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Scott settled on to the couch with a groan, his cock throbbing with neglect.
One fucking quiet night alone, that was all he wanted, was that so much to ask for?
It wasn't that Scott disliked Gareth, or any of John's strays for that matter, it was just that he had been really looking forward to having his damn partner to himself for a few hours. Okay. That wasn't fair. He got John to himself more than anyone in the world, that didn't mean that he had to like sharing him with everyone so much of the time. And right now, after an hour of the two of them making out like love-sick teenagers, he wasn't of a mind to care about moping actors or sad friends. Unfortunately, John would rescue a ladybug, naked, sporting a raging hard-on, if he thought the damn thing needed it. Stupid sap.
Scott slammed his head back into the leather cushions, trying to force himself to a tolerable level of calm. At his feet, Charlie snuffled, either in agreement or just because Scott had moved, and Harris, lying along the couch arm above his head, yawned, completely disinterested in the antics of his humans. He could hear CJ scrabbling and barking after John as he carried the drinks into the living room backwards. And why the hell that man didn't break more bones was a mystery to Scott.
Just beyond the edge of the chaos, Gareth was following with a glass of lager. Gareth had what Scott had come to think of as his how the fuck did I get here? look on his face. He'd been wearing that a lot lately, ever since the cast had been told the details for Series Three. Damn.
"…It'll be great! No one will expect it. We'll surprise everyone!"
"No one will be surprised. They expect shit like that from you, for Christ's sake, Barrowman!"
Scott tipped his head up. "What's he trying to talk you into this time?"
The two men answered at the same time.
"Nothing!"
"He wants me to wear a kilt to the wrap party."
"You'd look good in a kilt," Scott said, and laid his head back down. At least he didn't even have to pretend to enjoy helping John out with this plot. He might even get rewarded for helping, now there was a thought.
"Christ, not you too!"
Scott laughed and then reached up to calm Harris' twitching black belly above him.
"See!" John said triumphantly, squeezing in between Scott's cashmere covered-toes and Charlie. Somehow he managed it without spilling a drop of his drink. "Here, try this," he said, draping himself along Scott's legs with an outstretched arm. Charlie huffed at the move and repositioned himself to the arm of the couch, mirroring Harris and bookending their people. The dogs were smarter than the humans sometimes. "Too much vermouth?"
Scott raised an eyebrow but took a sip. The neon blue drink was sweet, but that was no surprise.
"Not bad," he admitted, handing the glass back. "What's it called?"
"A Sonic Screwdriver." John grinned. "Carol sent the recipe to me – she found it online somewhere." Jazz hands waved in the air. "I made a few changes."
"Of course."
John smirked and crawled back down Scott's lap, rubbing his free hand along Scott's groin.
Scott shivered. Gorgeous bastard.
Glass clinked on glass. Scott looked over at Gareth. His glass was empty already. Shit.
"Here, give this a sip." Scott plucked the blue monstrosity out of John's grasp and reached across the coffee table to Gareth. "What do you think?"
Gareth gave the glass one raised eyebrow of a glare then shrugged and took a gulp.
And tried to cough up a lung. Not a good sign at all.
"Definitely… too much …vermouth," he said between gasps.
John scoffed, but Scott knew that look: worry and love and heartache all wrapped up in one. Well, maybe if they got Gareth good and drunk, they could tuck him away in the guest room to sleep off his funk and then they could get back to teasing the fuck out of each other. Please god.
Scott watched as John fussed, patting Gareth on the back. He handed Scott the flailing drink without a backward glance. "Do you even know what vermouth tastes like?"
"No, but there is definitely too much of it in there…" Gareth nodded at the pitcher on the table with watery eyes.
"That's what you get for living on water and hops."
"Fuck you, Barrowman…"
"Anytime, David-Lloyd, anytime…" John said with a ridiculous smirk in his voice, his hands rubbing up Gareth's thighs.
Gareth snorted, looked down at John's creeping hands and waved for the glass back. He took another, slower, sip of the glowing cocktail. "It kinda grows on you."
John chuckled and poured two more glasses, handing one to Scott as he curled back against the couch. Scott stretched up, carful not to spill the overfull glass, then, on a whim, locked his feet around John's waist and tugged him closer. John looked over and grinned, then leaned into Scott's lap with a sigh. Message received.
"So," John said after a moment and a sip. "Kilt!"
"You're not still on about that…" Gareth and Scott both groaned.
"Come on…just this once."
Gareth shook his head, downed his drink and poured himself another. Scott noticed the lack of verbal negation. John had won already; Gareth just didn't know it.
"Why not? They're comfy."
"Because I'm not some bloody wanker like you."
John bolted upright with a slosh of glowing blue alcohol. "Wearing a kilt does not make me a wanker!"
"No," Scott said, stroking John's muscled arm. All the working out had borne fruit, Scott thought idly, appreciating the defined ripples and new hollows along John's body. Scott liked him any way he could get him, but the firm contours of John's muscles appealed to the artist in him. "Wanking makes you a wanker."
"Not helping," John said, looking over his shoulder with a campy frown.
"Not trying to." Scott grinned. He stretched up higher and squeezed the back of John's neck, dragging a sigh from him. Scott chuckled as John's eyelids fluttered. God, he was easy.
"Not wearing a bloody kilt."
Gareth was sulking now, slumped down in the overstuffed chair that matched the couch. His eyes were clouded under the rapidly sinking lids. The day-old scruff on his jaw added to the roguish look that his band groupies seemed to love so much, if the reports Carol liked to feed John were accurate. At his feet, CJ was wagging his tail, his eager eyes tracking the bobbing martini glass that Gareth was using to articulate his point, or maybe conduct an orchestra; it was hard to tell. CJ was licking the drops as they hit the floor. Damn dog was a lush.
"Why not?"
"Not some poncey trollop like you to go bouncing around in a tartan. Jeans are just fine, thanks."
"I'll make it worth your while," John drawled, leaning forward just enough to get hold of the drink pitcher. With a grace that belied all the tasting he'd had done in the kitchen, John poured another round of drinks for each of them.
"What do you mean?"
Scott just managed to hold back a laugh as John slid off the couch and oozed towards Gareth. Gareth looked for all the world like a ferret caught in the gaze of a cobra, and oh, was he sinking fast.
"You wear a kilt," John purred, his hands back on Gareth's thighs, sliding towards his crotch. "And I'll give you a blow job."
"And if I don't?" Gareth's words fell out in a whisper. Or maybe it a wish; it was hard to tell with John's prey.
John leaned in, his gravitational field pulling Gareth towards him. If he turned his head just a little, Scott could see how their lips barely touched.
John paused, breathing in Gareth's sighs.
Gareth licked his lips, his eyes never leaving John's mouth.
Scott could hear John's smile from across the room. "You give me one…"
"Bloody wanker." Gareth pushed away from John with a gruff laugh.
"Well now that that's settled…" Scott said, sitting up and wiggling into the corner of the couch, tired of having to cant his neck every time he wanted to look at either man.
"Drinks!" John cheered, filling Gareth's glass again.
"Trying to get me drunk Barrowman?"
"Is it working?"
"Might be."
There was a leer in John's voice; that it was all for Scott was clear when John settled back against Scott, his free hand stroking lazy curls across Scott's knee. Scott shifted his moan to a sigh. Fine . So they were both easy. The sooner Gareth was asleep in the guest room the better.
As wrap parties went, the Torchwood Series Three end night party was not bad. It wasn't great either. Given the number of wrap parties Scott had been to, he was all too aware that it could be worse, but not by much.
There was the usual feeling of exhaustion pouring off of 200-plus people, all of whom were trying their damndest to dredge up the energy to party like they were 20 years younger. But underneath that, there was an odd taste, a feeling of mixed messages and uncertain futures. They knew the show was good, that the work they had all spent months doing was good, but they also knew it was different, and different in the world of television didn't always equal successful, especially where fans are concerned.
The food was spicy and sweet and there was loud music pulsing through the air, adding to the buzz. Everything was piled in faux gourmet style on long tables in the 'Tank Room' set, which Scott thought had to be somebody's horrible idea of a joke. The cases of Guinness and Tully stacked in front of the empty Tank made it all seem like more of a wake than a cast party.
Looking over at John's too-loud laugh and not-yet-drunk-enough smile, Scott couldn't help but sigh. This was either going to be the shortest party he's ever been to, or the longest. And Gareth wasn't even here yet.
"Stop fussing," Scott said, handing John a martini, a normal colored one for a change.
"I'm not…"
Scott cut him off with a snort. "You play with the buckles on your kilt any more and they will pop off – and won't that be a pretty sight?"
Scott's grin got wider as John's fidgeted with the edge of his kilt, red wool swaying as he shifted from foot to foot. If there had been any reporters or industry photographers around tonight they would have been all over John's outfit (again). He'd had opted for easy all around tonight. No formal wear, just the kilt, one of Scott's white Oxfords, and comfy shoes. Scott rather liked it; it was casual and fun, and the easy access was never a bad thing.
Scott nudged John in the ribs and pointed toward the main doors of the set. He watched John's face as John scanned the crowd, looking for Gareth, who walked towards them with Gemma at his side, the two of them more relaxed than Scott had seen them in a while. Scott saw the moment John caught sight of Gareth and thought he'd won the bet.
Scott did his best to hide a smirk.
Gareth was dressed head to toe in black and if that weren't so trendy for guys his age and type, he might be tempted to assume Gareth was giving a nod to the unspoken theme of the party. There was a loose black plaid shirt hanging open over a black band t-shirt that looked like had seen better days. Below that, there was more black, denim this time… but not jeans.
"You cheated!" John said, hands flailing, eyes wide with what Scott knew had to be a mixture of annoyance for losing any bet and pure lust for the picture before them. Gareth looked damn good in a kilt, no matter what color or fabric. The combat boots, while not Scott's thing, looked good on Gareth.
"Did not," Gareth said with a shit-eating grin. He pointed a finger, wrapped around Gemma's hand, but still clear in its meaning, at John. "You never said what kind of kilt I had to wear."
"That's not a kilt, that's… "
"A Utilitkilt, and yeah, it's a kilt…It has pleats." He pointed to the obvious bits. "It stops at the knees, swishes when I move, and shows off my ankles. All the things you said you wanted."
"But it's got pockets!" John's indignation could be heard in the Highlands.
"Yep." Gareth grinned.
"And snaps," Gemma said, tugging one open with a gleeful smile. Scott got the distinct impression that the kilt had already had a work out this evening. No wonder Gareth was in a good mood.
"But…" John tried. It was a weak effort at best.
Scott turned to John and stroked a hand over his chest, right below the open buttons of his Oxford. "You owe him a blow job. And I get to watch!"
A wicked grin spread across John's face. "Oh… riiiight."
A flush of pink crept up Gareth's cheeks, but Scott noticed he didn't argue. Gemma looked… intrigued. That shouldn't have surprised Scott; the woman had managed to deal with Gareth, his band, and all the fan girls and still wanted to be part of Gareth's life.
Well, well, well… maybe this wrap party wouldn't be such a nightmare after all.