John Versus The Volcano; RPF, R-rated

[sam_storyteller]

Title: John Versus The Volcano
Rating: R
Summary: Scott's stuck on the far side of the Atlantic, John's miserable in Los Angeles, and the sex has never been better.
Beta Credit, Jesus: C, Foxy, Gypsy, and Anya beta'd spelling and style; Mandr and Nick picked for accuracy, because he's obsessed and she's a good listener. Nick is also to blame for this. cruentum! *fistshake*
Notes: RPF creeps me out. And yet I write it! I am a man of contradictions. I should have an icon for when I write something and wish to express my shame that I have written it.
Warnings: None.

First Posted 4.19.2010

Now in Russian!

Also available at AO3.

"We are ash free; Scott, however, is stuck in London and may miss celebrating with us in LA."
-- Carole Barrowman

***

Scott came off the thirtieth call to the airline somewhat frustrated.

It wasn't his nature to get angry about things -- scheduling delays, transit problems, breakdowns, missed flights. If he did, he'd have died of some kind of blood-pressure-related incident five years into his relationship with John. Scheduling shuffles were a part of life; a quick few days in London here, a weekend in Cardiff there, visiting sets and interviews and conventions and sitting in the back with a sketchpad, doing what work he could (or drawing dirty pictures for John, if he was looking especially worn out). Besides, he was a busy man himself, and the client always wanted four more meetings than he'd scheduled for before they'd approve a design.

The thing was, rescheduled conventions and extra meetings and even John's accidental dive into an empty swimming pool, those were things he could deal with. He had never been forced to alter his plans because of a volcano before, and the urge to throw things was warring with the urge to sit down and laugh until he wept.

He checked the clock and did the math; six in the evening, that was noon minus two, ten am wherever John was. He was probably having a swanky showbiz brunch with someone. Meanwhile, the townhouse in London was...

Okay, not empty, hard to have an empty house with three dogs constantly begging to be on whatever side of a given door they were not currently on (not to mention the occasional fan peeping at the windows -- he swore he was going to build some kind of decorative trellis to stop that) but it missed something. There was a weird John-shaped hole in every room he went into.

Stupid. They were always spending time apart, probably the secret to a good marriage or some crap joke like that, but he was supposed to be getting ready to fly to Los Angeles for Carole's birthday, and it had been a really long time since he'd seen John, and there was a lot of sex they could be having in some sunlit beachfront condo on the California coast.

Scott might have evolved some fairly advanced fantasies about Los Angeles in the weeks John had been gone.

And now, his plans were being crushed by a volcano. Who had volcanoes anymore? Strictly passé.

He dropped onto the sofa and thudded his head gently against the back of it, trying to figure out what to do. A boat was always a possibility. Boat to New York, fly to California, pick John up something shiny and useless on the way, show up to surprise him.

And...probably get stranded in the States, and he had clients to consider. "Sorry, shipped out to get laid" probably wouldn't work as an excuse.

The phone rang, which set off the dogs, who leaped up on the sofa and trampled all over it while Scott tried to shove them off and get his fingers round the slippery slim mobile. He answered on the last ring, without checking caller ID, while CJ tried to chew the phone out of his hand and the other two trampled his balls and licked his face.

"Hell-ow!" he yelped, as CJ got his teeth in.

"Scott...?" John's voice sounded worried.

"Sweetheart, hi," Scott said, shaking the dogs off and retreating from the sofa. "Sorry, CJ got enthusiastic."

"Aww, who's Daddy's baby?" John crooned. "Put him on."

"No," Scott told him. "Dogs can't hear people over mobile phones."

"You're making that up."

"Proven fact. The hertz-range is wrong," Scott lied.

"I'm asking Carole if that's true," John said. "I'm checking Snopes."

"Check all you want, I'm not putting the dog on the phone, and anyway he bit me."

"It was a love bite." John sounded cheerful, but Scott didn't fool quite that easily. Still, John would come around to it in his own sweet slightly self-absorbed time. He let it go.

"Aren't you meant to be auditioning or networking or something?" he asked.

"I took the day off," John said.

"Bed, biscuits, crap American telly?" Scott guessed.

"Bed, beer, crap films."

"Shark Attack III?"

"Hey, Shark Attack III paid for the sofa," John replied.

"The sofa we gave away because the springs fell out of it," Scott replied. He made a noise -- nrrhg, naaahrg, ngggh -- to emulate the grunting monster shark from the film. John laughed.

"How's London?"

"Sunny. Ashy. Full of dogs," Scott replied, leaning against the counter. The dogs twined around his ankles, snuffling for stale bits of food in the crevices below the cupboards. "How's Los Angeles?"

Silence.

Silence and John taking a day. Never a good combination. John was boundless energy and sex appeal and smiles and handshakes and cock jokes, and he didn't take the day often, but when he did Scott still fretted.

"Love?" he asked.

"It's seventy-five degrees and sunny," John said. Which wasn't an answer at all. "You'd love it here."

"Yeah, sorry I'm going to miss it," Scott said, nudging Charlie away from his toes. "Just called the airline again. Nothing new, still delayed indefinitely."

"Fucking volcano," John pronounced. "Can't they plug it or something?"

"Yes, John. They'll just fill it with concrete. That'll work."

"Whatever, I mean, you know, airplanes don't usually fly by sight anyway, it's all radar, I don't see what the problem is."

"Ash in the engines, stalls them out," Scott replied.

"Oh. Well, that's just stupid." He heard a rustle in the background; sounded like blankets, maybe. "Can't you take a boat?"

Scott smiled. "I thought about it, but I don't think I'd get back in time. Clients."

"Quit. Be my kept man," John told him. Seventeen years and the joke was still funny, really, if a bit weirder now than it used to be. He could quit; he could quit and buy a new car every year and still not run through their joint banking account before he died. But he liked his job, and that would be too weird anyway.

"I'll get you a feather duster and a frilly apron," John added.

"You look better in heels." Scott opened a cupboard and took down a glass, filling it with water.

"We've never tried! You might rock the spikes, you don't know."

"Sadly, it will remain an untested theory," Scott informed him. There was another rustle down the line. "Did you spill beer in the bed?"

"No," John replied. Then, sounding very small and a little ashamed, "I miss you."

"I miss you too," Scott said. "Still, you'll be back before you know it, or I'll get out there soon as the ash clears up."

"LA's really big, and the people are mean," John said. Eight weeks of This is awesome! There's so much opportunity here! and now this? And he'd fallen for that bullshit earlier?

"It's because they're unfulfilled and needy and Americans have brought self-loathing to an art form," Scott replied, because John Barrowman, god bless him, thought everyone was basically a nice and happy person, and that he ought to be able to fix them if they weren't. Sometimes he needed reminding that people were assholes. Fortunately, Scott was on that like CJ on stale toast crumbs.

Rustle, rustle went the blankets, and there was a sound like something creaking. Scott paused with the glass of water halfway to his mouth.

"Are you wanking?" he asked, setting the glass down.

"I really miss you," John replied.

"John, it's ten in the morning there, you're drinking and wanking? Just how mean are they?"

John huffed a breath through his nose. Scott could tell because he did that all the time when he was turned on. God, maybe he should get on a boat. By the time he reached LA the sex would be explosive.

"Just talk to me for a while," John said, a little hint of pleading-you-know-you-can't-say-no-to in his voice. "About work, whatever. Aren't you doing a roof or a façade or something?"

Scott considered it. He could talk about work, there was plenty to talk about, and he could talk about local news and how he was thinking of going to Cardiff if he couldn't fly out, nice easy topics --

While his partner, his lonely unhappy partner whom he missed like crazy, wanked in a sad long-stay rental condo in Los Angeles somewhere.

"What are you wearing?" he asked, instead.

There was a pause.

"That's the line you're going with?" John asked.

"Well, if I had been given advanced warning about the phone sex, I would have come up with something better, diva," Scott told him, leaving the kitchen and rummaging on the hall table for his bluetooth. "Don't go anywhere."

"Phone sex?" John said hopefully, as Scott plugged the bluetooth into his ear.

"Phone sex," Scott agreed, locking the dogs in the front of the house and heading up the stairs to the bedroom. He set the phone on the bedside table (his side; John's was covered in a mess of gum wrappers and books and photos) and fell back on the bed.

"Hell, when was the last time we had phone sex?" John asked. "I can't believe I don't remember this. I should keep a diary."

"Three years ago? Four?" Scott said. "Come on, John."

"Yeah, yeah, okay -- " There was a grunt on the other end of the line. This was so much easier with mobiles. Sex with a phone cord wrapped around your wrist was just awkward. "I can't think of anything to say."

Scott laughed, one hand behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. "Come on, big boy," he drawled. John snorted. "Okay. You call me up just to hear my voice while you wanked?"

"Maybe," John said, sounding wary.

"So you must be hard," Scott murmured, sliding his fingers over his belt-buckle.

"Yeah," John breathed. "Just kept thinking about you."

"You touching yourself?"

John gave a little groan. Scott chuckled.

"Stop," he said. John huffed again.

"Why?"

"You have to give me time to catch up, baby," Scott said, pulling his belt off, working his flies down. "You never answered my question."

"Hmm?" It came out rather strained.

"What," Scott said slowly, arching his hips to get his trousers off, kicking them away from the bed, "are you wearing?"

"Pyjamas," John said, sounding like the word was being dragged out of him. "The blue ones you gave me."

"Nice," Scott said, closing his eyes. "Soft. Tight around the chest."

John laughed a little. "So that's why."

"Mmhm. Love you in blue," Scott told him, sliding a hand under the waistband of his briefs. He thought about John, not sad John in LA, John right there with him, and rare Sunday mornings spent in bed, talking, kissing, John's hands on his body. Years and years and a life together, the kind of thing John used to scoff at when they were first dating. Never going to settle down, what's the point? Too much to do, too many great fucks out there.

I'd like to build a house with someone, someday, was what he'd said in reply, and watched the bravado in John's eyes crash down. And now it was John who was talking babies and all. Which made sense; all that crap about never settling down had been mostly for Scott's benefit, he realised later, pre-emptive self-protection for when Scott dumped him. Which had somehow, miraculously, failed to occur for seventeen years.

"What about you?" John's voice rasped in his ear. "Khakis and a polo?"

"Shut up," Scott laughed, stroking himself slowly. He stretched, arching his back. "Just for that I won't tell you."

"Mm. Leather, then?"

"Bastard," Scott groaned.

"One of those tight t-shirts that show your nipples," John continued, dipping into his endless well of Fantasies Regarding Scott Gill. "And some smooth black leather I could peel you out of."

"Hot," Scott murmured.

"I think so," John agreed. "Strip you down, bend you over the bed, lick all the way up your spine. Then all the way back down."

"Who said I'd let you top?" Scott asked, but he knew the whimper in his voice betrayed him.

"Bossy," John answered. He sounded like he was lost a little in his own world. "C'mon, lemme touch myself."

"Yeah," Scott breathed. "Okay, yeah, slowly though, right?"

"You going slow?"

"Yes -- " Scott ran his thumb over the head of his cock, hips jerking a little.

"Now, where was I," John murmured. "You and the smell of leather and my tongue in your -- "

"I want a kiss," Scott insisted, surprising himself. "Wouldn't you kiss me?"

"I know you like that," John said. "Yeah, I could -- turn your head a little, rub up against you, kiss you, lots of tongue there too."

Scott licked his lips -- poor imitation, but it'd do.

"I could jerk you off," he said, hips shifting impatiently now, cock sliding through his fingers a little faster. "Know how you like it -- "

"Nuh uh. My fantasy," John said, and Scott snorted. "Don't want a hand job, don't want a suck."

"You love a suck," Scott reminded him. "You love it when I get your cock in my mouth and take you down, you love fucking my mouth."

"I want," John said, his voice clear and very low, "to fuck you."

Scott jerked, stomach tightening, hips canting up.

"I want to -- " John's breath hitched, "I want to spread your legs. Get you slick, get a finger inside you, make you hump the bed."

Scott exhaled shakily, arse clenching a little, as if he could feel it.

"Get two fingers in you, make you beg for it," John continued. Scott could hear the blankets again, rustle, rustle, and the soft sound of skin against skin. God, the bastard had him on speakerphone, so he could hear him stroking his cock.

"John," he groaned, intending to follow with I hope your walls are thick but somehow it never made it out of his mouth.

"Yeah, I'd go slow," John told him, around a moan. "Fuck into your ass so slow, make you feel every inch so you know how hard I am. Uh, god."

"Love that," Scott managed. "I love you inside me, come on, John, touch me."

"You like my hands?" John asked, and that subtle soft sound was faster now. "Fucking you while I stroke your cock? All sweaty, rubbing all over you, so deep. You make me crazy when you -- "

Scott arched again and let out a high cry, because that was what made John crazy, the moment when quiet, pretty, crowd-shy Scott Gill unwound for him. Didn't matter who was on top, didn't matter that they were on the phone, didn't matter that he wasn't thirty anymore, nearly fifty (oh Christ) and he didn't fuck John in alleys outside clubs anymore. That was it, right there, and it made Scott crazy too.

"Jesus, Scott," John said, short heavy breaths making the words almost inaudible.

"John, please -- "

"Yeah, it's okay, come for me, come on, come for me, lemme hear you," John urged, and Scott groaned, muscles clenching, still with that John-shaped absence but better, good like this, coming so John could hear him. There was a moan in his ear, cut-off, and then a long slow exhale.

He caught his breath slowly, wiping his hand on his shirt, waiting for John.

"Good for you, sexy?" he asked finally. There was a noise like fabric sliding around, and a click, and he was off speakerphone.

"Holy shit, we should do this more often," John said. "I just came like a freight train."

Scott burst out laughing. "You have no filter between brain and mouth."

"One of the many reasons you love me," John pointed out, which was true. "Come on, that was great."

"Yeah. It was," Scott conceded. "Feel better?"

"Uh-huh," John agreed.

"You want to talk about it? About LA?"

There was a soft breath on the other end of the phone. "Not yet. Is that okay?"

"It's fine. I just wish I could be there," Scott said, meaning every bit of it. "I'm sorry our love is tragically impeded by a volcano."

There it was, there was John's laugh, real and barking and one of the best things in Scott's life.

"It'll be okay, right?" John said. "You said it yourself, you'll be here before we know it. We'll get dressed up and go to all the trendy places so I can show you off. Scott Gill, love of my life, best phone-sex partner I've ever had."

"I love you," Scott said. "Don't let them get you down."

"Go have some dinner, I've got Sherlock Holmes to watch."

"Oh god, Sherlock Holmes Not The Good One?" Scott groaned. "Gareth's never going to forgive you."

"If he didn't want to be mocked forever he should have told the costumer his trousers didn't fit," John replied. "I'll call you tomorrow?"

Scott smiled, a smug smile, but John wasn't there to be unsettled by it. By tomorrow he could come up with a whole range of telephone subjects. And tomorrow John would probably call him from a restaurant, or a studio, or a meeting.

"Tomorrow. G'night, mine," he said.

"G'night, mine."

END