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Time And Good Fortune

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The TARDIS. He's in the TARDIS! David can hardly contain himself he's so excited.

"Oh, this is brilliant," he says, gleefully bouncing around the console. All the switches and buttons and weird objects glued in. He can't resist pulling down a lever, pushing around that odd green globe. Who'd have thought that him begging his way into Big Finish would lead to an actual visit to the actual TARDIS? It's the best day of his life, ever.

"Oops," he says, when a wee plastic fiddly bit breaks off in his hand. He grimaces and holds it up. "Er, seem to have broken this. Sorry."

"Happens all the time," says one of the crew, and takes the proffered part. "Don't worry, we'll just glue it back on."

"Gluing the TARDIS," David says, amused. Of course, it's just a prop, and most props are held together with spit and cellotape more than anything else, but it's the TARDIS console. It's not any old prop, it's the most important prop in the history of props. Well, after the TARDIS exterior, of course, and followed closely by the sonic screwdriver. Oh, he has to see if he can hold the new sonic!

He's vaguely aware that he's grinning like a madman, and he can't keep still. It's just so exciting. He's going to have to thank Russell with flowers or something. Lucky bastard that he is. David would give his right hand to even have a guest role. Maybe if there's a second series...

As David walks off the TARDIS set, he sees someone and stops dead. Oh my god, is that? It is.

Christopher Eccleston. Luckiest bastard of them all. Glowering over a cup of coffee. David really, really wants to walk up to him and fanboy all over him, because he's an amazing actor and David's been able to wheedle a sneak at his Doctor, except it's Paul McGann and Peter Davison all over again, and all David can do is stand there like a fool, struck dumb and staring while inside he's so excited he's practically vibrating.

Christopher glances his way, looks even grumpier, and then walks off. The moment broken, David ducks through a door and leans against the wall. His palms are sweating, and he wipes them on his jeans. At some point he hopes he can stop making a fool of himself in front of every actor who's played the Doctor.

"Hey, handsome."

David blinks and turns to find a man standing there, watching him. He's dressed up like a 1940s officer, and David's first thought is that the costume works for him. It goes with the chiselled jaw and the movie-star handsome looks. David looks past him and realizes he's walked onto a set for some sort of alien spacecraft. Well, a different alien spacecraft.

"Nice, isn't it?" the man says, gesturing at the set. "It's mine."

"Doesn't really match the clothes," David says, prying his eyes away from the elaborate set, so as not to be rude. He's embarrassed himself enough for one day.

"Captain Jack Harkness," the man says, with a grin and a wink. He holds out his hand, and David steps forward and shakes it. "John, actually."

"David," David says. John's hand is large and warm, and when John meets his eyes he feels suddenly quivery inside. He lets go after the handshake goes on a bit longer than expected.

"So what brings a guy like you to a place like this?" John asks, noting the guest pass hanging from David's neck.

"Oh. Well," David says, the grin creeping back onto his face. "It's Doctor Who!"

"Ah, a fan," John says, knowingly.

"Only since forever," David says, happily. "I can't get over the fact that it's actually back. Proper series and everything. Have you seen the sonic screwdriver?"

John laughs. "Definitely a fan. Though I think I've seen you somewhere before..."

"Oh, I've been here and there," David says. Casanova is still in post, though he has seen his face plastered about in the trades recently.

John gives him a considering look, up and down. "I got it," he says. "Blackpool, right? You were that singing detective."

David isn't normally recognized, so it's rather flattering. "Peter Carlisle, at your service."

"You can interrogate me anytime," John says.

David fights a blush and laughs nervously. He's never met anyone who flirted quite so enthusiastically before. He rubs at the back of his neck. "Yes, well. Enough about me. What are you supposed to be, then?"

"Intergalactic conman," John says.

"Oh, sounds like right trouble," David says.

"You know it," John replies, with a playful leer that makes David all quivery again. Then John gives an easy laugh. "You should see yourself. I'm not gonna bite. Oh, damn, break's about up, but-- you doing anything tonight?"

"Tonight? Um, no, no plans." David had only intended to spend the day and then drive back.

"Ever been to the Taurus?"

David shakes his head.

"Okay, tonight, seven o'clock, Taurus Steakhouse. Trust me, you'll love it."

"That's very kind, but--"

"No buts," John says. "I've got a reservation and no one to go with, and I hate to eat alone."

"Taurus it is," David agrees. John doesn't seem the type to take no for an answer. Besides, David could do with a night out. He's still in that post-filming recovery period when he's trying to have a social life again.

"Great," John says, and pats him on the shoulder. Grins that big American grin. "See you at seven." And then he's striding away, coat flapping behind him.


As David walks down St Mary's street, he reflects that he did actually have enough sense to ask around about John before leaving the set that afternoon. John Barrowman, late of West End musical theatre. It's surprising David hasn't bumped into him before, but David's drama and their circles must have never overlapped. He's also, apparently, all but married to a bloke called Scott, so despite the eyebrow-raising amount of flirting earlier, David assumes his honour is safe. Apparently flirting is how John says hello.

He's still not sure how he got roped into dinner with a complete stranger. Not that he's averse to making new friends, especially new friends who work on Doctor Who. More excuses to visit the set is never a bad thing, and he doesn't want to be too much of an endless nag to Russell since the man is so busy. He's already managed to snag the voice-over for one of those clip/interview shows, and if he pesters Russell any more he might compromise the holy grail of a guest spot. If only he hadn't been so busy with Casanova and everything else this past year, he could have been free. Ah, well, too late now. All he can do is cross his fingers that the series doesn't sink like a stone.

In the meantime, though, it's good to have an excuse to have a night out. During filming all he wants to do is curl up on the couch and zone out on his downtime, but now that he's recovered he's at loose ends again. Whatever John's reasons for insistently inviting him, David's grateful for the push.

Once he's at the Taurus, he doesn't have long to wait. He sees John's grinning face and waving hand across the crowded waiting area, and John weaves his way through to join him.

"You showed!" John says, pleased, slapping him on the back. "Excellent."

David cocks his head. "Since when are you Scottish?" He wonders if John is taking the piss.

"Born and bred," John says, proudly. "Moved to the States when I was a kid."

"Ah," David says. "You pass very well as an American."

"I usually stick with that," John admits. "But you know how it is. The moment you hear another Scot--"

"--the thicker the accent gets," David says, feeling his own involuntarily thicken. The same thing happens whenever he travels north, or talks to his parents.

John laughs, warm and friendly. "Come on, let's get our table."

The server guides them to an intimate little corner table, and they settle in with their menus. It's a straightforward listing, as this really isn't the sort of place you visit unless you're in the mood for a large slab of meat.

"Hm, the steak, the steak, or the steak?" he jokes.

John pretends to consider this. "I'd go for the steak," he says. "Seriously, though, fillet's the best."

"Come here often, then?" David says, and too late realizes how it sounds. It's all John's fault for flirting with him earlier, putting thoughts into David's head.

John looks amused, then replies, "Something tells me you're sweet. Can I have a sample?"

David gives a surprised bark of a laugh, then bites his lip as several people turn to look at him. "Please tell me we're not going to be trading lines all night."

"Hey, you started it."

"I did not!" David says, with mild indignance. "I distinctly remembering you starting it."

"Hey, you walked into my ship with that arse," John says. "I'd say that qualifies as starting it."

David is busy gaping at him when their server arrives.

"Two fillets, medium-rare," John says, ordering for the both of them. "And a bottle of Chateau Clarke 1999." He slips back to his American accent when he talks to the server.

By the time the server leaves, David has pulled himself together. Clearly he was wrong about his honour being safe, and while that isn't at all a bad thing, he doesn't want to get himself into something he'll regret.

"Um, I'm not sure how to say this," he begins. "But aren't you with someone?"

John sobers. "Yes, I am."

"Then perhaps I should leave," David says. "You're very nice, and under other circumstances--"

"David, stop," John says, calmly. "It's all right."

"Is it?"

"Yes," John says, honestly. "We have an arrangement. Scott likes to say I'm too much for one man," he says, a fond look on his face. "The reservation was for him, but something came up."

"Oh," David says, taking this in. "So you have an open relationship, then?" he asks, lowering his voice, aware of the proximity of the other diners. This isn't the sort of thing he's used to discussing in public.

John nods. "Scott won't mind. Really."

"Okay," David says, letting go of his concerns. He gives John a crooked smile.

"That's more like it," John says.


When the wine comes, David drinks his first glass too quickly, and munches on a bread roll to keep it from going straight to his head. He's a bit nervous, he realizes. Not terribly so, but John is a force of nature. A force of nature that wants to have his arse, at that.

He babbles when he's nervous, and the second foremost thing on his mind is John's day job, so he makes a fool of himself blathering on about Doctor Who. John doesn't seem to mind, however, being a good sport and answering David's questions -- up to a point.

"I can't tell you that!" John says, shaking his head. "You don't want me to give everything away. It'll ruin the surprise."

David pouts. "I won't tell anyone."

"That's not the point," John says, stern but amused.

"Oh, very well," David relents. "What was it like, growing up in the States? I've only been there for a movie, a few years back."

"Anything I'd know?"

"I doubt it," David says, with mild chagrin.

"Ah," John says, wisely. "You should see my masterpiece, Shark Attack 3: Megalodon."

David's glad he wasn't drinking just now, or he'd have just spit wine all over the table. "Mega-what?" he says, laughing.

"Megala-who," John corrects. "And yes, it was just as bad as you think. Usual Jaws rip-off. The best thing about it was how bad the dialogue was. I had to ad-lib most of my lines, and they kept all the ad-libs because anything was better. Even the ones they weren't supposed to!"

"Oh Jesus," David says, wiping his eyes.

"What's the worst thing you've ever been in?" John asks.

"I don't know, I've been quite lucky so far," David says. Not that everything he's been in has been brilliant, but he's never been in anything as bad as Shark Attack 3 sounds to be. "Most of my disasters have been on stage, really."

"There's gotta be something I can rent," John insists. "What's your most recent job?"

"Ah, well... Casanova, actually," David admits. "The lead."

"Russell's Casanova?" John says, eyebrows raised. "You sneak! I'm sitting across the table from a heartthrob and he doesn't tell me until now."

"It's nothing like that," David says, tugging at his ear. "It's not a very conventional Casanova, or I wouldn't have got the part."

"You're too damn modest, you know that?"

David laughs. "Too modest and too nice, I've been told. My apologies."

"Lucky for you, modest and nice is my type," John says, with a wink.


The steaks are as good as John promised, and they've worked their way through too much wine by the time they've finished eating. David is pleasantly tipsy and in no condition to drive -- not that John is much better, though he's a bit steadier on his pins.

"So are you staying in town?" John asks, after he pays their bill.

"Oh, no," David says. "I just drove down for the day. I was going to drive back tonight. Oops!" He trips on the mat as they walk outside, stumbles, and John steadies him. And then doesn't take his hand away, but turns it into an escorting press against the small of his back as they walk to the kerb.

"You're coming to my place," John tells him, as he hails a cab.

"Did anyone ever tell you you're very forward?" David says, but finds himself leaning towards John's warmth in the chill evening. He rather likes the way his hand feels, and likes it even more when it slides onto his hip.

"I've heard that a few times, yeah," John says. "Can't really apologize for it."

"That's all right," David says, and shivers as a cold gust of wind comes up off the bay. He's dressed for London, not Cardiff, and he's grateful when the taxi arrives.

"Is it okay if we leave your car overnight?" John asks, as they're on their way.

"Should be," David says. "I don't think anyone would bother with it anyway. It's a Skoda."

John snickers. "Sorry, I shouldn't laugh."

"It's an underrated car," David protests.

"I'm sure it's a wonderful car," John says. His hand is back again, this time on David's thigh. David feels a twitch of arousal as John's fingers brush against his inner thigh, creeping slowly upwards.

"Yes," David says, his voice catching. He feels a delicious thrill of naughtiness as he spreads his legs just an inch wider, and John's hand moves more confidently up and in, until it's just below his crotch. It stops there, a steady heat through his jeans, and doesn't move through the rest of the journey, even as David's cock fills enough to press against the side of his fingers. David lets out a squeak of a moan when that happens, then concentrates on keeping a straight face.

He doesn't normally do this, go home with veritable strangers on a whim. But it's a very nice whim, and John has a very nice hand, and David can't seem to think about anything other than having it wrapped around his cock as soon as possible.

The taxi stops, and John's hand lifts away. David slides out into the cold air and waits as John pays and walks over and guides him to his door.

The moment they're inside, David's back is against the wall and John's arms are on either side of him, and John is leaning in close, brushing his mouth lightly against the back of David's cheek. David barely dares to breathe.

"I've got something for you," John murmurs.

David swallows. Tries to remember where his voice went. Squeaks as John kisses his neck, as one hand slides inside his jacket and caresses his side, his hip. David's own hands seem paralyzed along with the rest of him.

"Do you?" he manages, his voice embarrassingly high.

"Uh huh," John says, mouthing at David's neck, kissing and sucking in a way that's sure to leave a mark. David flushes at the thought, and bares his neck and oh. John closes the distance between their bodies and presses full against him. David's paralysis breaks and he clutches at John's coat and groans.

John pulls back with a satisfied look on his face and extricates himself from David's grip. "Right back," he says, and walks over to a bag and starts rifling through it.

David takes the opportunity to collect himself, or at least attempt to. One less glass of wine would have probably been wise. After the second glass, his inhibitions tend to escape him.

"I snuck this off the set," John says, as he finds what he was looking for and hides it behind his back. "Close your eyes."

David closes his eyes, then opens one just slightly.

John gives him another stern look. "No peeking."

"Fine, fine," David says, and squeezes them shut.

"Hold out your hand."

David complies. "Is this going to be something naughty?"

"Only in the sense that if you break this or take it, my ass'll be in a sling," John says, dryly. He gently places something in David's hand. "Okay, open your eyes."

David opens his eyes. Opens them wider. "Oh my god!" he exclaims. "The sonic screwdriver! The actual sonic screwdriver!"

"I heard you were asking to see it and didn't get a chance," John says.

"This is so utterly cool," David marvels. He points it around the room, and fiddles with the slide, pushing it up and down. It even has a working light. The old sonic screwdriver didn't have a light.

"It'll make a noise onscreen," John says. "Of course, it's not as cool as Jack's sonic blaster."

"Jack's-- Oh, your character," David realizes. "Nothing's as cool as the sonic screwdriver," he says, protectively.

"Who looks at a screwdriver and thinks 'Oho, this could be a little more sonic'?"

David gives an affronted sputter. "The sonic screwdriver is far superior to any old blaster."

John just laughs. "You're sound more like the Doctor than Chris, and he's working off a script."

David's drunken annoyance quickly evaporates under the flattery. "I sound like the Doctor? Really?" he preens.

"Uh huh," John says. He plucks the sonic from David's hand and puts it safely aside. "What I want to know is, do you dance like him?"

"Dance?" David echoes, confused.

John takes him by the hand and wraps one arm around his waist, and David whoops and laughs as John takes him spinning around the room. He's uncoordinated on top of not being much of a dancer, but John certainly knows what he's doing so David follows his lead as best he can. It makes him dizzy, and he giggles and then laughs as they fall onto the couch, and then his mouth is too busy with kissing for laughter.

John tastes of wine, and he's a very good kisser. But what David likes best is the weight of him between his legs and the way their crotches rub together. David pulls at the back of his shirt and runs his hands up John's back and just down the back of his jeans, and my goodness he's fit.

John leaves his mouth and starts on his neck again, while his hands are busy pushing up David's layered shirts. "I don't normally do this on a first date," David says, voice slurred from alcohol and arousal.

"Kiss?" John jokes.

"Noo," David drawls. "I don't normally..."

"Fuck?" John asks, much more heatedly this time. There's a pop as the top button of David's jeans is tugged open.

David swallows a whimper. "Fuck. Get fucked."

"You're a good boy, huh?" John asks, darkly. "Nice and modest. Or is that only until someone gets your pants off?"

"Not always good," David says, wondering where all the air in the room is going. He feels his zipper being opened more than hears it, and then -- oh god, there go his jeans. His jockeys. Oh god. "Not good now," he says, breathlessly.

"Good boy gone bad," John murmurs. "Just how I like it."

There's heat as John's hand closes around David's erection, and David cries out as John strokes and strokes. Makes him squirm beneath him, moaning, grasping at what he can reach -- John's arms, the cushions. He cries out again as John moves out of reach and there's the wet heat of his mouth around David's cock.

"John," David moans.

John falters suddenly, but only for a moment, and then he's redoubling his actions, sucking and licking in a way that makes David's brains dribble out his ear. He seems determined to make David come, even pushes down his legs when David restlessly moves them. And he's good, he's very good, especially when David's had nothing but his own hand for a while and even the confidence of John's touch is as intoxicating as the wine.

David's just starting to decide agreeing to everything tonight as the best idea he's had in ages when John works a wet finger into his arse and crooks it, and then he stops thinking about anything at all except John's hands and his mouth and the fact that he's going to be fucked very soon and maybe he'll stay until Sunday, he doesn't have any reason not to spend the whole weekend in Cardiff and maybe just John's bed if they ever make it there. And then his moans and his hips quicken and John's finger rubs back and forth inside him. His head presses back against the sofa as his hips rise, and he pulses into the heat of John's mouth.

When his head clears, he's surprised to find John not eagerly alongside him but sitting on the far end of the couch, looking away from him.

"John, what..." David says, still breathing fast.

"I lied to you," John says, soberly.

"What?" David says, confused.

"I think you should go," John says, and stands. "I'll call you a cab. I know a hotel you can stay at."

"A hotel?" David echoes, feeling completely lost. "What?"

"I'll pay for that too," John insists.

David sits up and struggles into his clothes. "You don't have to pay for anything," he protests. "What's going on?"

"I lied, all right? I lied about Scott."

David's stomach sinks. "You're cheating on him?"

"No," John insists. "It's not like that. He'd be fine with this. But I always check with him first. That's the arrangement."

"Then what was this?" David asks, suddenly hurt and guilty. "You used me?"

"I was mad at him. I'm sorry," John says. "David, wait."

"Shove your bloody apology," David says, already pulling on his jacket and heading out the door. The cold feels bitter as the night air hits him, but it's probably the lateness of the hour.

"I'm sorry," John says, almost pleading.

David ignores him and stomps off down the street. He doesn't need John to call him a bloody taxi or find him a bloody hotel. He's done enough.