|Michael/Tom fic: The Night They Got Locked In
||[Oct. 20th, 2009|07:34 pm]
Happy Birthday, lexalicious70 (who writes amazing Wellingbaum and sometimes even predicts it!) Here's a little birthday story for you!
Warning: RPS is not to everyone's taste. If it's not your thing, please skip this one :)
Disclaimer: No real people! Absolute make-believe from start to finish!
Plot: Michael and Tom spend a night at the studio.
It's been a long day. Michael's exhaustion is making him silly and of course Tom plays along.
"Guys," pleads the director. Michael chokes back a giggle.
Their next take is perfect and the crew gives them a scattered round of applause. It's a relief to leave the stuffy barn set and walk into crisp fall air. Michael pinches Tom's ass, then gets chased to his trailer.
"I let you catch me," he informs Tom, from the depths of a headlock.
"Sure you did," says Tom.
Michael carefully takes off his Lex suit – he has to wear it in another scene tomorrow – pulls on his jeans and runs a washcloth across his face. He's quick, but Tom is already pounding at his door.
They play-fight and laugh their way to the parking lot. The crew has closed down the set. People are dispersing to their cars. Michael follows Tom; he's getting a lift home with him tonight.
Tom digs into his jacket pocket.
"Shit….I left my keys."
Michael fakes a heavy sigh:
"Okay…. I’ll come back with you."
"Oh yeah, big sacrifice," says Tom. "You're a true giver."
He grabs the Rangers cap from Michael's head and runs off with it.
Michael gives chase and catches Tom on the trailer steps, grabbing him round the middle.
"Oof," says Tom. "Very unprofessional."
"Just find your damn keys. Good Lord…"
But this proves harder than expected. Tom likes to read and there are newspapers, books and scripts layered over every available surface.
"You're such a pack-rat," says Michael. "Amazing."
"Here they are," says Tom, rising up from the foot of the couch.
When they step out of the trailer, everything seems transformed. The studio is silent and dark; all the lights are off, except for the emergency exit signs.
"Oh," says Tom. "You don't think…"
They run to the gate and find it barred and padlocked. Michael gives the chain a tug.
"Can't believe they locked us in. Dude, your car is still right there in the lot!"
Tom shakes his head:
"The guard must have thought you and I were already in the car, about to leave."
"Incredible," says Michael. "So what do we do? Do you have Security's number in your phone? Or we could call up Beeman at home and wail on him."
Tom laughs; the laugh turns into a yawn.
"What time is it?"
Michael checks his phone.
"Aw man, it’s late. Nearly eleven-thirty."
"What time's your call tomorrow?"
"Six," says Michael. The thought depresses him.
"Then let's just sleep here," says Tom. "By the time we get someone back to open the gate, listen to all the apologies and whatever, we won't be home for another hour."
"You're crazy," says Michael. "You're a crazy person."
He sees the flash of Tom's grin in the dark.
Michael throws his arms in the air.
"Alright, fuck it. We're sleeping here. But not in my trailer. A couple of the lighting guys were hanging out in there earlier and it smells like feet and Doritos."
"Sure, blame the crew."
Michael lightly punches Tom in the arm. They walk back to the trailers. Apart from the distant traffic hum, it's quiet. The stars are sharp little points in a navy sky; it’s cold enough for Michael to see his breath.
"This is a good premise for a horror movie," says Michael. "Trapped in the studio at night."
"So who's the killer, you or me?" says Tom.
"Neither," says Michael. "I'm the hero. You're the hero's buddy-"
"I'm the damsel in distress," says Tom.
"And the killer is totally unexpected. Like maybe Glover went all homicidal because they changed the dialogue three times in his scene today."
"That's typecasting," says Tom. "John always plays villains. It should be the least likely person."
"Annette with knitting needles in the conservatory?"
"I was thinking of that weird extra who was eating all the craft service Danishes today," says Tom. "He kept staring straight at the camera in the Talon scene. Greg was pissed."
"Okay, now you've scared me for real. I'm going to imagine a wild-eyed guy holding a pastry behind every dark corner."
"He could still be here," says Tom, earnestly. "What if he never left? What if he's hiding under your trailer, waiting-"
They stop at Michael's trailer for a toothbrush. Tom holds his nose and refuses to enter so Michael grabs his ass. Ass-grabbing is his standard retaliatory move with Tom. But it feels weird doing it when it’s just the two of them, with no crew to entertain, and Michael moves his hand away.
"Want to rehearse some lines before bed?" says Tom. Michael looks up to make sure he's joking.
"God, don't even….if I have to say one more "Clark?!" today.
"You'll say it in your sleep: "Clark." Snore. "Clark." Snore."
After the dark expanse of the empty lot, Tom's trailer seems cozy and warm.
"I don't have stuff to sleep in," says Michael.
"You can borrow sweats," says Tom, nodding at a shelf.
Michael gets changed in front of Tom all the time. They strip down in the wardrobe trailer just about every day, talking and joking all the while. So why does he have a blush rising to his cheeks now? Why does he look away as Tom is undressing?
Tom's sweatpants are long on Michael and bag at the knees. He pulls a t-shirt over his head and winces at the front.
"Red Sox? Ewww."
"You'll wear it and like it," says Tom, through a mouthful of toothpaste.
While Michael's in the bathroom, he can hear Tom calling his wife. Instructions about dogs and walks are being exchanged. When Michael comes out, Tom is sitting on the bed, sending a text.
"I'll take the couch," says Michael.
When Tom switches off the light, it’s really dark. There's no ambient light from outside, only the tiny green glow of Tom's phone charger. They might easily be in the middle of the woods instead of suburban Vancouver.
It's also cold. Michael has a wool blanket but there are goosebumps rising on his arms. He rolls over and curls into a ball.
"Are you cold?" says Tom.
"Me, too," says Tom. "Come here and bring the blanket. We'll consolidate the heat."
Michael sits up, then hesitates.
"What?" says Tom. "You pinch my ass all day long and suddenly you've discovered personal boundaries?"
That gets Michael moving. It’s suddenly imperative to bonk Tom on the head with a pillow. Tom strikes back, then grabs Michael round the waist and sweeps him onto the bed.
"Oh Clark, you’re so forceful!" says Michael, and then finds his mouth blocked with pillow. He's pressed against Tom, from thigh to shoulder. Tom's heart is thumping against his back.
"You warmer now?" says Tom, after a pause. He lets Michael go and drapes the blanket across them.
"No, I'm still cold," says Michael. He's not cold. But he wants to see what Tom will do.
This time, it’s Tom who hesitates. Michael waits, listens to the flick of Tom's eyelashes as he blinks.
"Come here, then," says Tom, and Michael rolls towards him.
They bump noses and Tom laughs. His breath is warm against Michael's cheek. Michael wriggles a hand between them and tickles Tom just above the waist. He knows all of Tom's ticklish spots.
"You sneak!" says Tom and grabs his hand. And then he's just holding Michael's hand. Michael doesn't move, afraid of breaking the moment.
Tom puts a hand on either side of Michael's face, framing him, and they stare at each other.
"People look different in the dark," says Michael.
Tom kisses him. It's a good kiss. Michael feels a little current surge through his body. He wraps an arm around Tom and pulls him closer. Tom grunts; he rubs his thumb against Michael's cheek. Michael throws a leg over Tom's leg to anchor them and Tom makes a small contented sound.
Michael doesn't want the kissing to stop, doesn't want reality to descend. He hugs Tom to him, feeling the warm skin under the cotton shirt, the soft tickle of his hair.
Tom says something into Michael's neck.
Tom pulls back, his eyes glitter in the dark.
"Are we taking this further?"
It's a very Tom thing to say. He's always organized, likes to have his ducks in a row.
"I'm game," says Michael. "If it's what you want."
He's breathing heavily. Tom smiles. His face is narrowed by shadow; his hair sticks up like ruffled fur.
"You look like a wolf in the dark," says Michael.
Tom chuckles, then growls. It sounds more like a big friendly dog than a wolf. He tugs Michael's t-shirt off in one quick motion, and then tosses his own t-shirt on the trailer floor. They crash into each other. Michael's nose bumps Tom's collar bone.
"You okay?" Tom pulls back. He looks solemn and so sexy that Michael has to pulls him down for more kissing. It's amazing to be skin to skin with Tom. And Tom's hands are busy, stroking Michael's back, his thighs, squeezing the cheeks of his ass. Michael arches his back and yelps. There's a snicker from Tom; Michael takes a little revenge by finding a Tom-nipple and tweaking it.
Tom likes that, so Michael does it again. Tom pushes him down on the bed.
Tom has pinned one of his hands but Michael uses the other one to tug at Tom's waist-band. He pauses, looks up at Tom straddling him.
"Let's get….side by side."
Michael has seen Tom's cock before and Tom has seen his. But now Tom's cock is in Michael's hand, warm and responsive. It's as beautiful as the rest of Tom. Michael strokes the tip with his finger and enjoys the little hiss that Tom makes.
"Move a little bit-" says Tom. There."
Michael shifts his hips and lets Tom tug down the front of his sweats. And then Tom's hand is wrapped round Michael's cock and Michael is holding Tom. It's hard to remember to move his hand while Tom is moving his. Michael just wants to thrust into Tom's hand and maybe bury his face in Tom's shoulder.
He adjusts the pressure of his hand, squeezing a little and Tom likes that, really likes it, rocking his hips towards Michael. The bed is shaking.
"Too much," says Tom, looking wild-eyed. "Tease. Can't stop."
That's…not a sentence," manages Michael, in between ragged breaths.
"Both in my hand," orders Tom. He puts a hand on Michael's ass and moves him forward. Their cocks are lined up in Tom's big palm. Tom closes his hand and-
Two kinds of friction. Tom's hand. Tom's cock. Michael is seeing stars with every movement and he's being loud, he knows it, but he just can't stop-
"Holy fuck. Tommy-"
His own hands are clutching Tom's shoulders; their eyes are locked together, breaths speeding up and synchronized. Tom grunts and ducks his head for a kiss and the combination of his lips, hand and cock sends Michael right over the edge and into a near black-out orgasm.
Tom comes too, with a shout. He flops across Michael's chest. They stay like that for a while, panting. Michael isn't capable of moving or, most unusually for him, talking.
Eventually, the bed creaks and a hand whisks across Michael's belly; Tom is cleaning them up.
"I really hope you’re using the Red Sox t-shirt for that," says Michael, without opening his eyes.
"Actually it’s your REO Speedwagon shirt."
Michael sits bolt upright and Tom laughs and throws a dirty towel toward his laundry pile.
"Yes, you did. Sneaky bastard."
Michael lies down again. Tom yawns and pulls him closer. Michael has been having trouble sleeping lately but tonight he can hardly keep his eyes open. He is warm, contented and enveloped by Tom. He falls asleep almost at once.
* * *
There's a noise outside the trailer. Michael awakes with a gasp.
"Shhhh," says Tom. "Stay here. I’ll go."
He pulls on his sweats and slips out the trailer door.
Michael moves into the warm spot Tom left, and listens to the sound of security guard apologies and Tom's reassurances. A few minutes later, Tom returns and slides back into bed.
"Security guard tried to commit seppuku?" asks Michael.
"Something like that."
"What time is it?"
"5:30," says Tom. "We have a few more minutes before the crew arrives. Go back to sleep."
He leans over and kisses Michael on the shoulder-blade.
* * * *
Wardrobe. Michael is waiting to be fitted by Steve for the next scene. Glover is there as well, trying on ties. Steve casts a critical eye over Michael.
"You were wearing this t-shirt yesterday."
"So? I like it," says Michael. "I wear it all the time."
"You were wearing those same jeans too."
"You keep track of my wardrobe?"
Steve turns to Glover:
"Same clothes two days running…That's often the sign of an interesting night, isn't it?"
"It is in my experience," says John gravely.
Michael glares at them:
"You want to check if I'm wearing the same underwear as well?"
"He's a little defensive," says Steve to John. "That's often the sign of something to hide."
"Or a successful evening," says John. "Did you have a successful evening, Michael?"
Michael thinks of Tom smiling at him in the dark, Tom's breath against his neck. It's his night, his and Tom's. He'll never tell.
"I sure did!" he says.