RPF, John & Scott [what? no. really!]
Jun. 9th, 2010 12:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluecastleTitle: "Anatomy of Two Phone Calls"
Characters: John Barrowman, Scott Gill
Rated: G for "Get out! I wrote RPF?"
a/n: I may not know all that much about them personally, but I know theater people. Hopefully I've melded the generic and the specific in all the right ways!
Summary: "Some people might consider phone calls cold and impersonal, but to Scott, they're often the best part of his day."
"Scott, they're not going to laugh."
"They will. You say that every time. And they always do."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You don't." John is clearly in one of his contrary moods.
"Do," Scott says patiently.
"Don't!"
"Are you five, John?"
"You know I'm more than that..." John purrs into the phone. And Scott smiles as he imagines John slumped down on a tatty sofa somewhere, head thrown back with frustration but still, as ever, unable to resist an innuendo. Rehearsals have not been going well. There'd been some last minute cast changes and John has been on edge for days. But Scott has always been able to make John smile. He can practically predict these long distance wibbles by now. Two days into choreography and it's "I'm too old for this shit!" and now, the day before the first preview it's the "this will be the first unfunny Panto in the history of all British theater" call.
Scott sighs, and jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he rolls up his shirt sleeves. This might take awhile. But while John burbles on in his ear some story about one of the chorus boys splitting his pants he knows that John knows that it will all work out in the end, but he still needs to hear it from Scott, and Scott has always liked the little thrill he gets from hearing John's warm laugh in his ear. Some people might consider phone calls cold and impersonal, but to Scott, they're often the best part of his day. This one might go on for a while, and he is very okay with that.
*********************************************************************************************
Scott imagines wrapping John in his arms, and basking in the post-show smell of him ... sweat, hair gel, and that expensive perfume John insists Zaza would wear. He knows if he was there he'd end up smeared in lipstick and face powder, and he'd make a show of complaining, but they both know he loves it, maybe a bit more than he should. But he'll be there at the weekend. For now, he's stuck at some investor's cocktail do, waiting rather impatiently for the phone in his pocket to ring.
When it does, he hands his drink to a nearby waiter, and slips out onto the balcony of the hotel suite to take the call. Before he can even say, "Hello" there is a shout in his ear.
"They loved us! I just got off stage. TWO curtain calls and I didn't think they were ever going to stop clapping!"
"They loved you."
"Well, I hope they ... I mean, well, that's..., but really it's such a terrific show, and...you know they just didn't stop laughing. Even that bit at the end of the first act that we weren't so sure about!"
"I told you you'd be great."
"I know, I KNOW, but just, you know, you never know..."
"Breathe, honey," Scott says into the phone, leaning on the balcony rail and looking out over the twinkling city lights in the vague direction of where John is. He does this sometimes, always so aware of where John is when he isn't at his side.
There is some muffled talking on the other end of the line, a stage manager or someone asking about the timing of some cue or another. He waits while John replies, content to listen to the sound of his voice as he waits for John to come back on the line.
He hears the thud of a door closing, and a clunk as the phone goes down on the dressing table.
"I'm putting you on speaker while I take this makeup off, okay?" John always asks, but he never waits for an answer.
"I wish I could be there," Scott tells him.
"You'll be bored."
"I'll love it," he says, and of course what he means is "I love you."
"I wish you were here," John says, uncharacteristically solemn for a moment.
"What's wrong?" Scott asks, knowing what's coming.
"I keep screwing up that bit at the top of the second act. I'm never going to get it."
"You will. I'm sure the audience didn't notice."
"Doesn't matter. I noticed."
"But you said they laughed."
"They did. Hey. They even liked that thing with the croissant. I never thought that would get a laugh."
"I can't wait to see it."
"You're not going to sit too near the stage, right?"
"You booked the seat."
"It's too distracting having you down front."
"After all these years, and you still can't keep your eyes off me?" Scott asks, waiting to see if John will take the bait.
"It's hands, honey, I can't keep my hands off you."
There is a pause in the conversation, and Scott imagines John staring into the mirror, maybe peeling those ridiculous fake eye lashes off or something.
"I miss you," he says finally. Because he does. Even though they're apart a lot, it's never easy to only have this voice over the phone, this tenuous point of connection.
"Me too," John says, "It's not really a show until you've seen it."
"Just a few days and I'll be there. I'll send you a ridiculously huge, totally tacky bunch of red roses. You'll love it."
Another pause and some muffled mumbling. Probably the wig this time. John always sticks the hairpins in his mouth before chucking them into their little plastic box.
"I love you," he says finally, not really caring if he gets an answer or not. Then he adds, "I'll call you when I get home. You can talk to the boys. They miss you."
"Of course they do. They love me," John says, finally focused back on the phone conversation.
"They love that you let them get up on the furniture," he replies in mock annoyance.
"Bitch, bitch. I thought you said you loved me."
Scott wishes he were there to kiss that pout off John's stupid face, but all he can do is laugh. And when he hears John join in the laughing he knows that everything will be fine.
"Call me later?"
"You got it."
"Bye, Scott," John says and the phone clicks off.
"See you soon, John," Scott says as he looks out across the twinkly skyline, before turning and going back inside.
Characters: John Barrowman, Scott Gill
Rated: G for "Get out! I wrote RPF?"
a/n: I may not know all that much about them personally, but I know theater people. Hopefully I've melded the generic and the specific in all the right ways!
Summary: "Some people might consider phone calls cold and impersonal, but to Scott, they're often the best part of his day."
"Scott, they're not going to laugh."
"They will. You say that every time. And they always do."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You don't." John is clearly in one of his contrary moods.
"Do," Scott says patiently.
"Don't!"
"Are you five, John?"
"You know I'm more than that..." John purrs into the phone. And Scott smiles as he imagines John slumped down on a tatty sofa somewhere, head thrown back with frustration but still, as ever, unable to resist an innuendo. Rehearsals have not been going well. There'd been some last minute cast changes and John has been on edge for days. But Scott has always been able to make John smile. He can practically predict these long distance wibbles by now. Two days into choreography and it's "I'm too old for this shit!" and now, the day before the first preview it's the "this will be the first unfunny Panto in the history of all British theater" call.
Scott sighs, and jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he rolls up his shirt sleeves. This might take awhile. But while John burbles on in his ear some story about one of the chorus boys splitting his pants he knows that John knows that it will all work out in the end, but he still needs to hear it from Scott, and Scott has always liked the little thrill he gets from hearing John's warm laugh in his ear. Some people might consider phone calls cold and impersonal, but to Scott, they're often the best part of his day. This one might go on for a while, and he is very okay with that.
*********************************************************************************************
Scott imagines wrapping John in his arms, and basking in the post-show smell of him ... sweat, hair gel, and that expensive perfume John insists Zaza would wear. He knows if he was there he'd end up smeared in lipstick and face powder, and he'd make a show of complaining, but they both know he loves it, maybe a bit more than he should. But he'll be there at the weekend. For now, he's stuck at some investor's cocktail do, waiting rather impatiently for the phone in his pocket to ring.
When it does, he hands his drink to a nearby waiter, and slips out onto the balcony of the hotel suite to take the call. Before he can even say, "Hello" there is a shout in his ear.
"They loved us! I just got off stage. TWO curtain calls and I didn't think they were ever going to stop clapping!"
"They loved you."
"Well, I hope they ... I mean, well, that's..., but really it's such a terrific show, and...you know they just didn't stop laughing. Even that bit at the end of the first act that we weren't so sure about!"
"I told you you'd be great."
"I know, I KNOW, but just, you know, you never know..."
"Breathe, honey," Scott says into the phone, leaning on the balcony rail and looking out over the twinkling city lights in the vague direction of where John is. He does this sometimes, always so aware of where John is when he isn't at his side.
There is some muffled talking on the other end of the line, a stage manager or someone asking about the timing of some cue or another. He waits while John replies, content to listen to the sound of his voice as he waits for John to come back on the line.
He hears the thud of a door closing, and a clunk as the phone goes down on the dressing table.
"I'm putting you on speaker while I take this makeup off, okay?" John always asks, but he never waits for an answer.
"I wish I could be there," Scott tells him.
"You'll be bored."
"I'll love it," he says, and of course what he means is "I love you."
"I wish you were here," John says, uncharacteristically solemn for a moment.
"What's wrong?" Scott asks, knowing what's coming.
"I keep screwing up that bit at the top of the second act. I'm never going to get it."
"You will. I'm sure the audience didn't notice."
"Doesn't matter. I noticed."
"But you said they laughed."
"They did. Hey. They even liked that thing with the croissant. I never thought that would get a laugh."
"I can't wait to see it."
"You're not going to sit too near the stage, right?"
"You booked the seat."
"It's too distracting having you down front."
"After all these years, and you still can't keep your eyes off me?" Scott asks, waiting to see if John will take the bait.
"It's hands, honey, I can't keep my hands off you."
There is a pause in the conversation, and Scott imagines John staring into the mirror, maybe peeling those ridiculous fake eye lashes off or something.
"I miss you," he says finally. Because he does. Even though they're apart a lot, it's never easy to only have this voice over the phone, this tenuous point of connection.
"Me too," John says, "It's not really a show until you've seen it."
"Just a few days and I'll be there. I'll send you a ridiculously huge, totally tacky bunch of red roses. You'll love it."
Another pause and some muffled mumbling. Probably the wig this time. John always sticks the hairpins in his mouth before chucking them into their little plastic box.
"I love you," he says finally, not really caring if he gets an answer or not. Then he adds, "I'll call you when I get home. You can talk to the boys. They miss you."
"Of course they do. They love me," John says, finally focused back on the phone conversation.
"They love that you let them get up on the furniture," he replies in mock annoyance.
"Bitch, bitch. I thought you said you loved me."
Scott wishes he were there to kiss that pout off John's stupid face, but all he can do is laugh. And when he hears John join in the laughing he knows that everything will be fine.
"Call me later?"
"You got it."
"Bye, Scott," John says and the phone clicks off.
"See you soon, John," Scott says as he looks out across the twinkly skyline, before turning and going back inside.
