, he’s got this thing for my ass.”
“And you love that.”
“I thought you were the one who loved it. I think he’s just bored. Hugh’s shooting House, you’re here with me. Robbie’s off wherever Robbie gets off too. Even Rickman’s busy. The man has no one to play with.”
“Yeah, boo fucking hoo. Is he sending us coffee? I could use some coffee.” David’s hand drifted under the covers.
“What are you doing . . . I thought you wanted coffee . . .”
“Oh, I do. But later. These mini-breaks don’t last forever . . . and neither do you, old man.”
“Who are you calling old man?” Paul tried to push David off his chest, but instead felt himself drawn again into the arms and the touch and the taste of the only man in the world who could convince him that Bridget Jones’ Diary was a good movie. A very good movie.
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Date: 2008-10-05 08:39 pm (UTC)OMG. Damn that Stephen, I wanted to reach through the phone and smack him, hard, in the balls, so he won't be tempted to use them on Paulie, lol.
Just hang up the freakin' phone. Put him on a block. And get back to the lovin', boys.
Three coins in the fountain. Make your wish. May it come true, boys. :)
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Date: 2008-10-05 08:40 pm (UTC)Thanks! :)
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Date: 2008-10-05 08:44 pm (UTC)That was great! I'm a grinnin' fool over here. What a lovely Sunday afternoon present! Thanks!
Great stuff
Date: 2008-10-06 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-06 02:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-06 02:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-06 03:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-06 07:47 pm (UTC)Okay, I feel less bad now. Because I have about three hours of schoolwork to do in the next two hours, and instead of doing any of it, I read this. And then, of course, reread it. Twice. *sighs* Gah, how you DO make me love the boys. And of course, I've been away, and so know nothing about anything that inspired this, and yet...somehow, that makes it better.
So, Stephen really is THAT bored, huh? Hmm...annoying for them, but amusing as hell for us. Though he actually managed to make me hate Paul's beard even more than I already did, which I hadn't actually know was possible...then again, he also gave me daydreams of just how much trouble the boys could get into in Italy. :-)
(And also? For once, I actually can pick out a fave line...well, sort of: “Tell him you found us holed up in a hotel in Rome celebrating our honeymoon. Tell him Davey is singing at Mass this morning. Tell him I got him pregnant and we’re over here asking the Pope for special dispensation. I don’t care. Just call him. And leave us alone.” Because it's evil. And wicked. And totally, completely them. *g*)
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Date: 2008-10-09 12:05 pm (UTC)Damn, this is good. And now I need more. Is there more RPS between these two? I think I've read two sorta RPS in zines, but that's it. Because it's not umm PC and all. But I think I'm becoming addicted.
Are there meetings to attend?
Thanks, Kaye, you rock!
ELaine