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Cute Ones Are Usually Gay

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It's been one of those good days, the kind where dialogue is only fluffed half the time and Holmes and Watson make eyes at each other over a violin bow without Guy noticing and shouting at them (though he might notice at a later date and then kill them both; only time will tell) and it really does kind of feel like they are making something approaching the best movie ever if only because they're all having so much fun. Anyway, in spite of the fact that filming is going fantastically, the real catalyst is that they both have a day off tomorrow, which means Jude doesn't need to fake a limp and an expression of fond torn weariness with a screaming hangover. He suspects that this is not a problem that Robert has ever had - the little insecure teenage boy inside him privately believes that Robert is just too cool to ever have hangovers, like a hangover would think twice and back away, cowering, from that smile - but in any case Robert gives him a toothy grin when Jude casually mentions he's going drinking tonight and invites himself along. Initially, Jude is childishly, almost embarrassingly pleased about this - though he hides it under a ok, cool, man or something along those lines and once again thanks God that Robert isn't actually some kind of superhero detective - before reflecting that tonight is probably not going to end well, since combining what will undoubtedly be far too much alcohol and Robert Downey Jr in close proximity is very possibly going to drive Jude insane.

He pretends very hard not to notice Rachel shooting him a look across the set that is both pitying and a warning; it's a little too late to be turning back now, in any case.

{"You're going to regret this, Jude," she points out in an undertone later, when Robert is laughing with the sound guys and they have as much privacy as you can have in the middle of dozens of people wearing itchy period costumes.

Rachel is much too perceptive, or possibly she's the only one willing to actually point out what everyone knows. Jude has yet to figure it out, and is finding solace in the ambiguity.

Instead of saying yes, I am, I know, I know, he manages: "Don't suppose you'd rather come along instead?" with all the casual cool he can muster.

He thinks Rachel is going to slap him, but all she does is pat his cheek and smile. "Slut," she says with soft affection, and stalks off with a swagger she has clearly stolen from Irene (or maybe Regina George, though he doesn't yet feel comfortable pointing this out to her; besides, then he'd have to confess to having seen Mean Girls and that's a whole other thing).

"So that's a 'maybe', then?" he calls after her, and she laughs.}

It starts off well enough: the two of them trawling London bars and laughing together like the picture-perfect "bromance" the crew members good-naturedly snicker about and which Jude tries to be very zen about because otherwise he is going to end up punching someone and then a) the whole awkward, messy thing will be dragged kicking and screaming into the light, b) relations between him and the - normally lovely - crew will be shattered, and c) the newspapers will kick him to shreds, and it's not like they don't have enough fun doing that already without him handing them ever more ammunition. Robert is good company; far too good company, really, shimmering and charismatic and funny and charming and witty and- and oh dear God, if he keeps this up it can really only end in him getting a diary like an adolescent girl and filling it with these adjectives and writing things like Jude Downey everywhere in curly biro and hooray, he's reached the really inadvisably emo point of drunkenness.

The words 'inadvisably emo' make him think of Hamlet - the other British literary institution he's buggering about with at the moment - and finds himself thinking that, ok, Hamlet gets a lot of miserable soliloquys but Hamlet never had to deal with being hopelessly infatuated with his co-star; just his crazed maybe-girlfriend and, well, maybe his best friend and, ew, probably his own mother, but still. Hamlet might bitch about the state of affairs but Jude watches Robert laughing, dark eyes bright and their knees wedged together so tightly beneath the table that Jude can hardly breathe, and he thinks that maybe Hamlet had no idea what real actual fucking suffering was.

Four bars - or possibly five, they're all starting to blur into one now - later and Jude is beginning to suspect that he has got himself far more drunk than he intended to. This is partly because Robert seems to have some kind of superhuman metabolism and in trying to match him drink for drink Jude can see the edges of Robert's smile blurring, his speech slipping around and that's about it for him, whereas Jude has lost all feeling in most of his limbs and also in his teeth and he has the horrible suspicion that the most dignified way for him to get out of this situation would be for him to pass out (which would at least be less humiliating than him throwing up all over Robert's shoes and then telling him that he has wanted him from the minute they first shook hands). Jude is terribly good at doing stupid and inadvisable things - just ask Heat magazine - but nonetheless he does still have to work with Robert and it would be best if he could still look him in the eye tomorrow. For one thing, Guy will actually find some way to creatively dismember them and then conceal the evidence if they have filmed half the movie with Holmes and Watson barely able to speak for the sexual tension between them (or possibly that's just projection on Jude's side) and then they film the other half with Holmes and Watson uncomfortable and embarrassed around each other, and not even in a fun way.

After all, it always comes down to not fucking up the movie.

After Robert has talked him into yet another shot of something that burns on the way down that Jude didn't want in the first place (well, Robert doesn't so much talk him into it as sling a warm arm around his shoulders and call him "Judesie", breath tickling tantalisingly against his ear) he decides that he needs to take himself away to somewhere horizontal and be asleep until judgement day or until Guy calls him up and demands why he isn't on set, whichever comes first.

"It's been, um, fun," he stumbles, and his voice sounds too loud and too high and he's not even sure if the words are coming out fully-formed or if he's just presenting Robert with a mangled mouthful of syllables, "but I need to be unconscious now."

Robert's incredulous amused expression swims in front of him as Jude braces his hands on the tabletop and pushes himself to his feet. Step one accomplished, he decides to go for the rather more ambitious step two, which entails getting from here to the door. Step two proves not only ambitious but also insurmountable, and his knees almost go beneath him when he feels warm hands curl around his elbows, dragging him upwards in a way that's almost painful.

"Jesus, Jude," and Robert is laughing but not exactly steady on his feet either, "come on, I'll get you home."

Jude spends most of the taxi journey with his face pressed to the cold glass window thinking oh God please don't let me be sick and trying not to notice that Robert has not taken his hand off his elbow in... quite some time, anyway. That is another thing about Robert; the man is all possessive hands and smiles and it is really very difficult and inconvenient to be lusting after your co-star when said co-star is incapable of leaving you alone, ruffling your hair, stroking your arm, slinging his arm around your shoulders. Jude has been in actual relationships that had less physical contact than his friendship with Robert does.

It never ceases to surprise and torment Jude how Robert can touch him in all the ways that don't matter, and in none of the ways that do.

When he is more sober, Jude is going to wonder how Robert knows where he lives, but right now he is more focused on getting out of the taxi in a way that enables him to remain vaguely upright and with a minimum of potential concussion. He lets Robert pay since this whole thing is basically his fault anyway, and is trying to work out some vaguely coherent and dignified way of saying thanks for getting me horribly drunk but then also getting me home safely when he realises that Robert is not leaving. No, Robert is following him inside, weaving as he walks and indicating that maybe he really isn't the responsible one here either. Which means that neither of them is being responsible right now and it makes Jude want to curl up in a corner somewhere and whimper. He doesn't, though, because that would not end well either.

"Susan won't thank me if I come home this wasted," Robert explains thickly, hands much too familiar on Jude's waist - OhGodOhGodOhGod - to guide them both inside, and Jude belatedly remembers the whole wife thing. Because Susan is wonderful and they are a seriously beautiful couple and Jude's little fixation looks even more woeful and pathetic when you remember that.

Jude finds himself crumpled on the floor, back against the wall and legs spread out in front of him, world swimming heavily around him. He is dimly aware of Robert's presence, of the other man wandering around, but the alcohol is making everything sway thickly and right now it is taking all the effort he has not to slump sideways and end up in the foetal position.

It is probably the whole oh yeah Robert has a wife thing that makes Jude accept the glass he's handed, as Robert drops with a startling lack of grace onto the floor beside him, clutching a glass of his own. Jude is fairly sure that he doesn't have alcohol in his rooms and yet Robert has managed to find some anyway; perhaps he has magical powers or perhaps Jude's memory is failing him spectacularly. In any case, he really should not drink any more and should probably take himself off to bed with a gallon of water and as many painkillers as he can find in his bathroom cabinet, but Robert is warm against his side, unbelievably warm, and in the end Jude sighs and sips at his drink.

After a moment, Robert leans even closer, mouth practically tickling his ear. "Judesie..." and he's drawing it out, drawing the ridiculous nickname out in a way that does interesting things to Jude's stomach.

"What?" Jude asks, careful not to turn his head because Robert's chin is resting on his shoulder and Jude is sure he has not done enough bad things to deserve this. Surely not.

"Thought I'd lost you for a minute there," Robert says, and Jude finally notices just how slurred his words are, just how loose his body language is, and realises he is not the only one out-of-control drunk here. It isn't reassuring.

"Just how smashed are you?" he asks.

Robert leans into him a little more, personal space obliterated, and grins. "Not as smashed as you, dear boy." He's doing his Sherlock Holmes accent, Sherlock Holmes strung out on lord knows what, and Jude closes his eyes because really, Robert is not fucking helping.

"I flirt with you for a living," drops out of his mouth before he can stop it. Oh God. Oh God.

"Technically you act for a living," Robert tells him, but his eyes are amused rather than horrified.

"I turn up and get paid to flirt with you on camera for hours and hours and hours," Jude protests, horribly aware that Robert is draped over about half his body, breath warm against his neck. "This is going to be the gayest movie ever. Gayer than... than..." His mind is failing him, thoughts freefalling in a messy tangle. "That one with the cowboys."

Robert is laughing now, shaking them both. "And we don't die at the end," he points out, "that's gotta be a plus."

"I'm serious," Jude protests, though he's no longer sure what point he's making or if he was making a point at all. He gets the feeling in the morning he is going to replay this whole conversation and then he is going to want to die. His brain helpfully presents him with a handful of tangled Hamlet scraps, wailing soliloquys about too too solid flesh and the rather fitting and like a whore unpack my heart with words, which has far too many connotations for this situation, and next time, next time Jude is going to listen to Rachel.

Robert reaches up a hand and, on his second try, manages to pat Jude's cheek, awkward and uncoordinated. "Shut up, Judesie."

"Where did you even get that nickname from?" Jude mumbles, but he's distracted because he's slowly and uncomfortably becoming aware of a problem developing between his thighs. It's Robert's fault, really, for practically lying on top of him and smelling vaguely of cologne and alcohol and something fundamentally Robert, and for the fact they are both so hammered that Jude's body no longer feels like it belongs to him. Still, he shifts awkwardly, screwing up his face in irritating because he's hard and at what fucking point did his body think that would be a good idea? The uncomfortable scrape of his cock against the inseam of his jeans does nothing to help matters, and all he can really hope is that Robert's vision is as blurry as his own is because maybe then-

"You'll have someone's eye out," Robert remarks casually, and he does not sound nearly as horrified as Jude feels he should. As horrified as Jude himself feels.

"I- um, I mean- argh." Jude brings a hand up to his face, pressing the fingers into his skin. His hands feel cold, but they're shaking and the whole thing feels as though it's happening to someone else while simultaenously possibly being one of the most embarrassing experiences of his life. "You weren't supposed to notice," and he isn't wailing, he isn't, "I was going to hide it-"

"You didn't stand a chance in those jeans," Robert replies, voice still too bright. He should be backing away now, should be doing the whole sure we're friends and spend a little too much time together and would probably be braiding each other's hair if either of us had enough to braid, but what part of that made you think we were gay? thing, and he isn't. He's still lying half on top of Jude, warm and heavy and much too tempting. Jude absolutely fucking hates him. "Points for effort, though."

Jude makes a manly noise that is in no way a whimper at all, screwing his eyes closed and keeping them shut. Maybe, if he just breathes very slowly and thinks about dead kittens and naked old women he'll be able to will the erection away and creep away to pass out on his bed or his sofa or something, and they're both very drunk and maybe nobody will remember this tomorrow.

This plan falls to inelegant pieces when Robert suggests, too near and too cheerful: "want a hand with that?"

Jude drops his hand from his face. "What?"

Robert repeats the offer, and Jude debates the possibility that they have both been drugged by some kind of horrible daterape kind of drugs, or if he is hallucinating, or if this is some kind of very weird dream and he's going to wake up with come all over his sheets like a teenager and won't be able to look Robert in the eye for several days.

"Um," he says, because seriously, what the fuck? "Um, no. No, I'll just... no."

Robert does that pouting thing that Jude should not find as adorable and attractive as he does. "You don't want me to help you out?" It is a sign of how fucked up this situation is that he sounds actually hurt by Jude's refusal.

"You have a wife," Jude blurts, "you have a wife and I have a hard-on and this night is the most hideous night ever and next time I am listening to Rachel."

Robert has been smiling indulgently through Jude's word-vomit, but he frowns at Rachel's name. "What's Rachel got to do with anything?"

"She said this was going to happen," Jude mumbles.

"Did she?" Robert raises his eyebrows, amusement returning to his face. "Maybe she should be playing Holmes instead. Anyway," and here his smile becomes a little more predatory, "back to the matter at hand."

"There is no 'matter at hand'!" It is entirely possible that Jude is a little hysterical now. "It's a physical reaction and thank you very much for the offer, it's very kind of you-" oh bloody, shitting hell his mind screams, I am actually turning into Watson "-but we shouldn't do this. At all."

Robert apparently hears this as an invitation, because the next thing Jude knows Robert's hand is resting on his cock. Not hard, not moving; just there, cupping his erection through his jeans.

"OhdearfuckingGod," Jude breathes, and closes his eyes again. He's got something of a reputation for sexual prowess - at least, he's certainly slept with enough people to make it look like he has - and it really won't look good if he comes in two seconds flat just from his co-star's hand on his cock. Not even on his cock, though the heat of Robert's skin is bleeding through the denim and Jude really needs to stop thinking things like that if he wants to stop this evening from getting even more humiliating. "Robert, Robert, no. We can't. We can't."

"Why not?" Robert asks, mouth pressed close to Jude's ear, on his knees beside him. "Tell me why not."

Jude wastes a second wondering just who is fucking lusting after who here, before saying, with all the calm and dignity he can muster: "We still have to work with each other and it will be fucking weird."

Robert presses down a little harder with his hand and Jude's entire body jerks. "It'll be fine," Robert tells him, mouth now so close his lips brush Jude's ear with every word. "Stop worrying, Judesie."

Jude gasps, and suspects Robert must feel the way his cock twitches at Judesie. He is going to have to kill himself in the morning, he decides, or move to a country where they don't have cinemas and start a new life as a hermit in a cave. "God." Robert is laughing softly, the sound pushed close, and he flicks open the top button of Jude's jeans with his thumb in a way that feels much too familiar. "Oh God."

"It's fine," Robert tells him, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of Jude's jaw. "It's fine."

"It won't be fine," Jude breathes, even as his hips buck upwards, cock aching, "you're married, Robert. What about Susan?"

"It's fine," Robert repeats again, pressing another kiss to his jaw, and another one as he finally finishes undoing Jude's fly. He feels a relieved breath slide out as his cock is finally freed from the confines of his jeans and Robert doesn't hesitate about wrapping a hand around it. Jude feels like he's shaking all over and they're both so drunk and this is all so stupid and unlikely and-

"Are you going to shut up at any point?" Robert asks him, breathy laughter skidding between his teeth.

Jude exhales shakily. "Possibly not."

There is a long moment where Robert stares at him, expression thoughtful even if his eyes are much too dark and a little unfocused, and then he puts both hands on Jude's shoulders and slides him until he's lying down completely. Jude hits his head on the floor but decides that, given the circumstances, he really doesn't care.

"I'm going to tell you one more time," Robert tells him, voice firm, "it's all going to be fine."

Jude opens his mouth to protest some more or maybe to ask Robert to put his hand back on his cock but all words ever die in his mouth as Robert actually straddles his thighs, bending down his palms braced against Jude's chest to capture his mouth in a hard kiss. Robert tastes of booze and late nights and what a bad idea all this is, but Jude doubts he can taste any better and he kisses back, mouths sliding wetly and messily together. Robert is hard against his thigh and Jude's cock slips against the soft fabric of Robert's shirt, tantalising friction that isn't nearly enough, and he whimpers into Robert's mouth.

They part for breath and Jude gasps: "you don't even fancy me."

Robert props himself on his elbows, one elbow on either side of Jude's head, and his smile from kiss-bruised lips from this angle is fascinating.

"That isn't true," he says quietly. "I think it might be the moustache. No 'tache should be that attractive."

"You're drunk," Jude reminds him. "You're drunk and you just think this is a good idea and we'll be endlessly awkward on set and- and- and you never fucking said anything."

"I didn't know it was on offer until now," Robert points out mildly. Jude is about to say more when he shifts and places a finger against his lips. "Shhhh, Judesie. If you say another word I'll think twice about blowing you, and believe me, you will be upset about that."

Jude chokes on his own breath and Robert kisses him again, a little more leisurely this time, tongue slipping obscenely in and out of Jude's mouth. He reflects he's going to have to find a way to make Robert forget that he's embarrassingly pliable when called Judesie in that soft, intimate way, and then Robert is tugging Jude's t-shirt over his head, casting away somewhere away from them, to be gathered up tomorrow morning with a sheepish expression. Robert presses another kiss to the corner of his lips before sliding downwards, slipping wet, open-mouthed kisses down Jude's chest before finally flicking his tongue into Jude's navel. Jude gasps, nails scraping against the floor, but Robert ignores him, hooking his fingers under the waistband of Jude's boxers and dragging them and Jude's jeans halfway down his thighs. The floor is freezing against Jude's arse and his back is going to be screaming at him in the morning, but he forgets all about this a moment later because Robert looks up long enough to wink at him and then stretches his wet, warm, wonderful mouth around Jude's cock.

Robert is good at this, much too good at this, and Jude can hear himself making helpless, desperate noises that he presses a hand against his mouth to try and contain, trying very hard not to think about what this must look like, writhing mostly-naked on his floor with a fully-clothed Robert Downey Jr sucking his cock.

Actually, fuck that, Jude wants to invite the entire world in to look.

He presses a hand over his eyes as Robert swallows him right down, because the sight is just... gah, and he's still trying to work on the whole not-coming-in-a-humiliatingly-short-period-of-time thing. He curls a hand into Robert's hair, uncurls it again, tries not to thrust upwards because he doesn't want to choke him, and tries to keep on breathing and not pass out from sheer, delightful wish-fulfilment. Robert pulls back a little, sucking hard on just the head, and Jude bites down so hard on his lip that there's going to be a bruise there and the make-up department are going to murder him and he isn't going to care in the slightest.

If Robert keeps this up he is actually going to fall apart and while this is the best blowjob he's had in quite a while Jude can't resist the urge to push; half the situations he's got himself into in his life were because he always pushes for just a little more than he's getting. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, and sometimes he doesn't even know which it is until it's far too late.

"Robert-" he gasps, managing to push himself up onto his elbows. Robert glances at him and a smile appears in his eyes. He pulls off from Jude's cock and he looks incredible; dark hair wild from Jude's fingers, mouth wet and friction red and even if he's still drunk and uncoordinated Jude can't stop himself from leaning forwards and kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. Jude slips a hand down between them, down to where Robert is so hard and Robert groans into his mouth, catching Jude's lower lip between his teeth.

"Fuck me," Jude mumbles into the kiss, into the wet hot slide of their lips, "Jesus, Robert, fuck me."

He wants to keep the sound Robert makes at this, the desperate needy noise that vibrates against his teeth, the way Robert urgently presses his cock into Jude's hand. They part, breath coming in gasping pants, and Robert presses kisses down Jude's neck, more scrapes of teeth than anything else and oh that's something else for the make-up department to hate him for.

"We need- have you got-" Robert's voice is urgent though the words are broken, disjointed, and it takes a moment for Jude to realise what he's talking about.

"Right, yeah," and it is with great difficulty that he disentangles himself from Robert, kicking off the remains of his jeans and underwear and shoes into a tangled ball on the floor, just about managing to stay on his feet and staggering towards his bedroom. Arousal and inebriation making walking damn near impossible and his breath is coming in ridiculous little pants, weaving in a way he might think about being embarrassed about at a later date.

Jude is rummaging around in the drawer of his bedside table when he realises Robert has followed him; warm strong hands close over his hips and pull him backwards, Robert pressing warm kisses to Jude's shoulders, while his cock presses insistently at Jude's arse and Jude thinks something incoherent along the lines of ohdearfuckingGodpleasenow, twisting around in Robert's hold to kiss him again, not so much pulling them both onto the bed as falling onto it, legs no longer capable of holding him upright. Robert's skin is warm and soft against his and Jude belatedly realised that Robert not only followed him to his bedroom but stripped on the way there, and that thought is enough to make his mind white-out completely, daggers of lust shuddering in his stomach. He fumbles around, locating the lube that was so difficult to find in the first place and managing to press it into Robert's hand, breathless and desperate. Robert swears against Jude's collarbone, thick and hard, then manages to sit up a little. Jude draws in a desperate breath, then two, eyes clenched shut and then feels Robert's fingers sliding down the crack of his arse, shaking just slightly.

He whimpers when Robert presses the first finger into him, no teasing, no drawing it out, and Jude's hips buck almost of their own accord as Robert crooks it inside him. His face is flushed, smile pinned beautifically to his mouth, and Jude is never going to be able to look at that smile again without thinking of this moment, Robert sliding a second finger in alongside the first and scissoring, Jude pushing back and gasping, and this is going to make filming impossible from hereon out because Jude can picture the expression he's going to be wearing and now all the cinemagoers are going to be under the impression that Holmes and Watson have been fucking for years which, ok, was kind of what they were going for anyway but this is going to lose all subtlety. Jude hisses and Robert is swearing under his breath, a litany of delicious curses as he twists a third finger into Jude and presses them up, up and Jude growls, fucking himself back against Robert's fingers, needy and wanton and oh, oh, he doesn't care if they can never look at each other again after this.

Jude reaches up and pulls Robert back down into a searching, wanting kiss, as Robert's fingers slowly slip out from inside him, leaving Jude feeling empty and frantic. He pushes, managing to maneouvre them until Robert is the one on his back, staring up at Jude with an expression that's a mixture of lust and bemusement, as Jude hastily slicks lube over his fingers and strokes Robert's cock until it's shiny, until Robert is gasping, hips bucking.

He doesn't miss the split second of surprise in Robert's eyes as he kneels over him, one knee on either side of Robert's hips, and slowly, carefully, sinks down onto him.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Robert groans, voice in ragged shreds. Jude wants to echo the sentiment but his teeth are gritted as Robert's cock stretches him ever wider, hot and thick and Jude tips his head back, moans escaping between his teeth. Robert's hands come up to his hips, wrapping warm and tight around his waist, and there might even be bruises in the morning and Jude won't care. Finally, he is fully seated, incoherent and shuddering with the feel of it, with Robert's cock filling him to the point of pain but oh, it's good, and- just- oh. One of Robert's hands comes to rest against Jude's cheek, thumb stroking delicately over the bone. "Well, Hotson, aren't you full of surprises?"

Jude is fucked. Well, obviously he is fucked, but Robert has called him Hotson while actually inside him, and he has a horrible suspicion he's going to come in his pants next time someone on the set casually dubs him that name.

"Oh, you bastard," he breathes, rising onto his knees, drawing Robert's cock out of him excrutiatingly slowly, relishing the slick slide of it. Robert's head tips back, mouth working soundlessly, and Jude waits until he has just the head left inside him before slamming back down hard enough to make both of them shout.

Things get messy after that; Robert is thrusting up into him as hard as Jude is pushing back, riding him much too fast and when he sobers up it kind of seems like Watson is going to be walking with an actual limp for a few days. He shifts the angle slightly so Robert's cock hits his prostate every time he pushes in, and Jude thinks he is keening, making hungry, avid noises while Robert just keeps muttering Jesus and fuck and Judesie in some weird rhythm that sends crackles down Jude's spine, and there is no way he is going to last. Robert finally wraps a warm, strong hand around Jude's cock, pulling it in time with every thrust, and it only takes a few tugs before Jude's head is tipping back, a shout gliding from his mouth as he comes, spilling wet between them.

Robert keeps thrusting, the stimulation almost too much this soon after Jude's orgasm, and after a minute Jude feels him tip over the edge too, cock pulsing inside him, groan shattering between Robert's teeth.

Afterwards, they lie side by side on the bed and say nothing at all. Jude is sticky in not entirely unpleasant places, and he gets the feeling his day off is going to mostly be spent asleep. He rolls onto his side, the world spinning around him, and he belatedly recalls that they are both still horribly, horribly drunk.

Robert gives him a toothy smile, a genuine grin, and Jude feels something loosen in his chest.

"See, Judesie?" Robert says quietly, "I told you it'd be fine."

"Piss off," Jude mutters, but he's grinning.

He falls asleep to the feeling of Robert's fingers in his hair, and reflects it's kind of a pity that he'll never be able to tell Rachel that she was wrong.