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merlinrpf2010-04-28 03:56 am
absenceofmind.livejournal.com) wrote in merlinrpf2010-04-28 03:56 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Inevitable, Bradley/Colin
Title: Inevitable
Pairing: Bradley/Colin
Rating: R
Warning: Not properly researched. Brought on by an overdose of Youtube. I can't be held responsible; I was driven to it by the ridiculousness of Bradley James.
Disclaimer: I own them not, for which they should be endlessly grateful.
Since we've got to France it's been especially bad.
"--by the architect Jean le Noir, whose English name would translate to something like 'Jack the Black'." The tour guide smiled broadly at this, and Angel laughed dutifully.
"He's a very beau garcon," he whispered at her when the group moved ahead to the next door in the courtyard.
"Oh do shut up," she said, but without venom. Angel was a good sport, it was one of the things he liked about her.
"It's the accent, isn't it. You've gone off Irish accents already in favor of French. 'Ar-shee-tect'."
She crossed her arms. "I only said that to make him feel more comfortable and you know it. Don't make me sound like I'm, I'm preying on infants."
"He's not actually a child, you know." It came out rather petulant, and she eyed him in a way that made him widen his eyes innocently at her.
"Bradley, be nice," she admonished.
"What? I plan to be very nice to him. In fact, the only way we're all going to survive being cooped up together for six months is if we all adore each other."
"Well, I adore Colin already."
"Oh really? Hey, guess what," he raised his voice, and Angel made frantic "shhh, shhh" motions at him.
"Bradley!"
They both darted looks at Colin, but he was oblivious, gazing up and around the broad space of the courtyard.
It was, Bradley could admit, rather stunning, as courtyards went. By far the most impressive set he'd ever been on, and Colin didn't even have the decency to be properly intimidated. He was smiling, almost grinning, and apparently so absorbed that he failed to notice the rest of the group disappearing up a stairway.
Bradley walked up behind him and said, slightly louder than was perhaps strictly necessary, "I think we're done with the courtyard."
Colin blinked and turned his head. "Oh. So we are," and walked off the rejoin the rest of the group. He even picked the right door, somewhat annoyingly.
"Thanks for not leaving me behind, Bradley," he called towards Colin's retreating back. "You're a good man, Bradley!"
"Very princely of you," Colin's mild brogue drifted back through the quiet, damp morning air.
"Princely--Was that a joke?" But there was no response, and then he suddenly realized that he was standing alone in the March sunshine, and scrambled to catch up.
They were in France, and filming would start tomorrow, and he was going to crack the nut that was Colin Morgan if it killed him.
***
It wasn't so much that Colin was unfriendly. Colin was friendly, and polite, and--and that was just it. He was friendly and polite, and he learned all his lines and went around being likeable and evidently, telling jokes to people. Other people.
"The entire crew practically simpers over him," he'd complained to Angel one day over their obligatory coffee, because neither of them were morning people and a shot of espresso was the bare minimum needed to look royal at six in the bloody morning. Apparently the camera crews had to be there even earlier; he pitied their lot.
"Are you saying you don't like him?" she mumbled, closing her eyes and inhaling the steam.
"What? No, of course I'm not saying that--that I don't like him."
"Good, because I wouldn't believe you."
"It's just that I don't quite get it. It's the Irish thing, isn't it. No one can resist the brogue."
"Yes, Bradley, you must be right. Everyone adores him because because he's from Ireland. Just like Katie, I might add."
Ignoring her long-suffering tone, he snapped his fingers and pointed to her. "It's because he's the title character."
"Bradley, have you considered the fact that even if we titled the show 'Arthur', no one would be doing any simpering?"
"You--you really are very, very badly named. You're not angelic at all, are you."
Sip, sip. "I do my best," but her eyes were smiling over the cup.
"But you love me," he declared. She did; in fact, she was possibly the only one who didn't seem to like Morgan better.
"A little bit."
"A lot."
"A very little bit."
"I bring you coffee," he pointed out.
"Well, you're good for something then, aren't you?" she said cheerfully. "You could always bring him coffee."
"He doesn't drink it."
She raised her eyebrows at him. It was especially effective, coming from under the rim of her black cap.
"What?"
"How do you know that?"
"Oh, well. Katie brought him a cup one day, and he just took it and thanked her but then he didn't really drink it. He left it there."
"Why would he do that?"
"How should I know? Maybe he's allergic to coffee, or maybe he's a morning person." Whatever the reason, he wasn't about to waste perfectly good caffeine on someone who couldn't appreciate it.
"Bradley, I know this is kind of a radical idea, but you could just get to know him yourself. Maybe then you'd figure out what's so, you know, charming about him."
He spread his arms in outrage. "You think I haven't tried! It's as if he's wary of me, or something."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you're complaining about him behind his back all the time, would it?"
"I don't know what you mean, I never talk about people behind their--" Just then, he caught sight of Colin ambling toward them, already dressed in his servant outfit.
"Make-up wants you to stop by," he said as he approached, jerking a thumb at the trailer.
"Right, thanks," Bradley said at the same time as Angel said, "Morning, Colin."
There was a slightly uncomfortable pause, and then Colin said, "Is it all it's cracked up to be?"
"Is what?"
"The coffee. French coffee."
"Oh yes, it's lovely," Angel said immediately. "Not as lovely as the wine, maybe. But nice, still."
"Expensive. But lovely," Bradley agreed. And then, struck by impulse, "I haven't touched mine yet, do you want to--" he made an indicative gesture with the hand not holding the cup.
"No thanks. I like mine with obscene amounts of cream and sugar."
"Aha," Bradley said, perhaps a bit too triumphantly. Colin looked at him strangely.
"I'll be going to make-up now," Bradley said, and fled.
Behind him, Colin said something to Angel that made her laugh.
In front of the mirror, he mouthed, "Note to self: stop talking about Colin behind his back."
"So, how did the first day go?" Lydia-from-Makeup bustled in, rubbing her hands together briskly. "Get the hang of sword-fighting yet, love?"
"It's only the second day of filming," he told her. "Progress is inevitable."
***
They were sitting down for lunch, having temporarily traded tunics for t-shirts because Noira-from-Costumes had threatened to kill them if she found any anachronistic condiment stains.
"Right, so we'd have a great big spot of blood instead of ketchup," Colin had deadpanned.
"I'd take you out of the costumes, then kill you," she replied, but her face was already softening into a smile. Typical, really.
"This bread is really superb," he noted. "I think I'm ruined for English sandwiches."
"Mmf," Colin agreed.
"Wonder if Katie will want all of hers."
"Pig," he heard somewhat indistinctly, and his heart warmed.
"What? Swinging a sword around is hard work, I'll have you know."
"You didn't do any fighting yet today," Colin swallowed and pointed out.
"Well, it's not my fault that you and Richard have spent the entire episode poking at gruesome dead people," biting into the sandwich.
He looked up when the silence grew a bit long, and was surprised to see Colin looking rather thoughtful.
"That scene, the one where I try to confess and you say I'm in love to pass it off as a joke--you always say it like you don't actually believe it."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you keep saying it like Arthur's just trying to convince your father, like he doesn't actually think I'm in love with Gwen."
He stopped chewing on the excellent sandwich long enough to think. It was a serious work question, and deserved a serious work answer. Which he, as an actor, was going to give. Because Colin was, if nothing else, quite intense about acting.
"I think," he put his sandwich down for extra emphasis, "I think Arthur doesn't much care if Merlin's in love, as long as his father believes it. That's why he tries to make it sound ridiculous. Because as long as Uther is laughing about it, he's not going to be angry, or suspicious. You can't hang a bloke you've been having a good laugh at, it's just not on."
Colin nibbled at the edge of his sandwich. "So you don't think Arthur necessarily believes it. That Merlin's just doing it for Gwen."
"Well, we're in a bit of trouble if I figure it out in the third episode, there's still ten more of the damn things to go."
"Couldn't it be, I dunno, tucked into his subconscious somewhere?" Colin chewed reflectively. "Mm, you're right. This bread is fine."
"I said so, didn't I?" he said. "What's it got in it, anyway."
"Some sort of half-hearted egg salad."
"Mm, this roast beef is lovely. Just lovely. I love the taste of tender dead cow. You're missing out, Morgan."
"That was totally unnecessary." Colin rolled his eyes.
"No, no, I think it was needed," Bradley said, but absently.
He had an idea, a new plan for his campaign.
***
"Want to give it a bit of a read-through before tomorrow?" He brandished the script at Colin by way of explanation for knocking on his door at ten p.m.
Colin looked as if he would be confused if he dared. "Didn't we go over it then?"
"Right, but there were a few things I wanted to ask you about," and he gave Colin the most charming smile he could manage without looking smarmy.
"We don't actually do much talking in this episode, do we." It was a statement, made as Colin flipped through the pages of the script, sitting cross-legged on his bed.
"Well, not to each other, not exactly. But that wasn't my point." He stretched his arms over his head and left them against the headboard, slumping into Colin's pillows. They were softer than his, he was prepared to swear.
"Well?" Colin's mouth was quirked in a small smile, shadowed by a faint black stubble. It was surprising how much older it made him look, that bit of stubble. Evidently he shaved in the mornings.
"Well what?"
"Well, what was your point then in barging in here then?"
"Can't a man barge into his cast-mate's room and ask a few simple questions without getting grilled like a person with really malicious intent?" He was scrambling a bit mentally, and Colin's smile was threatening to become a grin.
"All right, ask away." Colin spread his arms.
"So, what do you think about the importance of professional bonding?"
"Excuse me?"
"Do you think that it's very important that our cast and crew get along?"
"Of course I do, but what're you getting at--"
"Good," he interrupted. "Because there's this apparently fantastic little pub that Anthony's found, only about four blocks away from here," and for a second he thought that Colin was going to shake his head, but he ploughed on. "I think you should come out with us, you know, see if the French know anything about beer."
"I--I dunno, it's kind of late, I wasn't really planning--"
"I bet they're absolutely rubbish at it. French for wines, German for beers, right?"
Colin hesitated, and Bradley held his breath.
"I'll have you know that it's French for wines, Irish for beers," he said, and Bradley exhaled, laughed.
"Bradley," Angel's shout came down the corridor, "Have you got him yet?"
"Yeah," he called back, and seized Colin's elbow in a tight, but friendly, grip. "Yeah, we're coming."
***
"Well done, Colin Morgan, there's nothing," shaking his finger, "Nothing like a pint to break the ice."
"Didn't we already break the ice?"
"But! We didn't break it yet in France," accompanied by finger-waggling, and Colin laughed. An actual, out-loud laugh like the kind Bradley sometimes heard from halfway across the set.
He grinned, and took a swig.
***
"Another question about scripts, is it?" Colin said patiently. He was already in his pajamas, long blue flannel pants thoroughly faded from countless washings.
"No. No, actually, I wanted to show you something."
Colin was already moving back from the door, asking, "How did you know I was still up?"
"I could hear you in the shower. I mean, not that I was listening to you," and watched the tips of Colin's ears go scarlet with a sense of doom. "It's a bloody old hotel though, and the faucets squeak like anything, bet you anything you can hear them in Angel's room. Not that I listen to her showering, either."
"Right, well," Colin said, looking nonplussed. Bradley clearly couldn't blame him. "What was it you wanted to show me?"
"This." He handed Colin the video camera. "I had a bit of time in the afternoon and went exploring. It's a brilliant castle, really, and we don't get to use much of it. Here," he leaned over, "Just press play."
He winced a little at the rambling monologue. There was a lot of it; it had taken a mind-boggling number of flights to reach the top. But Colin's head stayed bent over the small playback screen, watching intently. He chuckled at the line about the lift, and Bradley stopped listening to the tinny echo of his voice.
He nearly startled when Colin asked abruptly, "Where was I, when you were filming this?"
"Doing one of the scenes in the lab, I think. With Richard. View's pretty spectacular, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it really is."
Looking at Colin's profile, shadowed by the reading lamp, he cleared his throat. "Should take the girls next time. Angel's always complaining that she misses a good workout."
"We could do that," Colin said, and looked pleased.
Bradley thought, If I got that smile on camera, they'd go mad over him.
And thought, Why the hell not?
***
After that, it wasn't so hard. It was amazing, really, how many excuses there were for knocking on Colin's door. A truly ridiculous French movie, a question about the next day's filming, a whacking great spider in the bathtub. All of it dutifully recorded for posterity, and Colin's fanbase.
"You're shoving that thing in my face twenty times a day," Colin argued, "There's no way all the footage is making it onto the DVD."
"I'm doing it for our fans," he explained.
"Yeah, because our fans are going to want to see me eating a pizza. And stare up your nostrils."
"Oooh, he's got such dreamy lips," he mimicked in response, 'I'd give anything to, to be that slice of pizza."
Colin choked, and Bradley made sure to tape that bit too.
At night, sometimes, he went over the clips. He'd intended to delete the ones that weren't funny or interesting, but ultimately after several viewings he decided to let the directors make the cuts.
In the process of creating the ultimate backstage documentary, he made several interesting discoveries about Colin, such as the fact that it was his eyebrows that telegraphed when he was put out. And that when he was drunk, his accent got harder to understand. And that Colin really didn't enjoy interviews. And that he did enjoy strawberries, but thought Bradley was an idiot for paying so much for them.
("I feel obligated now to tell you they're the most amazing strawberries."
"Well, are they?"
"I'm not sure. Give me another one.")
The greatest discovery, however, was that Colin--serious, reserved, oh-he's-so-sweet Colin!--was as willing to indulge in a stupid prank as Bradley himself.
"And why is it always me?" Angel demanded, after being woken by a spirited rendition of "We are the Busby Boys," via hotel telephone.
She sounded grumpier than was her wont, and so both Bradley and Colin hung their heads in shame. It worked particularly well when Colin did it; he looked genuinely abashed.
"Because you're like our big sister, we love you and demonstrate our affection by trying to drive you maaaad."
"Because," Colin said slowly, "You seem less likely to kill us and hide the bodies in the woods."
"He means you're really sweet," Bradley whispered loudly.
She tried to glare at them a moment longer, but her wrath had slipped away and her mouth was twitching. "You're a bad influence on him, Bradley."
"I've no idea what you're talking about. I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him," he said loftily.
"I dunno what you're talking about, my life's not that sad," Colin informed him flatly.
Angel only looked at the two of them and then shook her finger, adopting a tone that wished it were menace.
"Bradley James, you are going to be so terribly sorry if you ever interrupt my sleep again."
"Wait, why is it all my fault?"
"It was his idea, wasn't it," she looked to Colin for confirmation. He shrugged.
She shook her head. "To think I ever wished that you would get along better."
"Who, Colin and me? We're practically best mates," Bradley said cheerily, at the same time that Colin replied, "Don't worry, I still think he's obnoxious."
"It's odd how he grows on you, though," Angel commented. "Like mould, almost."
Colin lifted his eyebrows and pouted his lips in thought, then nodded agreeably. "Does, doesn't he."
The mould in question was somewhat distracted by the spectacle of Colin pouting. Then-- "Wait, you thought I was obnoxious?" He turned to Colin abruptly.
"And that's my cue to go back to sleep," Angel said, slipping back into her room.
"A bit. Maybe. At first."
"But you don't think I'm obnoxious anymore, do you." He crossed his arms, and wished for the millionth time that he were two inches taller.
He also wished he sounded a bit less serious.
"Not so much," Colin allowed. "Not so much as I used to."
He clamped down on his outrage. "Well, good. Because our friendship is supposed to be the stuff of legends."
"Is it, now."
"Absolutely epic."
"Really. Bradley, you do know that," and here Colin hesitated a bit.
"Know what?" he asked, perhaps a bit too quickly.
"That," Colin seemed to be struggling to get the words out, "you're not really a prince," and here his straight face dissolved, "But it's all right. You can still be a prat, I promise."
"Oh, so I'm an obnoxious prat, I see."
"Not always," and the laughter faded into the small, secretive smile that he thought of as truly Colin's, so different from Merlin's guileless grin.
He let himself bask, just a little.
***
When he looked back and tried to figure out just where he'd bollocksed it all up, he generally went with the night of the staff party celebrating the deal for the second season.
The night started off well enough. It started off really nicely, even, with a satisfying dinner at Le Palais Gourmand, where the fare was surprisingly good for the prices offered.
"I think this is the first decent steak I've had since we got here," he observed, closing his eyes in bliss.
"That's a very unhealthy obsession you've got there," Colin noted. "We're in a land that's famous for its gourmet food and its local cuisines, and all you care about is finding a place that does a good 'bifteck'."
"You, sir, can keep your, your fruits and your fromages. Me, I will be over here, happily eating my dead cow." He stuck a piece in his mouth, and chewed happily. "Which is excellente. Superbe."
"Happily," Katie interrupted quickly, "We can all agree on wine. Let me top you up, Colin."
There was a good deal of topping up going on all around, and perhaps a bit more than there should have been. When the bill arrived, he let out a low whistle. "It's just as well the company's paying for this one," and handed it to Colin, whose eyes popped almost comically wide.
"Mother of Christ. How much would that work out to per person?"
"In pounds or in Euros?" He was aiming for sarcasm, but the words came out less than sharp. Possibly he'd had just a bit too much, going toast after toast with Anthony, but Colin looked far worse.
Positively glassy-eyed, he thought, and wished for his camera.
"Pounds, of course."
"I've just drunk half the wine in France and you want me to do maths? Bugger off, you, you...evil sorcerer."
"We all ought to be getting back to our rooms," observed Katie. "We're still filming tomorrow, after all. Better sleep it off," giving a friendly pat to Colin's head. It rolled beneath her touch.
"Time to get our title character home, I think."
"I'm fine," Colin shouted, and it sounded like "foine", which meant that Colin was quite drunk indeed. Sober Colin, Bradley also knew, did not shout.
"The bus is ready," someone else said, and they piled out the door.
The night air was cool and woke him up momentarily. Once on the bus, however, the heavy food and wine began to pull him down. They rumbled over a seemingly endless country road, and he woke with a start when Colin's head landed on his shoulder.
He left it there, sleepy enough that he couldn't be bothered to shove it off.
They stumbled off the bus in a bleary herd, even Richard looking a touch worn-out. Colin was a shambling mess of yawns and sleepy blinks, leaning against the panels of the lift as soon as they stepped in.
"Come on, Larry Lightweight, we're almost there."
"Feck off," Colin mumbled, but followed obediently.
He led Colin back to his room, and then watched in some amusement as Colin fumbled with the key.
"Here, let me," and reached around him. But Colin was apparently not only uncoordinated but also stubborn when shitfaced, and so a minor struggle ensued.
"Hey, you've got really strong wrists," he remarked somewhat breathlessly, in the aftermath of a hard-won victory.
"I know. They should let me have a go at the swordfighting bits sometimes. I bet I'd be brilliant."
"You'd be shite at it, that's precisely why I'm the princely hero and you get to talk to big green screens and mumble nonsense."
"I'd be brilliant," Colin repeated, and Bradley laughed.
"You, my young friend, are very, very drunk."
"I'm not that drunk. And I'm not that young, I hate it when you do that."
"Do what?" Colin's face was swaying slightly closer towards his, and it was very disconcerting.
"Talk to me like I'm, I'm just, I'm a year younger than you, and that's nothin'. I'm not an innocent."
"Hey, okay, not happy about being the youngest cast member, got it," he held up his hands to indicate that he came in peace, and then got on with fumbling the key into the lock.
"There, all set," he straightened with some relief, as the door finally swung open.
"Why are you always doin' that?"
"Opening...doors for you, you mean?" He began to wonder if perhaps he hadn't underestimated French wine. Maybe it really only kicked in after a few hours.
"Coming into my room! Filming me on your camera."
"I didn't think it bothered you, mate. I was just being friendly." His hands felt very cold, and it was somewhat difficult to breathe in the face of Colin's sudden indignation.
"It doesn't--it doesn't bother me. I like it. At first I thought you were takin' the piss out of me."
"I wasn't. I'm not," he protested swiftly.
"I know that. I just, I don't know. The other day I was looking through your camera, and I had this thought, 'It's all me.'"
"It's all...you?"
"Oh, there's bits of the others, and there's a lot of you, to be sure. But it's mostly me."
His throat was dry now. Colin was looking at him as if staring were perfectly acceptable behavior, along with...vague accusations. He licked his lips. "We're the co-stars, you know, people are going to want a lot of us."
"And that's why you do it. For the fans."
Colin's face was so close he could smell sour wine on his breath. "Well, since you asked," aiming for levity, "There's no denying that...there's something about you, Colin--"
He wasn't sure who moved first, but suddenly their mouths were pressed together, firm and unyielding. Colin's hands were flexing against his shoulders, he noted with a very small part of his mind.
"All right, inside," he said as they jerked apart, Colin's eyes startled wide, but without anger.
"This," he said as he walked them to the bed, Colin stumbling backwards and falling flat onto the sheets as his knees hit the side. "Is a really bad idea."
"We have those all the time," Colin murmured, and proceeded to shove his hands up Bradley's long-sleeve shirt.
"Fuck," he gasped, almost collapsing onto Colin's narrow chest. "Ok then, I guess we're just going to keep on."
Colin turned his head to the left, and Bradley gave in, mouthed gently along the rigid line of tendon down to his chest. He began unbuttoning Colin's shirt, then gave up and tugged up the hem until Colin's arms lifted obediently.
In the lamplight the sight of Colin, bare from the waist up, was almost too much. There was a riot in his chest. He felt unsure if he were actually awake. Maybe it was all one of those spectacularly embarrassing dreams you couldn't admit to having in the morning. "Colin, are you sure about this."
"Why are you still talking?" Colin asked in muzzy disbelief, and pulled him down.
If it was a dream, Bradley decided, he didn't fucking care. It felt fantastic, and he kissed his way down to the waist of Colin's faded jeans, brushed his knuckles across the fly. Felt Colin stiffen and whisper, "Yeah," the sound making his own cock twitch in his boxers.
Slowly now, he chanted in his head. Don't cock this one up.
So he forced himself to go slow, rolling Colin onto his side, kissing his shoulder blades and laying his hand flat against the smooth skin of his stomach.
He was sliding his hand down Colin's hip and wondering if it would be too much to place his stiffening dick in the crevice of Colin's arse when he heard a sound that made him stiffen in an entirely different way.
"Colin," he said quietly, and then a little louder. "Colin!"
Faint snore, again.
He lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling with the expression of a martyr. But gradually, it dawned on him that possibly, just possibly, he'd been saved.
He got up gingerly, and went to the door. Colin never stirred as he let himself out.
"You're an idiot," he said to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "A total, complete, moronic idiot. You're lucky he was so drunk he probably won't even remember what happened."
Then he took a shower and jerked off furiously, thinking of Colin's mouth falling open, his long white torso emerging from the shirt, the feel of curling around Colin, the barest touch of his hand against the bulge in Colin's jeans.
He didn't feel quite satisfied when he was done. And when he'd toweled off and lain down on his own bed in the dark, he didn't feel quite lucky either.
***
He went to breakfast the next day with the air of a philosopher approaching the scaffold, having spent the night envisioning the possible consequences.
He'd given them names, such as:
Recrimination
Recrimination w/Tears
Stout Denial
Stout Denial II
Amnesia
Electric Fence
Electric Chair
What's a Handjob Between Mates
etc etc.
He was holding out for Amnesia, although occasionally his imagination betrayed him and began to stray down the seductive path of "Mates." There were still at least three more months of filming left to go, and oh god, wouldn't it be nice to not go through the whole bloody getting-to-know-you-sorry-I-don't-speak-French ordeal every single time.
It was certainly best to avoid messing about with the cast altogether, he couldn't argue with that. Though a worldly would-be thesbian from the Lewis auditions had once told him, "If you're going to do it at all, pick a bloke, because he'll never admit to it afterwards."
Bradley remembered thinking at the time that it was highly likely the man was just rationalizing.
Of course, Colin wasn't particularly loose-lipped; he had a discreet personality and probably any amount of Catholic guilt. And it wasn't as if anyone would think twice about them spending time together; what with the going over lines and the occasional candid camera and the even more occasional pint in the evenings, Katie had already started flinging around the word "intertwined" with what he felt was a certain malicious glee.
They were both sensible blokes, weren't they? It wasn't as if they'd go around petting each other's necks and exchanging coy glances, after all. Really, it didn't have to change a thing.
"Oh god, I'm rationalizing," he mumbled into his cereal.
"Rationalizing what?"
He choked a little on his milk. "Morning. Morgan."
"Remind me next time we go out for a celebration that I hate French wine," Colin said without waiting for a reply, and plonked down his tray.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," Bradley said, because it was true.
Colin looked up from fiddling with his scrambled eggs, eyes full of bleary accusation. "You don't look the least bit hungover."
"That's because I'm not," he said, and stabbed into a sausage, eating it with every evidence of great appetite. He took a sour satisfaction in watching Colin flinch. "Some of us, not being infants, can actually hold our wine."
"They asked if I could do an English accent, they didn't ask if I could drink wine like a sponge." Colin lifted a forkful of eggs as if it weighed a kilo, then squeezed his eyes shut. "Why do they keep shouting?"
"Angel! Perfect timing!" Bradley stood up and waved his arms over his head, possibly with slightly more enthusiasm than the exercise really called for. "Over here!"
"'ll kick your fuck in," Colin mumbled from his elbow, where he'd buried his head. The other hand was clutching his hair.
"You, Morgan, couldn't kick over this chair. Coulby, come take a look at this."
Colin was evidently too dispirited to even lift his head in rejoinder, and thus missed Angel's look of genuine sympathy.
"Are you tormenting him, Bradley?"
She was holding a tray in one hand, which was all that prevented her from having her arms crossed, he knew.
"Tormenting him?" He lifted his eyebrows. "Don't think I need to, really."
"Go away and let me die," Colin murmured.
Bradley ignored him. "I'm not the one who decided to pass out when dead drunk like a, a," he stalled in search of a metaphor. "Like an idiot who...can't hold his wine," he concluded. The words were less scathing and quieter than he'd intended them to be, possibly because in the middle of them Colin had suddenly looked up at him.
He waited, but Colin was quiet. Then--
"As you love me, take these eggs away," his co-star said with a certain queasy urgency, and both Bradley and Angel reached for the tray.
"Trash can's that way, love," Angel said, steering him gently by the shoulders.
Bradley watched the two of them go, Colin shuffling along in Angel's wake, an unconscious parody of last night.
So. Amnesia, then.
He was rooted to his seat for a moment, struck absolutely motionless as if by a lightning flash of incandescent rage.
Then he let out a breath, and stared vacantly at his plate of greasy, cold sausages.
Really, it couldn't have worked out better. He was definitely, he decided, vastly relieved.
***
Janice-from-Makeup had taken one look at his deathly pallor and clucked her tongue. Colin had submitted to her ministrations with a look of misery that was almost pathetic enough to call for Bradley's sympathy.
Had Colin actually been spent any amount of time in front of a camera, he might even have deserved it.
The sky had been a dazzling blue over the battlements for over a week. But on the very day when Colin might have been judiciously been given hell for his unprofessional indiscretion, the morning's filming was cancelled due to a cloudburst.
Even the weather, he thought gloomily, was on Colin's side.
Costumes had hustled them out of their armor as quickly as possible ("It's made of metal! You don't want it to bloody rust, d'ye?") and packed them off to practice stunts. This, too, had ground to a halt when Bradley's foot had slipped on the training mat, resulting in a nasty wrench.
Consequently, he was sitting on the sidelines, glumly watching the extras engage in wrestling matches while waiting for Bridget to bring him an icepack.
An icepack thumped to the ground beside him, and he prepared to look up and smile. He got as far as looking up.
"Hey." Colin was shading his eyes, although the day remained grey.
"I thought you were lying down," he said, and then wanted to kick himself.
"I was. I was on a cot in the Infirmary, and then Bridget came in and said she needed an icepack for your foot."
"Oh. Yeah, well," he gestured at it. "It'll be fine, bit of a twist. Nothing to cry about."
Colin's fingers were splayed across the front of his legs, one thumb hooked in a trouser pocket. "They said to prop it up, didn't they?"
"I'm sure it'll be fine," mulishly.
"No sense in turning a wee sprain into a worse one."
"Well, go find something for me to prop it up on, then." He felt a bit of a wanker even as he was saying the words, and then a lot more like one as Colin's head swung slightly ponderously on his neck, casting about for something useful. "Hey, no, never mind. It's okay."
But Colin was already pulling off his worn black hoodie, balling it up.
"Put it back on, don't be daft. You'll catch a cold. If you get sick, I'll never hear the end of it."
"It's not cold." Colin ignored him in favor of shoving the sweatshirt under his foot.
"That would be a lot more convincing if your face had any colour in it." He removed it and threw it back.
Colin fell into a crouch on his heels. "You're angry."
"What?"
"You're angry with me. Or something. You're being weird."
He had to look up, finally. "What do you mean?" It lacked conviction, even to his own ears.
"Last night, is it?" Colin was managing to hold still and look at him directly, which was blatantly unfair.
"I don't know what you're on about," he said in a voice so carefully casual that it was a dead giveaway. Mentally, he held a hand to his face. Physically, he held very still, because Colin was still peering at him intently.
"Did I...was I an arse, or a nuisance. Because if I was, I promise you, I'm being punished for it."
He wasn't sure exactly what it was--the slight hesitation in the veiled apology, the forlorn black heap between them, or the growing conviction that he was being either a giant git or a giant girl about the whole thing.
He sat up a little straighter. "A nuisance--of course you were a bloody nuisance, you nearly threw up on my only pair of dress shoes." It wasn't as hard to smile as he'd feared.
Sometimes it was alarmingly easy to smile at Colin.
"Did I?" Colin bowed his head in what looked like abject shame, then lifted it with a grin. "Hope they were expensive."
"Why, you--" Bradley seized the sweatshirt and tried to stuff it back over Colin's head.
Colin toppled over, laughing, and Bradley lunged to his knees, doing his very best to strangle that long, skinny neck with the limp fabric. They tussled until he accidentally leaned back, putting weight on his injured ankle.
The subsequent profane howl brought the wrath of Andreas down on both their heads, and by the time Bridget bustled over to pour forth her matronly ire, they were united in sheepish chagrin.
"Sorry," Colin mouthed at him as he was led away by a still-clucking Bridget, and pointed down at Bradley's feet.
Bradley managed a smirk.
Yeah, all right. He could do this.
***
"Ok, cut! Next scene, we're back in the castle, got to catch all that lovely slanting light. So Bradley, go get out of your armor and into your court gear."
He took the armful of tunic and cape that Jeannine threw at him. Around a mouthful of pins and a harassed expression, she asked, "Want help?"
There remained a few battalions out of the army of undressed extras, so he shook his head. "I've got this one," and headed back to the trailer.
To his surprise, he heard a muffled yelp as he opened the door.
"Colin? What the hell're you doing in here?"
His co-star ignored him, shrugging into his jacket. "Mine's been taken over by Props. They're trying to blow dry something, I think. They told me to find another space. Actually, Liane said to 'Go fumble your breeches on elsewhere.'"
"And you came here?" He tried very hard not to imagine what he might have seen, if only he'd been a bit faster walking off the set.
"I thought you wouldn't be done yet. And it was closest."
He threw the cape and tunic over a chair. "Well, since you're here, mind helping me lift this thing off? I hate to think of what Janice will do to me if I break another plate off."
"Hang on, almost done." Colin was tugging on his boots, one finger hooked between his sock and the soft brown leather. "Wish they'd invented zippers back then, feels like I'm wearing a set of bags."
"At least they're soft bags, and not made of metal. Also, zippers are anachronistic."
"Yeah, because great big talking dragons are so historically accurate." The second boot was on, and Colin took the two steps necessary to reach out for his hauberk.
He raised his arms obediently, and tried not to hold his breath. "I could get used to having a manservant," he joked.
The armor stopped moving just as the metal collar passed over his face, and he waited for a moment, arms awkwardly suspended in the air.
"What, did it get caught?" He started to wriggle out of the armor from below, when he felt Colin move in closer.
And closer.
"What're you playing at?" He was backed up against the ledge of the counter, and Colin's legs were still bumping into his.
"Not really your manservant. Am I." The armor came off, and Colin's face was oddly close. "Not really your best mate either."
He tried to say lightly, "Script begs to differ." And, "Come off it, it was a joke." And, "Sorry, should learn to take the damn thing off myself."
Instead he said, "Right," and stood very still.
He had just enough time to think that Colin's eyes were very serious, and very close.
Then there was a vicious rapping and Jeannine's voice came through the door, "Are you changed yet, Bradley? Jules asked for a retake, and wanted to know if we could have you back."
She sounded a bit edgy, and Colin had taken a step away, so he called out, "Be right there." He held out a hand silently, and Colin stared at him, suddenly looking a bit lost.
"Can I have it back now?" He hadn't meant the words to come out as abruptly as they did.
"What? Oh--yeah." Colin shoved the hauberk at him.
"Thanks," he said, and not waiting to put it back on, fled.
Outside the trailer door, he stopped and took a deep breath. Jeannine was nowhere in sight, so he pursed his lips and opened the door again.
Sticking his head in, he saw that Colin hadn't moved. "Also, I wanted to state for the record that while we might not be best mates, I think you're not such a bad sort. On occasion. On rare occasion, I mean."
"Do you now."
He couldn't make out if Colin were angry, or disappointed, or simply bemused. He wasn't entirely surprised; things were obviously at a pretty pass when he had to borrow from his character's playbook for How to Deal with Emotional Attachment. "Yes. Definitely. And now I'm going, or Jules will have my hide."
He didn't move from the doorway, though, until he saw the corners of Colin's mouth lift with a helpless smile.
***
He opened the door to the trailer and Colin was standing there again. Only this time, he didn't offer any explanations.
Colin's hands were removing his armor, so smoothly that it seemed to simply disappear. When the chain-mail and shirt were both gone, he began tugging at Colin's jacket, his shirt. Being looser, it took no effort at all to lift them over his head.
He wasn't sure what it was about Colin's pale, skinny chest that inspired a wave of lust so strong it almost made him dizzy. There'd been blokes he'd liked before, of course, there'd been Roger, and his teammate Darren back in school, but it hadn't ever been like this.
And then he was pushing Colin back against the wardrobe, kissing his mouth and jaw and neck, biting his collarbone, hip grinding against his leg.
It felt fantastic, unbelievably good and Colin was panting beneath him, hands frantic and wandering, reaching down to grip his arse.
They were pressed together from knees to shoulders and he wanted even more. "Let me fuck you," he begged, all notions of dignity having clearly exited the room via the window. "You've no idea how badly I've wanted to. You've wanted it too, haven't you?"
Colin was saying something that he couldn't quite make it out. He strained closer, putting his ear to Colin's lips, but even though he could feel them writhing warm and wet, there was no sound.
"What?" he asked, "What?"
And then Colin was shouting at him, but he still couldn't hear a damned thing. It was so frustrating, not being able to make out the words, that he woke up still fuming.
The hotel room was pitch black, and the clock read only 4:22. He lay there until it read 4:30, breathing through his nose.
"That's...really not a good sign," he pointed out to the ceiling.
It looked back at him blankly.
"I'm totally fucked, aren't I."
***
He went through the next week in a mild fog of dread, but nothing untoward seemed to happen.
This was no doubt in part due to the fact that there was simply no time to sit around and let the sexual tension pool. Having wasted two days and a good deal of effort in hustling everything indoors or under tarps whenever things got grey, Production watched the barometer like a hawk. When the forecast was clear, they filmed outside as long as the light was right. The pace wasn't brutal, Jules insisted, merely brisk.
There wasn't any reason to go hang around Colin's room at night now, since sometimes he could hear Colin snoring through the door as early as 10:30. On a few occasions, he did the snoring himself. (He only faked it once, when he thought that someone might be standing just outside his room.)
It was a phase, he was fairly sure. It was a phase and it would pass; no doubt it was caused by their isolation, or a bit of unintentional method acting, or perhaps an early mid-life crisis.
He didn't think it was a budding sexual crisis. It didn't feel like one; he'd been through the smitten-by-blokes thing before. Better-looking blokes, even. This, too, would pass.
If only, he thought wistfully, it would pass somewhat faster.
"You seem tired lately," Angel said to him one day.
"Yeah?"
"Been taking care of yourself? Don't make us sic Bridget on you."
It was the realization that he was about to snap at her that made him think blankly, Dear God, I am tired.
"I'll be all right," he reassured her. "I just...It's the long hours, is all. Acting's hard work, you know."
"Yes, well, we can see it doesn't come to you naturally," she scoffed, but her heart didn't seem in it. "You aren't overdoing it, are you? You've been a bit out of sorts."
He looked at the slightly worried set of her mouth, and felt terrible. "I love this job, Angel," he said with as much honesty and warmth as he could muster. "I wouldn't trade this for anything."
"Even though it means I have to work with you lot," he added, when he felt she wasn't entirely convinced. "It's worth it, getting to be Prince Arthur."
"Rubbish," she said, but her eyes were crinkling. "You took the role so you could stalk Anthony."
"Hey, that was just a perk," he protested.
It wasn't always so bad, somewhat to his own surprise. They were all busy, and it wasn't exactly punishment, making small talk or fooling around. If Colin wondered where the video camera had gone, he never said.
Pretending there was nothing wrong in front of the others was cake, really, compared to pretending there was nothing wrong to himself. If he had to keep it up much longer, he decided, he would go mad.
Clearly, compromises were called for.
His looked something like this: In the daytime, he tried not to think of Colin as anything but a friend.
If he'd done well enough at it, at night he allowed himself to reach into his boxers and jerk off with sharp, short tugs to the thought of Colin's blue eyes looking up at him, while Colin's mouth sucked, hot and tight, at his prick.
It did seem a little counterproductive, he had to admit.
It was at times like these that he missed playing football. Nothing like working up a good sweat to help sublimate this sort of thing.
"A shame there isn't more fighting in every episode," he remarked to Liane.
"Like swinging your big sword around, do you? Typical," she scoffed.
"A workout like that's worth its weight in phallic jokes," he retorted, and meant it.
"Don't fret, love, there's nothing wrong with your physique. It's real heroic-like." She leered at him in a friendly fashion and he grinned back at her.
"If you needed rescuing, Liane, I'd be there in a heartbeat."
"If you ding that shield one more time fooling around with Gil in practice, you'll be the one needing rescuing." She sent him off with a swat to his bottom. (It startled him sometimes, how all the women in Props and Costumes seemed to treat him like a son. Presumably having to tape-measure someone's arse all the time took all the mystery out of it.)
"Grab Colin if you spot him; he said something about taking in his trousers," she instructed as he went out.
"Will do." It was his own fault, he reflected, for always knowing where Colin was.
"They need you in Stitches," he said when he ran across Colin, who was reading in a corner of the courtyard.
Colin looked up, then scrambled to his feet. "Right, Liane, was it?"
"Yeah, she said something about your trousers." He stood there, hands in pockets, examining Colin as casually as he could manage.
"I'll go find her," Colin said, and moved off, book under arm.
"Morgan," he couldn't help calling out.
"Yes?" The sound of Colin's feet halted.
"You should eat more," he said without turning around.
There was a pause, and then, "A body can only manage so much ratatouille."
"Should try the steak sometime, then." He risked a glance over his shoulder.
"You're a right bastard," Colin said comfortably, and left him standing there, smiling rather happily.
He knew he was being pathetic.
On the other hand, he was getting more sleep.
***
"Oh no. Oh, nononono." Colin was actually nudging backwards in his chair.
"Oh, yes. You've got to toast, it's for Richard's health!" Katie's eyes were beginning to take on a merciless glint he normally only saw when she was wearing loads of posh blue fabric and pretending to be psychic.
"His health is fine. No more French wine for me," Colin argued desperately.
"Leave that poor, innocent boy alone, McGrath, and come top us up over here," Richard called from the head of the table, but he sounded unusually mellowed and benign, whereas Katie's jaw was beginning to jut in an amiably determined fashion.
The poor innocent's cheeks were already flushed and he kept stealing glances, of all things, at Bradley. As if somehow Bradley had put her up to a vile scheme of intoxication, specifically with the intent to weaken his defenses against an assault on his honor.
(Possibly the last bit was projection.)
For a moment he wished he'd actually thought of that idea, or had the balls required to carry it out.
Another glance flicked his way, and he forced his eyes back down to his plate, stabbing a piece of tenderloin with deliberate attention. It wasn't his fault that Colin had decided to wear a black shirt tonight, he decided as he chewed. Dark colors did things to him, brought out the paleness of his skin and the contrast of his hair, sharpened the blue of his eyes. It was totally orthodox to admit that, a mere candid reflection on his co-star's good looks.
In retrospect, he thought muzzily, he probably should have had a go at the bread before starting on the toasts. Lunch had been half a sandwich, savaged between takes, and now his brain was floating in a happy wine-tinted sea.
Katie was leaning over his shoulder now, laughing at him, wine bottle still poised to pour. Her skin was even paler than his, her hair just as dark. Colin didn't look nearly as shy as he normally did, grinning at her with every assurance of charm.
Her long hair was brushing Colin's shoulder, but Colin didn't seem at all inclined to lean away.
What was it about Irish people and their ridiculous good looks anyway, he brooded. It shouldn't be allowed, all that dark hair and that really pale skin. The blue eyes were just over the top, really almost an affront.
Angel was talking in his ear.
He turned to her with an effort. "Say what?"
"I said, if you're done moping into your plate, Bradley, do you think you could fetch us the cake?"
"The cake? The cake. Right, I'm on it." It took amazing amounts of self-control not to lurch out of his chair, and he drew himself particularly straight, feeling a justifiable pride. One of their servers drew closer--she was pretty, he'd noted earlier--with an inquisitive smile.
"No--I'm coming back, I mean, I'm going out to get...un gateau."
Ah, she nodded silently, and lifted her brows, "Would you like some plates?" Charming accent.
"Yes. Very much. Merci beaucoup."
An even nicer smile, and he tried to remember how long it took them to get to the restaurant. Could be something there. Shame he didn't have a car. Bleeding shame that he wouldn't have bothered, probably, even if he'd had a car.
"Bradley!" Angel's finger was stabbing into his backside, and he caught a glimpse of Katie frowning at him meaningfully. Clearly the moment for singing was nearly at hand, and as of yet there was no cake.
"Going," and he went.
***
The rest of the evening hadn't been as long as he'd feared. Clearly no one had fancied the notion of spending the next day's tourney scene squinting into the sunlight with a hangover. To make it go even faster, he'd proposed toasts, six or seven of them, as quickly as he could think of ridiculous things to say.
He'd tried, he'd really tried.
Clearly he'd failed, because even before the quiet knock had sounded he knew exactly what he would see.
Except that what he saw, when he jerked the door open, was nothing at all.
"Hullo." Colin was leaning against the wall of the corridor, staring abstractedly at the room opposite.
Friendly, Bradley thought. Musn't sound coy or suggestive. Friendly. "Morgan. Can I help you with something."
Friendly apparently meant brusque, but Colin didn't seem to mind. "Oh," standing up easily, "Thought I'd come check up on you."
"Well, that's...that's a very kind thought. Thank you."
"Just returning the favor," and perfectly naturally, "I'll just come in for bit then," so naturally that Bradley found himself standing aside without thinking.
"Are you implying," his brain was fumbling for something to say, "that I'm so inebriated that I can't handle myself? Because I'm clearly sober, I mean, look at me, I've showered and all."
"Showered, have you? That's a good thing." Colin sat down on his bed, hunching forward. "Must've been fast, we've only just got back."
"Why's it a good thing," he said mechanically.
Colin looked at him then, a sort of sideways look he'd never seen before. There was a shade of hesitation, he thought, but it was gone when he tried to look more closely. "I liked your toast," was all his co-star said.
"There were multiple toasts."
"I was referring to the one about memories."
Making memories, right, something about making memories and magic--raising the cup pointedly towards their resident warlock--together.
"Well...thanks. I'm very touched that you approve of my ability to make toast. Toasts."
"Pretty sad sort of shape you'd be in if you couldn't make toast."
He laughed in a way that sounded a bit nervous even to himself, and cleared his throat. "So you came by to tell me you liked my toasts?"
"No, it was actually more the other thing."
"The other thing."
"The memories bit." Colin's eyes didn't look drunk. If anything he looked faintly alert, assessing Bradley from where he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his bony knees.
"Ah." He nodded, then reversed and started shaking his head. "No. I think you might have to explain that one."
"How much do you think I remember?" There was a note of genuine curiosity under the nonchalance.
Remember what, Bradley almost said. I don't know what you're talking about, he considered saying. Look, it's getting awfully late, think we could do this in the morning, he was still mulling over when Colin stood up abruptly.
"Forget it. I'm sorry, I dunno what I was thinking, coming over like this."
That was what did it. "Come on, it's not that, it's--look, what did you want me to say? You're incredibly attractive, fancy a shag?"
Colin pointed a finger at him. "I'm bisexual."
That was a bit of a stunner. "O--kay, that's a start."
"Also, I was once totally naked on stage. So for the love of Christ, would you stop treating me like I'm this ignorant Irish boy?"
"I wasn't, I just--look, it's a bit different this time." He was still reeling from "bisexual". "We work together, you don't want to do this. It'll be all weird and tense on set. And--Colin, you can't be serious. It's one thing to--" He stopped, unsure how to state delicately that it was one thing to admit to yourself that you thought shagging blokes was alright and another entirely to risk outing yourself to the British media by shagging your co-star.
"Look. I've thought about this. I really have. And I think, y'know, it's going to be really brilliant. Because," with the air of one making an extremely valid point, "We're co-stars."
"Because we're--it'll be brilliant if people find out we're shirt-lifters because we're co-stars? Are you or are you not dead drunk, because you're not making very much sense."
"No, they're not going to think about it because we're co-stars! And it's," scratching a forefinger at his temple thoughtfully, "Versimilitude. Life imitating art."
It was hard to restrain his eyes from rolling, but he managed. "You think no one is going to notice us staring at each other all the time because we pretend to be best friends for the show?"
"No," as if Bradley were an idiot child who needed careful explanations, "no one is going to notice because," finger wagging at Bradley, "No one's going to be staring. And if they do notice, they'll just think it's brilliant that we're getting so chummy, because everyone knows you didn't much care for me at the start."
"I didn't much--that's ridiculous." He crossed his arms. "I was perfectly nice to you. Always was."
Colin looked up at him, expression serious. "You tormented me."
"It was for your own good! You were so...you just moped around in corners, and everyone made such a fuss over you! I mean, it was a bit sickening." He stopped short and considered making a retraction, but Morgan merely folded his fingers together and grinned.
"You know, if that was your idea of making up to someone, you're really lucky I'm here at all."
"Why are you here at all," he found himself asking. But it was said softly, mostly to himself. It was a bit hard to adjust, after all that...he tried to find a word that didn't make him sound like a lovesick girl, and couldn't. But it was never smart to leap for the light at the end of any tunnel, no matter how long or dark it had been.
Colin kept staring at him with a slightly furrowed brow, as if he couldn't understand why Bradley was bothering to argue. He wasn't sure himself.
"Why look for an excuse? To tell the truth, I'm a wee bit keen on remembering the details this time around."
What was it that was making him feel so lightheaded, he wondered. Possibly that giddy sensation was merely a French wine redux. He clung to the remaining scraps of martyrdom, feeling a queer outrage at how easy Colin was making it all seem. "So you're telling me that all this time, all this time I've been agonizing over how to save you from my bizarre obsession, you've just been swanning around being..." He managed to stop the words "happily queer" and choked out, "interested?"
Bisexual, his brain echoed happily. He said it, he did.
"Well I don't say I enjoyed waking up that morning by myself. I mean, I didn't know what to think."
"Apparently you figured it out, though!"
"Well," Colin gave him a much more assessing glance this time, "Not if you just stand there all night, then, no."
And because he'd studied enough scripts to recognize a cue when he heard one, there was really nothing left but to tackle Colin into the bed.
He paused just one more time, narrowing his eyes while the bedside lamp shed soft shadows all over Colin's face. "You're sure you're sure about this?"
Colin looked up thoughtfully, sniffed. Quirked his lower lip in thought. "Yeah, I'm quite sure."
Which was just as well, because Bradley James was only human.
***
"So...tomorrow." What he meant by that was, Is it going to be Amnesia, or a Handjob Between Good Mates? He was coming down slowly through the haze of orgasm. It had been a good one, they'd taken their time and he was having trouble not sounding breathless. Forming complete sentences, that was also a bit hard.
"Figure that part out later."
He looked at Colin, who wasn't even trying not to sound breathless. "Okay. Yeah."
***
"I knew it," he said, in the short spaces when he came up for air. He kept his fist pumping slowly, though, so Colin wouldn't complain. "I knew it all along."
"Knew what? Oh--god--" Colin's heel kicked out, then dug into the sheets.
"Knew you couldn't possibly be as sweet as they all thought you were--Ow, go easy!"
Colin gasped, let go of Bradley's hair and threw a gangly arm over his face, which did nothing to make his gasped "Oh fuck me--" less audible.
"I am considering it," Bradley admitted, and kneaded his palm into Colin's arse for emphasis.
He paused to look up and admire the effect, then paused again to try and remember just how Colin had wrapped a warm pink tongue around the head of his cock earlier.
It was hard to think in the haze of post-orgasm, punctuated by the sharp hot notes of lust. Also, it had been a while since he'd sucked on anyone's cock and in his boneless state it was taking some effort to maintain even the lazy pace he was taking. Possibly that was why he was strangely unconcerned. It wouldn't be awkward, probably, at least not right away. He was reasonably sure about that.
After all, there was something terribly satisfying about surrendering to the inevitable.
"You're alright, Colin Morgan. I think I might just like you after all."
finis
A/N: I wrote the two halves almost a year apart, so I'm sorry if they sounded disjointed. Feel free to Britpick or concrit, and I hope it amused =)
Pairing: Bradley/Colin
Rating: R
Warning: Not properly researched. Brought on by an overdose of Youtube. I can't be held responsible; I was driven to it by the ridiculousness of Bradley James.
Disclaimer: I own them not, for which they should be endlessly grateful.
Since we've got to France it's been especially bad.
"--by the architect Jean le Noir, whose English name would translate to something like 'Jack the Black'." The tour guide smiled broadly at this, and Angel laughed dutifully.
"He's a very beau garcon," he whispered at her when the group moved ahead to the next door in the courtyard.
"Oh do shut up," she said, but without venom. Angel was a good sport, it was one of the things he liked about her.
"It's the accent, isn't it. You've gone off Irish accents already in favor of French. 'Ar-shee-tect'."
She crossed her arms. "I only said that to make him feel more comfortable and you know it. Don't make me sound like I'm, I'm preying on infants."
"He's not actually a child, you know." It came out rather petulant, and she eyed him in a way that made him widen his eyes innocently at her.
"Bradley, be nice," she admonished.
"What? I plan to be very nice to him. In fact, the only way we're all going to survive being cooped up together for six months is if we all adore each other."
"Well, I adore Colin already."
"Oh really? Hey, guess what," he raised his voice, and Angel made frantic "shhh, shhh" motions at him.
"Bradley!"
They both darted looks at Colin, but he was oblivious, gazing up and around the broad space of the courtyard.
It was, Bradley could admit, rather stunning, as courtyards went. By far the most impressive set he'd ever been on, and Colin didn't even have the decency to be properly intimidated. He was smiling, almost grinning, and apparently so absorbed that he failed to notice the rest of the group disappearing up a stairway.
Bradley walked up behind him and said, slightly louder than was perhaps strictly necessary, "I think we're done with the courtyard."
Colin blinked and turned his head. "Oh. So we are," and walked off the rejoin the rest of the group. He even picked the right door, somewhat annoyingly.
"Thanks for not leaving me behind, Bradley," he called towards Colin's retreating back. "You're a good man, Bradley!"
"Very princely of you," Colin's mild brogue drifted back through the quiet, damp morning air.
"Princely--Was that a joke?" But there was no response, and then he suddenly realized that he was standing alone in the March sunshine, and scrambled to catch up.
They were in France, and filming would start tomorrow, and he was going to crack the nut that was Colin Morgan if it killed him.
***
It wasn't so much that Colin was unfriendly. Colin was friendly, and polite, and--and that was just it. He was friendly and polite, and he learned all his lines and went around being likeable and evidently, telling jokes to people. Other people.
"The entire crew practically simpers over him," he'd complained to Angel one day over their obligatory coffee, because neither of them were morning people and a shot of espresso was the bare minimum needed to look royal at six in the bloody morning. Apparently the camera crews had to be there even earlier; he pitied their lot.
"Are you saying you don't like him?" she mumbled, closing her eyes and inhaling the steam.
"What? No, of course I'm not saying that--that I don't like him."
"Good, because I wouldn't believe you."
"It's just that I don't quite get it. It's the Irish thing, isn't it. No one can resist the brogue."
"Yes, Bradley, you must be right. Everyone adores him because because he's from Ireland. Just like Katie, I might add."
Ignoring her long-suffering tone, he snapped his fingers and pointed to her. "It's because he's the title character."
"Bradley, have you considered the fact that even if we titled the show 'Arthur', no one would be doing any simpering?"
"You--you really are very, very badly named. You're not angelic at all, are you."
Sip, sip. "I do my best," but her eyes were smiling over the cup.
"But you love me," he declared. She did; in fact, she was possibly the only one who didn't seem to like Morgan better.
"A little bit."
"A lot."
"A very little bit."
"I bring you coffee," he pointed out.
"Well, you're good for something then, aren't you?" she said cheerfully. "You could always bring him coffee."
"He doesn't drink it."
She raised her eyebrows at him. It was especially effective, coming from under the rim of her black cap.
"What?"
"How do you know that?"
"Oh, well. Katie brought him a cup one day, and he just took it and thanked her but then he didn't really drink it. He left it there."
"Why would he do that?"
"How should I know? Maybe he's allergic to coffee, or maybe he's a morning person." Whatever the reason, he wasn't about to waste perfectly good caffeine on someone who couldn't appreciate it.
"Bradley, I know this is kind of a radical idea, but you could just get to know him yourself. Maybe then you'd figure out what's so, you know, charming about him."
He spread his arms in outrage. "You think I haven't tried! It's as if he's wary of me, or something."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you're complaining about him behind his back all the time, would it?"
"I don't know what you mean, I never talk about people behind their--" Just then, he caught sight of Colin ambling toward them, already dressed in his servant outfit.
"Make-up wants you to stop by," he said as he approached, jerking a thumb at the trailer.
"Right, thanks," Bradley said at the same time as Angel said, "Morning, Colin."
There was a slightly uncomfortable pause, and then Colin said, "Is it all it's cracked up to be?"
"Is what?"
"The coffee. French coffee."
"Oh yes, it's lovely," Angel said immediately. "Not as lovely as the wine, maybe. But nice, still."
"Expensive. But lovely," Bradley agreed. And then, struck by impulse, "I haven't touched mine yet, do you want to--" he made an indicative gesture with the hand not holding the cup.
"No thanks. I like mine with obscene amounts of cream and sugar."
"Aha," Bradley said, perhaps a bit too triumphantly. Colin looked at him strangely.
"I'll be going to make-up now," Bradley said, and fled.
Behind him, Colin said something to Angel that made her laugh.
In front of the mirror, he mouthed, "Note to self: stop talking about Colin behind his back."
"So, how did the first day go?" Lydia-from-Makeup bustled in, rubbing her hands together briskly. "Get the hang of sword-fighting yet, love?"
"It's only the second day of filming," he told her. "Progress is inevitable."
***
They were sitting down for lunch, having temporarily traded tunics for t-shirts because Noira-from-Costumes had threatened to kill them if she found any anachronistic condiment stains.
"Right, so we'd have a great big spot of blood instead of ketchup," Colin had deadpanned.
"I'd take you out of the costumes, then kill you," she replied, but her face was already softening into a smile. Typical, really.
"This bread is really superb," he noted. "I think I'm ruined for English sandwiches."
"Mmf," Colin agreed.
"Wonder if Katie will want all of hers."
"Pig," he heard somewhat indistinctly, and his heart warmed.
"What? Swinging a sword around is hard work, I'll have you know."
"You didn't do any fighting yet today," Colin swallowed and pointed out.
"Well, it's not my fault that you and Richard have spent the entire episode poking at gruesome dead people," biting into the sandwich.
He looked up when the silence grew a bit long, and was surprised to see Colin looking rather thoughtful.
"That scene, the one where I try to confess and you say I'm in love to pass it off as a joke--you always say it like you don't actually believe it."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you keep saying it like Arthur's just trying to convince your father, like he doesn't actually think I'm in love with Gwen."
He stopped chewing on the excellent sandwich long enough to think. It was a serious work question, and deserved a serious work answer. Which he, as an actor, was going to give. Because Colin was, if nothing else, quite intense about acting.
"I think," he put his sandwich down for extra emphasis, "I think Arthur doesn't much care if Merlin's in love, as long as his father believes it. That's why he tries to make it sound ridiculous. Because as long as Uther is laughing about it, he's not going to be angry, or suspicious. You can't hang a bloke you've been having a good laugh at, it's just not on."
Colin nibbled at the edge of his sandwich. "So you don't think Arthur necessarily believes it. That Merlin's just doing it for Gwen."
"Well, we're in a bit of trouble if I figure it out in the third episode, there's still ten more of the damn things to go."
"Couldn't it be, I dunno, tucked into his subconscious somewhere?" Colin chewed reflectively. "Mm, you're right. This bread is fine."
"I said so, didn't I?" he said. "What's it got in it, anyway."
"Some sort of half-hearted egg salad."
"Mm, this roast beef is lovely. Just lovely. I love the taste of tender dead cow. You're missing out, Morgan."
"That was totally unnecessary." Colin rolled his eyes.
"No, no, I think it was needed," Bradley said, but absently.
He had an idea, a new plan for his campaign.
***
"Want to give it a bit of a read-through before tomorrow?" He brandished the script at Colin by way of explanation for knocking on his door at ten p.m.
Colin looked as if he would be confused if he dared. "Didn't we go over it then?"
"Right, but there were a few things I wanted to ask you about," and he gave Colin the most charming smile he could manage without looking smarmy.
"We don't actually do much talking in this episode, do we." It was a statement, made as Colin flipped through the pages of the script, sitting cross-legged on his bed.
"Well, not to each other, not exactly. But that wasn't my point." He stretched his arms over his head and left them against the headboard, slumping into Colin's pillows. They were softer than his, he was prepared to swear.
"Well?" Colin's mouth was quirked in a small smile, shadowed by a faint black stubble. It was surprising how much older it made him look, that bit of stubble. Evidently he shaved in the mornings.
"Well what?"
"Well, what was your point then in barging in here then?"
"Can't a man barge into his cast-mate's room and ask a few simple questions without getting grilled like a person with really malicious intent?" He was scrambling a bit mentally, and Colin's smile was threatening to become a grin.
"All right, ask away." Colin spread his arms.
"So, what do you think about the importance of professional bonding?"
"Excuse me?"
"Do you think that it's very important that our cast and crew get along?"
"Of course I do, but what're you getting at--"
"Good," he interrupted. "Because there's this apparently fantastic little pub that Anthony's found, only about four blocks away from here," and for a second he thought that Colin was going to shake his head, but he ploughed on. "I think you should come out with us, you know, see if the French know anything about beer."
"I--I dunno, it's kind of late, I wasn't really planning--"
"I bet they're absolutely rubbish at it. French for wines, German for beers, right?"
Colin hesitated, and Bradley held his breath.
"I'll have you know that it's French for wines, Irish for beers," he said, and Bradley exhaled, laughed.
"Bradley," Angel's shout came down the corridor, "Have you got him yet?"
"Yeah," he called back, and seized Colin's elbow in a tight, but friendly, grip. "Yeah, we're coming."
***
"Well done, Colin Morgan, there's nothing," shaking his finger, "Nothing like a pint to break the ice."
"Didn't we already break the ice?"
"But! We didn't break it yet in France," accompanied by finger-waggling, and Colin laughed. An actual, out-loud laugh like the kind Bradley sometimes heard from halfway across the set.
He grinned, and took a swig.
***
"Another question about scripts, is it?" Colin said patiently. He was already in his pajamas, long blue flannel pants thoroughly faded from countless washings.
"No. No, actually, I wanted to show you something."
Colin was already moving back from the door, asking, "How did you know I was still up?"
"I could hear you in the shower. I mean, not that I was listening to you," and watched the tips of Colin's ears go scarlet with a sense of doom. "It's a bloody old hotel though, and the faucets squeak like anything, bet you anything you can hear them in Angel's room. Not that I listen to her showering, either."
"Right, well," Colin said, looking nonplussed. Bradley clearly couldn't blame him. "What was it you wanted to show me?"
"This." He handed Colin the video camera. "I had a bit of time in the afternoon and went exploring. It's a brilliant castle, really, and we don't get to use much of it. Here," he leaned over, "Just press play."
He winced a little at the rambling monologue. There was a lot of it; it had taken a mind-boggling number of flights to reach the top. But Colin's head stayed bent over the small playback screen, watching intently. He chuckled at the line about the lift, and Bradley stopped listening to the tinny echo of his voice.
He nearly startled when Colin asked abruptly, "Where was I, when you were filming this?"
"Doing one of the scenes in the lab, I think. With Richard. View's pretty spectacular, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it really is."
Looking at Colin's profile, shadowed by the reading lamp, he cleared his throat. "Should take the girls next time. Angel's always complaining that she misses a good workout."
"We could do that," Colin said, and looked pleased.
Bradley thought, If I got that smile on camera, they'd go mad over him.
And thought, Why the hell not?
***
After that, it wasn't so hard. It was amazing, really, how many excuses there were for knocking on Colin's door. A truly ridiculous French movie, a question about the next day's filming, a whacking great spider in the bathtub. All of it dutifully recorded for posterity, and Colin's fanbase.
"You're shoving that thing in my face twenty times a day," Colin argued, "There's no way all the footage is making it onto the DVD."
"I'm doing it for our fans," he explained.
"Yeah, because our fans are going to want to see me eating a pizza. And stare up your nostrils."
"Oooh, he's got such dreamy lips," he mimicked in response, 'I'd give anything to, to be that slice of pizza."
Colin choked, and Bradley made sure to tape that bit too.
At night, sometimes, he went over the clips. He'd intended to delete the ones that weren't funny or interesting, but ultimately after several viewings he decided to let the directors make the cuts.
In the process of creating the ultimate backstage documentary, he made several interesting discoveries about Colin, such as the fact that it was his eyebrows that telegraphed when he was put out. And that when he was drunk, his accent got harder to understand. And that Colin really didn't enjoy interviews. And that he did enjoy strawberries, but thought Bradley was an idiot for paying so much for them.
("I feel obligated now to tell you they're the most amazing strawberries."
"Well, are they?"
"I'm not sure. Give me another one.")
The greatest discovery, however, was that Colin--serious, reserved, oh-he's-so-sweet Colin!--was as willing to indulge in a stupid prank as Bradley himself.
"And why is it always me?" Angel demanded, after being woken by a spirited rendition of "We are the Busby Boys," via hotel telephone.
She sounded grumpier than was her wont, and so both Bradley and Colin hung their heads in shame. It worked particularly well when Colin did it; he looked genuinely abashed.
"Because you're like our big sister, we love you and demonstrate our affection by trying to drive you maaaad."
"Because," Colin said slowly, "You seem less likely to kill us and hide the bodies in the woods."
"He means you're really sweet," Bradley whispered loudly.
She tried to glare at them a moment longer, but her wrath had slipped away and her mouth was twitching. "You're a bad influence on him, Bradley."
"I've no idea what you're talking about. I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him," he said loftily.
"I dunno what you're talking about, my life's not that sad," Colin informed him flatly.
Angel only looked at the two of them and then shook her finger, adopting a tone that wished it were menace.
"Bradley James, you are going to be so terribly sorry if you ever interrupt my sleep again."
"Wait, why is it all my fault?"
"It was his idea, wasn't it," she looked to Colin for confirmation. He shrugged.
She shook her head. "To think I ever wished that you would get along better."
"Who, Colin and me? We're practically best mates," Bradley said cheerily, at the same time that Colin replied, "Don't worry, I still think he's obnoxious."
"It's odd how he grows on you, though," Angel commented. "Like mould, almost."
Colin lifted his eyebrows and pouted his lips in thought, then nodded agreeably. "Does, doesn't he."
The mould in question was somewhat distracted by the spectacle of Colin pouting. Then-- "Wait, you thought I was obnoxious?" He turned to Colin abruptly.
"And that's my cue to go back to sleep," Angel said, slipping back into her room.
"A bit. Maybe. At first."
"But you don't think I'm obnoxious anymore, do you." He crossed his arms, and wished for the millionth time that he were two inches taller.
He also wished he sounded a bit less serious.
"Not so much," Colin allowed. "Not so much as I used to."
He clamped down on his outrage. "Well, good. Because our friendship is supposed to be the stuff of legends."
"Is it, now."
"Absolutely epic."
"Really. Bradley, you do know that," and here Colin hesitated a bit.
"Know what?" he asked, perhaps a bit too quickly.
"That," Colin seemed to be struggling to get the words out, "you're not really a prince," and here his straight face dissolved, "But it's all right. You can still be a prat, I promise."
"Oh, so I'm an obnoxious prat, I see."
"Not always," and the laughter faded into the small, secretive smile that he thought of as truly Colin's, so different from Merlin's guileless grin.
He let himself bask, just a little.
***
When he looked back and tried to figure out just where he'd bollocksed it all up, he generally went with the night of the staff party celebrating the deal for the second season.
The night started off well enough. It started off really nicely, even, with a satisfying dinner at Le Palais Gourmand, where the fare was surprisingly good for the prices offered.
"I think this is the first decent steak I've had since we got here," he observed, closing his eyes in bliss.
"That's a very unhealthy obsession you've got there," Colin noted. "We're in a land that's famous for its gourmet food and its local cuisines, and all you care about is finding a place that does a good 'bifteck'."
"You, sir, can keep your, your fruits and your fromages. Me, I will be over here, happily eating my dead cow." He stuck a piece in his mouth, and chewed happily. "Which is excellente. Superbe."
"Happily," Katie interrupted quickly, "We can all agree on wine. Let me top you up, Colin."
There was a good deal of topping up going on all around, and perhaps a bit more than there should have been. When the bill arrived, he let out a low whistle. "It's just as well the company's paying for this one," and handed it to Colin, whose eyes popped almost comically wide.
"Mother of Christ. How much would that work out to per person?"
"In pounds or in Euros?" He was aiming for sarcasm, but the words came out less than sharp. Possibly he'd had just a bit too much, going toast after toast with Anthony, but Colin looked far worse.
Positively glassy-eyed, he thought, and wished for his camera.
"Pounds, of course."
"I've just drunk half the wine in France and you want me to do maths? Bugger off, you, you...evil sorcerer."
"We all ought to be getting back to our rooms," observed Katie. "We're still filming tomorrow, after all. Better sleep it off," giving a friendly pat to Colin's head. It rolled beneath her touch.
"Time to get our title character home, I think."
"I'm fine," Colin shouted, and it sounded like "foine", which meant that Colin was quite drunk indeed. Sober Colin, Bradley also knew, did not shout.
"The bus is ready," someone else said, and they piled out the door.
The night air was cool and woke him up momentarily. Once on the bus, however, the heavy food and wine began to pull him down. They rumbled over a seemingly endless country road, and he woke with a start when Colin's head landed on his shoulder.
He left it there, sleepy enough that he couldn't be bothered to shove it off.
They stumbled off the bus in a bleary herd, even Richard looking a touch worn-out. Colin was a shambling mess of yawns and sleepy blinks, leaning against the panels of the lift as soon as they stepped in.
"Come on, Larry Lightweight, we're almost there."
"Feck off," Colin mumbled, but followed obediently.
He led Colin back to his room, and then watched in some amusement as Colin fumbled with the key.
"Here, let me," and reached around him. But Colin was apparently not only uncoordinated but also stubborn when shitfaced, and so a minor struggle ensued.
"Hey, you've got really strong wrists," he remarked somewhat breathlessly, in the aftermath of a hard-won victory.
"I know. They should let me have a go at the swordfighting bits sometimes. I bet I'd be brilliant."
"You'd be shite at it, that's precisely why I'm the princely hero and you get to talk to big green screens and mumble nonsense."
"I'd be brilliant," Colin repeated, and Bradley laughed.
"You, my young friend, are very, very drunk."
"I'm not that drunk. And I'm not that young, I hate it when you do that."
"Do what?" Colin's face was swaying slightly closer towards his, and it was very disconcerting.
"Talk to me like I'm, I'm just, I'm a year younger than you, and that's nothin'. I'm not an innocent."
"Hey, okay, not happy about being the youngest cast member, got it," he held up his hands to indicate that he came in peace, and then got on with fumbling the key into the lock.
"There, all set," he straightened with some relief, as the door finally swung open.
"Why are you always doin' that?"
"Opening...doors for you, you mean?" He began to wonder if perhaps he hadn't underestimated French wine. Maybe it really only kicked in after a few hours.
"Coming into my room! Filming me on your camera."
"I didn't think it bothered you, mate. I was just being friendly." His hands felt very cold, and it was somewhat difficult to breathe in the face of Colin's sudden indignation.
"It doesn't--it doesn't bother me. I like it. At first I thought you were takin' the piss out of me."
"I wasn't. I'm not," he protested swiftly.
"I know that. I just, I don't know. The other day I was looking through your camera, and I had this thought, 'It's all me.'"
"It's all...you?"
"Oh, there's bits of the others, and there's a lot of you, to be sure. But it's mostly me."
His throat was dry now. Colin was looking at him as if staring were perfectly acceptable behavior, along with...vague accusations. He licked his lips. "We're the co-stars, you know, people are going to want a lot of us."
"And that's why you do it. For the fans."
Colin's face was so close he could smell sour wine on his breath. "Well, since you asked," aiming for levity, "There's no denying that...there's something about you, Colin--"
He wasn't sure who moved first, but suddenly their mouths were pressed together, firm and unyielding. Colin's hands were flexing against his shoulders, he noted with a very small part of his mind.
"All right, inside," he said as they jerked apart, Colin's eyes startled wide, but without anger.
"This," he said as he walked them to the bed, Colin stumbling backwards and falling flat onto the sheets as his knees hit the side. "Is a really bad idea."
"We have those all the time," Colin murmured, and proceeded to shove his hands up Bradley's long-sleeve shirt.
"Fuck," he gasped, almost collapsing onto Colin's narrow chest. "Ok then, I guess we're just going to keep on."
Colin turned his head to the left, and Bradley gave in, mouthed gently along the rigid line of tendon down to his chest. He began unbuttoning Colin's shirt, then gave up and tugged up the hem until Colin's arms lifted obediently.
In the lamplight the sight of Colin, bare from the waist up, was almost too much. There was a riot in his chest. He felt unsure if he were actually awake. Maybe it was all one of those spectacularly embarrassing dreams you couldn't admit to having in the morning. "Colin, are you sure about this."
"Why are you still talking?" Colin asked in muzzy disbelief, and pulled him down.
If it was a dream, Bradley decided, he didn't fucking care. It felt fantastic, and he kissed his way down to the waist of Colin's faded jeans, brushed his knuckles across the fly. Felt Colin stiffen and whisper, "Yeah," the sound making his own cock twitch in his boxers.
Slowly now, he chanted in his head. Don't cock this one up.
So he forced himself to go slow, rolling Colin onto his side, kissing his shoulder blades and laying his hand flat against the smooth skin of his stomach.
He was sliding his hand down Colin's hip and wondering if it would be too much to place his stiffening dick in the crevice of Colin's arse when he heard a sound that made him stiffen in an entirely different way.
"Colin," he said quietly, and then a little louder. "Colin!"
Faint snore, again.
He lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling with the expression of a martyr. But gradually, it dawned on him that possibly, just possibly, he'd been saved.
He got up gingerly, and went to the door. Colin never stirred as he let himself out.
"You're an idiot," he said to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "A total, complete, moronic idiot. You're lucky he was so drunk he probably won't even remember what happened."
Then he took a shower and jerked off furiously, thinking of Colin's mouth falling open, his long white torso emerging from the shirt, the feel of curling around Colin, the barest touch of his hand against the bulge in Colin's jeans.
He didn't feel quite satisfied when he was done. And when he'd toweled off and lain down on his own bed in the dark, he didn't feel quite lucky either.
***
He went to breakfast the next day with the air of a philosopher approaching the scaffold, having spent the night envisioning the possible consequences.
He'd given them names, such as:
Recrimination
Recrimination w/Tears
Stout Denial
Stout Denial II
Amnesia
Electric Fence
Electric Chair
What's a Handjob Between Mates
etc etc.
He was holding out for Amnesia, although occasionally his imagination betrayed him and began to stray down the seductive path of "Mates." There were still at least three more months of filming left to go, and oh god, wouldn't it be nice to not go through the whole bloody getting-to-know-you-sorry-I-don't-speak-French ordeal every single time.
It was certainly best to avoid messing about with the cast altogether, he couldn't argue with that. Though a worldly would-be thesbian from the Lewis auditions had once told him, "If you're going to do it at all, pick a bloke, because he'll never admit to it afterwards."
Bradley remembered thinking at the time that it was highly likely the man was just rationalizing.
Of course, Colin wasn't particularly loose-lipped; he had a discreet personality and probably any amount of Catholic guilt. And it wasn't as if anyone would think twice about them spending time together; what with the going over lines and the occasional candid camera and the even more occasional pint in the evenings, Katie had already started flinging around the word "intertwined" with what he felt was a certain malicious glee.
They were both sensible blokes, weren't they? It wasn't as if they'd go around petting each other's necks and exchanging coy glances, after all. Really, it didn't have to change a thing.
"Oh god, I'm rationalizing," he mumbled into his cereal.
"Rationalizing what?"
He choked a little on his milk. "Morning. Morgan."
"Remind me next time we go out for a celebration that I hate French wine," Colin said without waiting for a reply, and plonked down his tray.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," Bradley said, because it was true.
Colin looked up from fiddling with his scrambled eggs, eyes full of bleary accusation. "You don't look the least bit hungover."
"That's because I'm not," he said, and stabbed into a sausage, eating it with every evidence of great appetite. He took a sour satisfaction in watching Colin flinch. "Some of us, not being infants, can actually hold our wine."
"They asked if I could do an English accent, they didn't ask if I could drink wine like a sponge." Colin lifted a forkful of eggs as if it weighed a kilo, then squeezed his eyes shut. "Why do they keep shouting?"
"Angel! Perfect timing!" Bradley stood up and waved his arms over his head, possibly with slightly more enthusiasm than the exercise really called for. "Over here!"
"'ll kick your fuck in," Colin mumbled from his elbow, where he'd buried his head. The other hand was clutching his hair.
"You, Morgan, couldn't kick over this chair. Coulby, come take a look at this."
Colin was evidently too dispirited to even lift his head in rejoinder, and thus missed Angel's look of genuine sympathy.
"Are you tormenting him, Bradley?"
She was holding a tray in one hand, which was all that prevented her from having her arms crossed, he knew.
"Tormenting him?" He lifted his eyebrows. "Don't think I need to, really."
"Go away and let me die," Colin murmured.
Bradley ignored him. "I'm not the one who decided to pass out when dead drunk like a, a," he stalled in search of a metaphor. "Like an idiot who...can't hold his wine," he concluded. The words were less scathing and quieter than he'd intended them to be, possibly because in the middle of them Colin had suddenly looked up at him.
He waited, but Colin was quiet. Then--
"As you love me, take these eggs away," his co-star said with a certain queasy urgency, and both Bradley and Angel reached for the tray.
"Trash can's that way, love," Angel said, steering him gently by the shoulders.
Bradley watched the two of them go, Colin shuffling along in Angel's wake, an unconscious parody of last night.
So. Amnesia, then.
He was rooted to his seat for a moment, struck absolutely motionless as if by a lightning flash of incandescent rage.
Then he let out a breath, and stared vacantly at his plate of greasy, cold sausages.
Really, it couldn't have worked out better. He was definitely, he decided, vastly relieved.
***
Janice-from-Makeup had taken one look at his deathly pallor and clucked her tongue. Colin had submitted to her ministrations with a look of misery that was almost pathetic enough to call for Bradley's sympathy.
Had Colin actually been spent any amount of time in front of a camera, he might even have deserved it.
The sky had been a dazzling blue over the battlements for over a week. But on the very day when Colin might have been judiciously been given hell for his unprofessional indiscretion, the morning's filming was cancelled due to a cloudburst.
Even the weather, he thought gloomily, was on Colin's side.
Costumes had hustled them out of their armor as quickly as possible ("It's made of metal! You don't want it to bloody rust, d'ye?") and packed them off to practice stunts. This, too, had ground to a halt when Bradley's foot had slipped on the training mat, resulting in a nasty wrench.
Consequently, he was sitting on the sidelines, glumly watching the extras engage in wrestling matches while waiting for Bridget to bring him an icepack.
An icepack thumped to the ground beside him, and he prepared to look up and smile. He got as far as looking up.
"Hey." Colin was shading his eyes, although the day remained grey.
"I thought you were lying down," he said, and then wanted to kick himself.
"I was. I was on a cot in the Infirmary, and then Bridget came in and said she needed an icepack for your foot."
"Oh. Yeah, well," he gestured at it. "It'll be fine, bit of a twist. Nothing to cry about."
Colin's fingers were splayed across the front of his legs, one thumb hooked in a trouser pocket. "They said to prop it up, didn't they?"
"I'm sure it'll be fine," mulishly.
"No sense in turning a wee sprain into a worse one."
"Well, go find something for me to prop it up on, then." He felt a bit of a wanker even as he was saying the words, and then a lot more like one as Colin's head swung slightly ponderously on his neck, casting about for something useful. "Hey, no, never mind. It's okay."
But Colin was already pulling off his worn black hoodie, balling it up.
"Put it back on, don't be daft. You'll catch a cold. If you get sick, I'll never hear the end of it."
"It's not cold." Colin ignored him in favor of shoving the sweatshirt under his foot.
"That would be a lot more convincing if your face had any colour in it." He removed it and threw it back.
Colin fell into a crouch on his heels. "You're angry."
"What?"
"You're angry with me. Or something. You're being weird."
He had to look up, finally. "What do you mean?" It lacked conviction, even to his own ears.
"Last night, is it?" Colin was managing to hold still and look at him directly, which was blatantly unfair.
"I don't know what you're on about," he said in a voice so carefully casual that it was a dead giveaway. Mentally, he held a hand to his face. Physically, he held very still, because Colin was still peering at him intently.
"Did I...was I an arse, or a nuisance. Because if I was, I promise you, I'm being punished for it."
He wasn't sure exactly what it was--the slight hesitation in the veiled apology, the forlorn black heap between them, or the growing conviction that he was being either a giant git or a giant girl about the whole thing.
He sat up a little straighter. "A nuisance--of course you were a bloody nuisance, you nearly threw up on my only pair of dress shoes." It wasn't as hard to smile as he'd feared.
Sometimes it was alarmingly easy to smile at Colin.
"Did I?" Colin bowed his head in what looked like abject shame, then lifted it with a grin. "Hope they were expensive."
"Why, you--" Bradley seized the sweatshirt and tried to stuff it back over Colin's head.
Colin toppled over, laughing, and Bradley lunged to his knees, doing his very best to strangle that long, skinny neck with the limp fabric. They tussled until he accidentally leaned back, putting weight on his injured ankle.
The subsequent profane howl brought the wrath of Andreas down on both their heads, and by the time Bridget bustled over to pour forth her matronly ire, they were united in sheepish chagrin.
"Sorry," Colin mouthed at him as he was led away by a still-clucking Bridget, and pointed down at Bradley's feet.
Bradley managed a smirk.
Yeah, all right. He could do this.
***
"Ok, cut! Next scene, we're back in the castle, got to catch all that lovely slanting light. So Bradley, go get out of your armor and into your court gear."
He took the armful of tunic and cape that Jeannine threw at him. Around a mouthful of pins and a harassed expression, she asked, "Want help?"
There remained a few battalions out of the army of undressed extras, so he shook his head. "I've got this one," and headed back to the trailer.
To his surprise, he heard a muffled yelp as he opened the door.
"Colin? What the hell're you doing in here?"
His co-star ignored him, shrugging into his jacket. "Mine's been taken over by Props. They're trying to blow dry something, I think. They told me to find another space. Actually, Liane said to 'Go fumble your breeches on elsewhere.'"
"And you came here?" He tried very hard not to imagine what he might have seen, if only he'd been a bit faster walking off the set.
"I thought you wouldn't be done yet. And it was closest."
He threw the cape and tunic over a chair. "Well, since you're here, mind helping me lift this thing off? I hate to think of what Janice will do to me if I break another plate off."
"Hang on, almost done." Colin was tugging on his boots, one finger hooked between his sock and the soft brown leather. "Wish they'd invented zippers back then, feels like I'm wearing a set of bags."
"At least they're soft bags, and not made of metal. Also, zippers are anachronistic."
"Yeah, because great big talking dragons are so historically accurate." The second boot was on, and Colin took the two steps necessary to reach out for his hauberk.
He raised his arms obediently, and tried not to hold his breath. "I could get used to having a manservant," he joked.
The armor stopped moving just as the metal collar passed over his face, and he waited for a moment, arms awkwardly suspended in the air.
"What, did it get caught?" He started to wriggle out of the armor from below, when he felt Colin move in closer.
And closer.
"What're you playing at?" He was backed up against the ledge of the counter, and Colin's legs were still bumping into his.
"Not really your manservant. Am I." The armor came off, and Colin's face was oddly close. "Not really your best mate either."
He tried to say lightly, "Script begs to differ." And, "Come off it, it was a joke." And, "Sorry, should learn to take the damn thing off myself."
Instead he said, "Right," and stood very still.
He had just enough time to think that Colin's eyes were very serious, and very close.
Then there was a vicious rapping and Jeannine's voice came through the door, "Are you changed yet, Bradley? Jules asked for a retake, and wanted to know if we could have you back."
She sounded a bit edgy, and Colin had taken a step away, so he called out, "Be right there." He held out a hand silently, and Colin stared at him, suddenly looking a bit lost.
"Can I have it back now?" He hadn't meant the words to come out as abruptly as they did.
"What? Oh--yeah." Colin shoved the hauberk at him.
"Thanks," he said, and not waiting to put it back on, fled.
Outside the trailer door, he stopped and took a deep breath. Jeannine was nowhere in sight, so he pursed his lips and opened the door again.
Sticking his head in, he saw that Colin hadn't moved. "Also, I wanted to state for the record that while we might not be best mates, I think you're not such a bad sort. On occasion. On rare occasion, I mean."
"Do you now."
He couldn't make out if Colin were angry, or disappointed, or simply bemused. He wasn't entirely surprised; things were obviously at a pretty pass when he had to borrow from his character's playbook for How to Deal with Emotional Attachment. "Yes. Definitely. And now I'm going, or Jules will have my hide."
He didn't move from the doorway, though, until he saw the corners of Colin's mouth lift with a helpless smile.
***
He opened the door to the trailer and Colin was standing there again. Only this time, he didn't offer any explanations.
Colin's hands were removing his armor, so smoothly that it seemed to simply disappear. When the chain-mail and shirt were both gone, he began tugging at Colin's jacket, his shirt. Being looser, it took no effort at all to lift them over his head.
He wasn't sure what it was about Colin's pale, skinny chest that inspired a wave of lust so strong it almost made him dizzy. There'd been blokes he'd liked before, of course, there'd been Roger, and his teammate Darren back in school, but it hadn't ever been like this.
And then he was pushing Colin back against the wardrobe, kissing his mouth and jaw and neck, biting his collarbone, hip grinding against his leg.
It felt fantastic, unbelievably good and Colin was panting beneath him, hands frantic and wandering, reaching down to grip his arse.
They were pressed together from knees to shoulders and he wanted even more. "Let me fuck you," he begged, all notions of dignity having clearly exited the room via the window. "You've no idea how badly I've wanted to. You've wanted it too, haven't you?"
Colin was saying something that he couldn't quite make it out. He strained closer, putting his ear to Colin's lips, but even though he could feel them writhing warm and wet, there was no sound.
"What?" he asked, "What?"
And then Colin was shouting at him, but he still couldn't hear a damned thing. It was so frustrating, not being able to make out the words, that he woke up still fuming.
The hotel room was pitch black, and the clock read only 4:22. He lay there until it read 4:30, breathing through his nose.
"That's...really not a good sign," he pointed out to the ceiling.
It looked back at him blankly.
"I'm totally fucked, aren't I."
***
He went through the next week in a mild fog of dread, but nothing untoward seemed to happen.
This was no doubt in part due to the fact that there was simply no time to sit around and let the sexual tension pool. Having wasted two days and a good deal of effort in hustling everything indoors or under tarps whenever things got grey, Production watched the barometer like a hawk. When the forecast was clear, they filmed outside as long as the light was right. The pace wasn't brutal, Jules insisted, merely brisk.
There wasn't any reason to go hang around Colin's room at night now, since sometimes he could hear Colin snoring through the door as early as 10:30. On a few occasions, he did the snoring himself. (He only faked it once, when he thought that someone might be standing just outside his room.)
It was a phase, he was fairly sure. It was a phase and it would pass; no doubt it was caused by their isolation, or a bit of unintentional method acting, or perhaps an early mid-life crisis.
He didn't think it was a budding sexual crisis. It didn't feel like one; he'd been through the smitten-by-blokes thing before. Better-looking blokes, even. This, too, would pass.
If only, he thought wistfully, it would pass somewhat faster.
"You seem tired lately," Angel said to him one day.
"Yeah?"
"Been taking care of yourself? Don't make us sic Bridget on you."
It was the realization that he was about to snap at her that made him think blankly, Dear God, I am tired.
"I'll be all right," he reassured her. "I just...It's the long hours, is all. Acting's hard work, you know."
"Yes, well, we can see it doesn't come to you naturally," she scoffed, but her heart didn't seem in it. "You aren't overdoing it, are you? You've been a bit out of sorts."
He looked at the slightly worried set of her mouth, and felt terrible. "I love this job, Angel," he said with as much honesty and warmth as he could muster. "I wouldn't trade this for anything."
"Even though it means I have to work with you lot," he added, when he felt she wasn't entirely convinced. "It's worth it, getting to be Prince Arthur."
"Rubbish," she said, but her eyes were crinkling. "You took the role so you could stalk Anthony."
"Hey, that was just a perk," he protested.
It wasn't always so bad, somewhat to his own surprise. They were all busy, and it wasn't exactly punishment, making small talk or fooling around. If Colin wondered where the video camera had gone, he never said.
Pretending there was nothing wrong in front of the others was cake, really, compared to pretending there was nothing wrong to himself. If he had to keep it up much longer, he decided, he would go mad.
Clearly, compromises were called for.
His looked something like this: In the daytime, he tried not to think of Colin as anything but a friend.
If he'd done well enough at it, at night he allowed himself to reach into his boxers and jerk off with sharp, short tugs to the thought of Colin's blue eyes looking up at him, while Colin's mouth sucked, hot and tight, at his prick.
It did seem a little counterproductive, he had to admit.
It was at times like these that he missed playing football. Nothing like working up a good sweat to help sublimate this sort of thing.
"A shame there isn't more fighting in every episode," he remarked to Liane.
"Like swinging your big sword around, do you? Typical," she scoffed.
"A workout like that's worth its weight in phallic jokes," he retorted, and meant it.
"Don't fret, love, there's nothing wrong with your physique. It's real heroic-like." She leered at him in a friendly fashion and he grinned back at her.
"If you needed rescuing, Liane, I'd be there in a heartbeat."
"If you ding that shield one more time fooling around with Gil in practice, you'll be the one needing rescuing." She sent him off with a swat to his bottom. (It startled him sometimes, how all the women in Props and Costumes seemed to treat him like a son. Presumably having to tape-measure someone's arse all the time took all the mystery out of it.)
"Grab Colin if you spot him; he said something about taking in his trousers," she instructed as he went out.
"Will do." It was his own fault, he reflected, for always knowing where Colin was.
"They need you in Stitches," he said when he ran across Colin, who was reading in a corner of the courtyard.
Colin looked up, then scrambled to his feet. "Right, Liane, was it?"
"Yeah, she said something about your trousers." He stood there, hands in pockets, examining Colin as casually as he could manage.
"I'll go find her," Colin said, and moved off, book under arm.
"Morgan," he couldn't help calling out.
"Yes?" The sound of Colin's feet halted.
"You should eat more," he said without turning around.
There was a pause, and then, "A body can only manage so much ratatouille."
"Should try the steak sometime, then." He risked a glance over his shoulder.
"You're a right bastard," Colin said comfortably, and left him standing there, smiling rather happily.
He knew he was being pathetic.
On the other hand, he was getting more sleep.
***
"Oh no. Oh, nononono." Colin was actually nudging backwards in his chair.
"Oh, yes. You've got to toast, it's for Richard's health!" Katie's eyes were beginning to take on a merciless glint he normally only saw when she was wearing loads of posh blue fabric and pretending to be psychic.
"His health is fine. No more French wine for me," Colin argued desperately.
"Leave that poor, innocent boy alone, McGrath, and come top us up over here," Richard called from the head of the table, but he sounded unusually mellowed and benign, whereas Katie's jaw was beginning to jut in an amiably determined fashion.
The poor innocent's cheeks were already flushed and he kept stealing glances, of all things, at Bradley. As if somehow Bradley had put her up to a vile scheme of intoxication, specifically with the intent to weaken his defenses against an assault on his honor.
(Possibly the last bit was projection.)
For a moment he wished he'd actually thought of that idea, or had the balls required to carry it out.
Another glance flicked his way, and he forced his eyes back down to his plate, stabbing a piece of tenderloin with deliberate attention. It wasn't his fault that Colin had decided to wear a black shirt tonight, he decided as he chewed. Dark colors did things to him, brought out the paleness of his skin and the contrast of his hair, sharpened the blue of his eyes. It was totally orthodox to admit that, a mere candid reflection on his co-star's good looks.
In retrospect, he thought muzzily, he probably should have had a go at the bread before starting on the toasts. Lunch had been half a sandwich, savaged between takes, and now his brain was floating in a happy wine-tinted sea.
Katie was leaning over his shoulder now, laughing at him, wine bottle still poised to pour. Her skin was even paler than his, her hair just as dark. Colin didn't look nearly as shy as he normally did, grinning at her with every assurance of charm.
Her long hair was brushing Colin's shoulder, but Colin didn't seem at all inclined to lean away.
What was it about Irish people and their ridiculous good looks anyway, he brooded. It shouldn't be allowed, all that dark hair and that really pale skin. The blue eyes were just over the top, really almost an affront.
Angel was talking in his ear.
He turned to her with an effort. "Say what?"
"I said, if you're done moping into your plate, Bradley, do you think you could fetch us the cake?"
"The cake? The cake. Right, I'm on it." It took amazing amounts of self-control not to lurch out of his chair, and he drew himself particularly straight, feeling a justifiable pride. One of their servers drew closer--she was pretty, he'd noted earlier--with an inquisitive smile.
"No--I'm coming back, I mean, I'm going out to get...un gateau."
Ah, she nodded silently, and lifted her brows, "Would you like some plates?" Charming accent.
"Yes. Very much. Merci beaucoup."
An even nicer smile, and he tried to remember how long it took them to get to the restaurant. Could be something there. Shame he didn't have a car. Bleeding shame that he wouldn't have bothered, probably, even if he'd had a car.
"Bradley!" Angel's finger was stabbing into his backside, and he caught a glimpse of Katie frowning at him meaningfully. Clearly the moment for singing was nearly at hand, and as of yet there was no cake.
"Going," and he went.
***
The rest of the evening hadn't been as long as he'd feared. Clearly no one had fancied the notion of spending the next day's tourney scene squinting into the sunlight with a hangover. To make it go even faster, he'd proposed toasts, six or seven of them, as quickly as he could think of ridiculous things to say.
He'd tried, he'd really tried.
Clearly he'd failed, because even before the quiet knock had sounded he knew exactly what he would see.
Except that what he saw, when he jerked the door open, was nothing at all.
"Hullo." Colin was leaning against the wall of the corridor, staring abstractedly at the room opposite.
Friendly, Bradley thought. Musn't sound coy or suggestive. Friendly. "Morgan. Can I help you with something."
Friendly apparently meant brusque, but Colin didn't seem to mind. "Oh," standing up easily, "Thought I'd come check up on you."
"Well, that's...that's a very kind thought. Thank you."
"Just returning the favor," and perfectly naturally, "I'll just come in for bit then," so naturally that Bradley found himself standing aside without thinking.
"Are you implying," his brain was fumbling for something to say, "that I'm so inebriated that I can't handle myself? Because I'm clearly sober, I mean, look at me, I've showered and all."
"Showered, have you? That's a good thing." Colin sat down on his bed, hunching forward. "Must've been fast, we've only just got back."
"Why's it a good thing," he said mechanically.
Colin looked at him then, a sort of sideways look he'd never seen before. There was a shade of hesitation, he thought, but it was gone when he tried to look more closely. "I liked your toast," was all his co-star said.
"There were multiple toasts."
"I was referring to the one about memories."
Making memories, right, something about making memories and magic--raising the cup pointedly towards their resident warlock--together.
"Well...thanks. I'm very touched that you approve of my ability to make toast. Toasts."
"Pretty sad sort of shape you'd be in if you couldn't make toast."
He laughed in a way that sounded a bit nervous even to himself, and cleared his throat. "So you came by to tell me you liked my toasts?"
"No, it was actually more the other thing."
"The other thing."
"The memories bit." Colin's eyes didn't look drunk. If anything he looked faintly alert, assessing Bradley from where he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his bony knees.
"Ah." He nodded, then reversed and started shaking his head. "No. I think you might have to explain that one."
"How much do you think I remember?" There was a note of genuine curiosity under the nonchalance.
Remember what, Bradley almost said. I don't know what you're talking about, he considered saying. Look, it's getting awfully late, think we could do this in the morning, he was still mulling over when Colin stood up abruptly.
"Forget it. I'm sorry, I dunno what I was thinking, coming over like this."
That was what did it. "Come on, it's not that, it's--look, what did you want me to say? You're incredibly attractive, fancy a shag?"
Colin pointed a finger at him. "I'm bisexual."
That was a bit of a stunner. "O--kay, that's a start."
"Also, I was once totally naked on stage. So for the love of Christ, would you stop treating me like I'm this ignorant Irish boy?"
"I wasn't, I just--look, it's a bit different this time." He was still reeling from "bisexual". "We work together, you don't want to do this. It'll be all weird and tense on set. And--Colin, you can't be serious. It's one thing to--" He stopped, unsure how to state delicately that it was one thing to admit to yourself that you thought shagging blokes was alright and another entirely to risk outing yourself to the British media by shagging your co-star.
"Look. I've thought about this. I really have. And I think, y'know, it's going to be really brilliant. Because," with the air of one making an extremely valid point, "We're co-stars."
"Because we're--it'll be brilliant if people find out we're shirt-lifters because we're co-stars? Are you or are you not dead drunk, because you're not making very much sense."
"No, they're not going to think about it because we're co-stars! And it's," scratching a forefinger at his temple thoughtfully, "Versimilitude. Life imitating art."
It was hard to restrain his eyes from rolling, but he managed. "You think no one is going to notice us staring at each other all the time because we pretend to be best friends for the show?"
"No," as if Bradley were an idiot child who needed careful explanations, "no one is going to notice because," finger wagging at Bradley, "No one's going to be staring. And if they do notice, they'll just think it's brilliant that we're getting so chummy, because everyone knows you didn't much care for me at the start."
"I didn't much--that's ridiculous." He crossed his arms. "I was perfectly nice to you. Always was."
Colin looked up at him, expression serious. "You tormented me."
"It was for your own good! You were so...you just moped around in corners, and everyone made such a fuss over you! I mean, it was a bit sickening." He stopped short and considered making a retraction, but Morgan merely folded his fingers together and grinned.
"You know, if that was your idea of making up to someone, you're really lucky I'm here at all."
"Why are you here at all," he found himself asking. But it was said softly, mostly to himself. It was a bit hard to adjust, after all that...he tried to find a word that didn't make him sound like a lovesick girl, and couldn't. But it was never smart to leap for the light at the end of any tunnel, no matter how long or dark it had been.
Colin kept staring at him with a slightly furrowed brow, as if he couldn't understand why Bradley was bothering to argue. He wasn't sure himself.
"Why look for an excuse? To tell the truth, I'm a wee bit keen on remembering the details this time around."
What was it that was making him feel so lightheaded, he wondered. Possibly that giddy sensation was merely a French wine redux. He clung to the remaining scraps of martyrdom, feeling a queer outrage at how easy Colin was making it all seem. "So you're telling me that all this time, all this time I've been agonizing over how to save you from my bizarre obsession, you've just been swanning around being..." He managed to stop the words "happily queer" and choked out, "interested?"
Bisexual, his brain echoed happily. He said it, he did.
"Well I don't say I enjoyed waking up that morning by myself. I mean, I didn't know what to think."
"Apparently you figured it out, though!"
"Well," Colin gave him a much more assessing glance this time, "Not if you just stand there all night, then, no."
And because he'd studied enough scripts to recognize a cue when he heard one, there was really nothing left but to tackle Colin into the bed.
He paused just one more time, narrowing his eyes while the bedside lamp shed soft shadows all over Colin's face. "You're sure you're sure about this?"
Colin looked up thoughtfully, sniffed. Quirked his lower lip in thought. "Yeah, I'm quite sure."
Which was just as well, because Bradley James was only human.
***
"So...tomorrow." What he meant by that was, Is it going to be Amnesia, or a Handjob Between Good Mates? He was coming down slowly through the haze of orgasm. It had been a good one, they'd taken their time and he was having trouble not sounding breathless. Forming complete sentences, that was also a bit hard.
"Figure that part out later."
He looked at Colin, who wasn't even trying not to sound breathless. "Okay. Yeah."
***
"I knew it," he said, in the short spaces when he came up for air. He kept his fist pumping slowly, though, so Colin wouldn't complain. "I knew it all along."
"Knew what? Oh--god--" Colin's heel kicked out, then dug into the sheets.
"Knew you couldn't possibly be as sweet as they all thought you were--Ow, go easy!"
Colin gasped, let go of Bradley's hair and threw a gangly arm over his face, which did nothing to make his gasped "Oh fuck me--" less audible.
"I am considering it," Bradley admitted, and kneaded his palm into Colin's arse for emphasis.
He paused to look up and admire the effect, then paused again to try and remember just how Colin had wrapped a warm pink tongue around the head of his cock earlier.
It was hard to think in the haze of post-orgasm, punctuated by the sharp hot notes of lust. Also, it had been a while since he'd sucked on anyone's cock and in his boneless state it was taking some effort to maintain even the lazy pace he was taking. Possibly that was why he was strangely unconcerned. It wouldn't be awkward, probably, at least not right away. He was reasonably sure about that.
After all, there was something terribly satisfying about surrendering to the inevitable.
"You're alright, Colin Morgan. I think I might just like you after all."
finis
A/N: I wrote the two halves almost a year apart, so I'm sorry if they sounded disjointed. Feel free to Britpick or concrit, and I hope it amused =)
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He managed to stop the words "happily queer" and choked out, "interested?"
Hah! :D
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Very nice.
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my v. minor crit would be that you don't hugely need to write Colin's accents phonetically, but that's a personal annoyance. and "perq" should be "perk".
but seriously neither of those things detracted from how much i loved this story. it had a very unique flavour and a really interesting pacing and i loved what a retard Bradley was and jesus christ, i cracked up so many times. so many.
i loved that Bradley started out befriending him by talking about work, and how his favourite smile is the one that's Colin's rather than Merlin's (and I especially love how much you distinguished between their characters and themselves, which not a lot of RPF writers seem to bother to do.) the sex dreams and the lists and awkwardness in costume and the amazing Angel Coulby and - ugh the brief strawberries dialogue had me giggling so hard, and. EVERYTHING. this is so real and so fun. ♥
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frankly speaking i've never found merlin to be like colin at all! MERLIN IS NOT SHY XD merlin is ridiculously disingenuous and fairly naive (though much less so by season 2) and goes around beaming at people he likes. i can't actually see colin doing that! if anything arthur's a bit more like bradley, only bradley hasn't got any kind of horrific father figure conflict going on XD
bradley WAS a bit of a retard here, wasn't he ::sheepish:: i hope it didn't come off as too ridiculous, i really don't think he's devoid of intelligence! just, er. makes things hard on himself! (no pun intended.)
so glad you liked this, what a very beautiful comment to receive <3 i'm so flattered you took the time, thank you so much!
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glad you liked!
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*steam-hot-want* *gurgle*
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i have to admit, i did have a friend look it over--the one peccadillo was that i originally wrote "topping up" as "topping off", which is the american version.
thank you for the comment, and glad you liked this little piece of wish-fulfillment fiction XD