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Jun. 27th, 2004 09:12 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rareslashTitle: On Schedule
Author: SarahMc
Fandom: Have I Got News For You
Rating: soft R
Paring: Paul Merton/Ian Hislop
Disclaimer: They're real, the story isn't. So not true.
The thing is, Ian thinks as he paces the dressing room, it’s all so tawdry.
Everything about it reeks of the tacky and sordid, the sort of things that are so pathetic he probably wouldn’t bother printing them if it was someone else involved. The fact that they’re colleagues of a sort, the fact that at least one of them is probably undergoing some kind of mid-life crisis, the fact that he’s married, technically making their arrangement an affair, it all adds up to cheap tabloid fodder that he’d normally consider very much below him. Z-list celebrities shagging each other, that was what he said about Angus, wasn’t it? And he’d even managed to keep a straight face.
He never wonders where Paul is at this stage. Typical of Paul to arrive late, there’s no point trying to ask him about it and no hope of him changing so why bother? It used to be that Paul would arrive as late as possible in an effort to make him sweat, now Ian suspects it’s just laziness. He doesn’t get nervous at the prospect of Paul’s arrival anymore, just a little uneasy.
He paces the room, pours himself some coffee from the brandless electric kettle that the BBC deigned to pay for and burns his tongue trying to swallow it too quickly. He thinks about George Galloway and peace talks and something he heard on the Today program on Tuesday morning. Wonders vaguely just how many fat jokes about John Prescott he can get away with before people start noticing that they’re all the same. He thinks about how easy the questions always are in retrospect. He decides that from now on he’s going to do his homework.
Lots of pickups tonight, and with Paul taking this much time it’s not likely he’ll make the next train. That is, if it arrives on time anyway. Which it won’t. Ian mentally calculates how long he has until the train after that one’s due, allowing at least twenty minutes for delays, which is generous. He has a nasty feeling he won’t be home before midnight tonight. He mentally outlines a rant about Stephen Byers for next week’s show and vaguely hopes there’ll be some sort of transport-related development so he can use it.
He doesn’t need to wait, Ian decides. If he leaves now he can make the next train and Paul can jolly well sort himself out. Why should Ian feel responsible for his orgasms? He’s halfway to the door when it pushes inwards towards him and suddenly Paul, with his typical thoughtlessness, is standing in the way.
Well, Ian decides, since he’s here now anyway...
*
The first time had been different. He’d half-thought Paul’s conditions had been a joke - they had to be a joke - and hadn’t really wanted to stick around to find out if he was right.
He’d tried to slip out through the fire doors. Push the heavy metal doors open, escape across the concrete car park and disappear into the streets. The wind had whistled around his ears and he’d tugged his coat on tighter, long past the after-show thrill of the empty parking lot he felt years ago. He was moving to close the door behind him when he heard a pointed cough behind him. He’d tried not to feel guilty, the last thing he wanted to do was give Paul the moral high ground.
Ian had turned around slowly and, as he often did in such situations, decided to go for sarcasm. I don’t suppose you’d remember, Paul, but I happen to have a wife and children...
He had to get home, he said, making a deliberate effort not to mention winning. He was glad the game had gone well and he was awfully sorry he couldn't hang around and chat-
How soon we forget, Paul had remarked.
Unfortunately, Ian remembered the details of his lunch with Paul all too well. Awkwardness, he mostly remembered. The hard wood of the chairs, the waiter’s imperceptibly raised eyebrow, the firm insistence that the only way to get Paul back on the show would be to make the competition ‘more interesting’. He hadn’t been sure whether or not he was expected to laugh at the proposal and had settled for a nervous twitch of a smile instead. Paul hadn’t looked impressed. But then, Paul never looked impressed.
Well, it wasn’t as if he could have bolted for it. Paul wasn’t exactly in great shape at the time but he hadn’t been running in years himself and didn’t want to risk getting caught. Better to be discreet, he decided.
*
If there were two words that completely failed to sum up Ian Hislop, they would be ‘easily’ and ‘intimidated’. They were even less Ian-like when used in conjunction with one another. You don’t spend ten years editing Private Eye without growing a pretty thick skin, as he’d been known to point out to anyone who gave him the opportunity. That lunch had brought him pretty close, though, and by Paul’s first show back, he’d been so nervous he’d lost by five points.
It was certainly a high stake – one that made the various court battles he’d amassed over the years seem almost trivial in comparison – but at the same time it had been so ridiculously unlikely, so unreal, that it had seemed like nothing. And it wasn’t that it was anything all *that* special, (he’d tried it once or twice at Oxford, been largely unimpressed by the whole business), it was just... well, not exactly very dignified, was it?
Dignity, he decided later on, was probably the root of the matter. Paul was after his dignity, it was nothing to do with sexuality or feelings or even the game. Paul must have been in it for the power kick. Which made perfect sense in the first few weeks, at least.
Nowadays, of course, when Paul spent more time talking than he did shagging, Ian didn’t like to weigh up the implications. But then, that was just Paul, really. He was the sort of man who liked the sound of his own voice, plain and simple. Ian never examined his motives for the whole thing too closely and simply refused to ask himself why he was going along with it. Some things are just more important, things like privatisation. Bloody trains.
*
They headed for the closest dressing room and Ian tried to think of words that didn’t sound like ‘frogmarched’. It had been Ian’s dressing room the first time, since his was closer to the door, and ever since it was always Ian’s. Which made sense since Paul, being a good sport, always turned up on time when it was his turn to pay up.
Look, Paul, I’m not sure... Wasn’t sure he could cope with such a drastic life decision, wasn’t sure whether he really wanted Paul back on the show that much after all, wasn’t sure he wasn’t about to collapse from nerves (not that standing up straight was really required of him at present). He dithered. Paul had stared at him a minute and rolled his eyes. Bloody hell, Ian, do I have to show you how to do everything?
Did Paul say that or had he imagined it? What he mostly remembered was something that had felt dangerously close to hyperventilation when Paul grabbed his arm and yanked him down onto the plastic chair. He looked up at Paul and Paul had looked back down at him. Now don’t try and tell me you don’t know how it works. He definitely said that at some point.
Everything happened very suddenly and rather too quickly for Ian to take it in properly. Before he’d quite figured out what was going on, suddenly Paul was on his knees and Ian was standing up and trying to get away because for some reason this was so much worse, and Paul, of course, had ignored him and reached for his zip anyway. He’d tried to say something like, ‘you don’t have to...’ but soon his trousers were pooling at his ankles and Paul’s mouth was hot and wet and- He squeezed his eyes shut and pretended it was someone else. Two other men, not Paul and Ian, doing something very wrong in some other dressing room.
It hadn’t lasted long and he’d been grateful for the cheap BBC dressing room chair afterwards. Paul had stood up, wiped his mouth and patted Ian’s cheek. That was a one-off, he’d said, no more freebies. Then he was gone and Ian wasn’t so much distressed as he was uncomfortably self-conscious, a fact that distressed him later on when he thought about it.
Ian went on to lose the next four games.
*
Ian’s knees ache a little more every week. Probably a sign that he needs to lose weight or that he’s getting older or something equally unpleasant. Paul helps him up and he refills the kettle, brushing the dust off his trousers as he does so. What do they pay the cleaners for, for God’s sake?
They talk about Tony Blair and holidays in Tuscany and the number of subscribers to Private Eye this month (yes, he says, it is a real magazine). The only politics they don’t talk about are their own and they never talk about Angus.
Paul likes his coffee black. Which is just as well, because the carton of milk’s almost empty and, he suspects, has been in the green room since last week. Paul asks for a teaspoon even though there’s really nothing to stir and sits in the second chair that somehow made its way into the dressing room over the years.
Paul finishes his coffee and, as he’s taken to doing recently, he continues their conversation on the way out of the studio, through the London streets – still alive as though it were midday despite it being closer to midnight - to the tube station. As they move to separate, heading for different platforms, Ian finally says what’s been worrying him.
“You know, this is much worse than what Angus did.”
Paul thinks for a moment. “Yes,” he says at last, “but Angus was a tosser, and you’re not. And we won’t get caught.”
“And that makes it alright?”
“Absolutely.”
And of course Ian laughs and of course Paul’s face is as straight as ever. Then he grins and half-waves and disappears off in the other direction. The station’s never empty, exactly, but it’s nice to be able to hear Paul’s footsteps echoing down the steps. Ian turns and heads for his own platform.
The train, of course, is late. But Ian waits for the full seventeen minutes with a silly grin that even a horrendous public transport system can’t erase.
Author: SarahMc
Fandom: Have I Got News For You
Rating: soft R
Paring: Paul Merton/Ian Hislop
Disclaimer: They're real, the story isn't. So not true.
The thing is, Ian thinks as he paces the dressing room, it’s all so tawdry.
Everything about it reeks of the tacky and sordid, the sort of things that are so pathetic he probably wouldn’t bother printing them if it was someone else involved. The fact that they’re colleagues of a sort, the fact that at least one of them is probably undergoing some kind of mid-life crisis, the fact that he’s married, technically making their arrangement an affair, it all adds up to cheap tabloid fodder that he’d normally consider very much below him. Z-list celebrities shagging each other, that was what he said about Angus, wasn’t it? And he’d even managed to keep a straight face.
He never wonders where Paul is at this stage. Typical of Paul to arrive late, there’s no point trying to ask him about it and no hope of him changing so why bother? It used to be that Paul would arrive as late as possible in an effort to make him sweat, now Ian suspects it’s just laziness. He doesn’t get nervous at the prospect of Paul’s arrival anymore, just a little uneasy.
He paces the room, pours himself some coffee from the brandless electric kettle that the BBC deigned to pay for and burns his tongue trying to swallow it too quickly. He thinks about George Galloway and peace talks and something he heard on the Today program on Tuesday morning. Wonders vaguely just how many fat jokes about John Prescott he can get away with before people start noticing that they’re all the same. He thinks about how easy the questions always are in retrospect. He decides that from now on he’s going to do his homework.
Lots of pickups tonight, and with Paul taking this much time it’s not likely he’ll make the next train. That is, if it arrives on time anyway. Which it won’t. Ian mentally calculates how long he has until the train after that one’s due, allowing at least twenty minutes for delays, which is generous. He has a nasty feeling he won’t be home before midnight tonight. He mentally outlines a rant about Stephen Byers for next week’s show and vaguely hopes there’ll be some sort of transport-related development so he can use it.
He doesn’t need to wait, Ian decides. If he leaves now he can make the next train and Paul can jolly well sort himself out. Why should Ian feel responsible for his orgasms? He’s halfway to the door when it pushes inwards towards him and suddenly Paul, with his typical thoughtlessness, is standing in the way.
Well, Ian decides, since he’s here now anyway...
*
The first time had been different. He’d half-thought Paul’s conditions had been a joke - they had to be a joke - and hadn’t really wanted to stick around to find out if he was right.
He’d tried to slip out through the fire doors. Push the heavy metal doors open, escape across the concrete car park and disappear into the streets. The wind had whistled around his ears and he’d tugged his coat on tighter, long past the after-show thrill of the empty parking lot he felt years ago. He was moving to close the door behind him when he heard a pointed cough behind him. He’d tried not to feel guilty, the last thing he wanted to do was give Paul the moral high ground.
Ian had turned around slowly and, as he often did in such situations, decided to go for sarcasm. I don’t suppose you’d remember, Paul, but I happen to have a wife and children...
He had to get home, he said, making a deliberate effort not to mention winning. He was glad the game had gone well and he was awfully sorry he couldn't hang around and chat-
How soon we forget, Paul had remarked.
Unfortunately, Ian remembered the details of his lunch with Paul all too well. Awkwardness, he mostly remembered. The hard wood of the chairs, the waiter’s imperceptibly raised eyebrow, the firm insistence that the only way to get Paul back on the show would be to make the competition ‘more interesting’. He hadn’t been sure whether or not he was expected to laugh at the proposal and had settled for a nervous twitch of a smile instead. Paul hadn’t looked impressed. But then, Paul never looked impressed.
Well, it wasn’t as if he could have bolted for it. Paul wasn’t exactly in great shape at the time but he hadn’t been running in years himself and didn’t want to risk getting caught. Better to be discreet, he decided.
*
If there were two words that completely failed to sum up Ian Hislop, they would be ‘easily’ and ‘intimidated’. They were even less Ian-like when used in conjunction with one another. You don’t spend ten years editing Private Eye without growing a pretty thick skin, as he’d been known to point out to anyone who gave him the opportunity. That lunch had brought him pretty close, though, and by Paul’s first show back, he’d been so nervous he’d lost by five points.
It was certainly a high stake – one that made the various court battles he’d amassed over the years seem almost trivial in comparison – but at the same time it had been so ridiculously unlikely, so unreal, that it had seemed like nothing. And it wasn’t that it was anything all *that* special, (he’d tried it once or twice at Oxford, been largely unimpressed by the whole business), it was just... well, not exactly very dignified, was it?
Dignity, he decided later on, was probably the root of the matter. Paul was after his dignity, it was nothing to do with sexuality or feelings or even the game. Paul must have been in it for the power kick. Which made perfect sense in the first few weeks, at least.
Nowadays, of course, when Paul spent more time talking than he did shagging, Ian didn’t like to weigh up the implications. But then, that was just Paul, really. He was the sort of man who liked the sound of his own voice, plain and simple. Ian never examined his motives for the whole thing too closely and simply refused to ask himself why he was going along with it. Some things are just more important, things like privatisation. Bloody trains.
*
They headed for the closest dressing room and Ian tried to think of words that didn’t sound like ‘frogmarched’. It had been Ian’s dressing room the first time, since his was closer to the door, and ever since it was always Ian’s. Which made sense since Paul, being a good sport, always turned up on time when it was his turn to pay up.
Look, Paul, I’m not sure... Wasn’t sure he could cope with such a drastic life decision, wasn’t sure whether he really wanted Paul back on the show that much after all, wasn’t sure he wasn’t about to collapse from nerves (not that standing up straight was really required of him at present). He dithered. Paul had stared at him a minute and rolled his eyes. Bloody hell, Ian, do I have to show you how to do everything?
Did Paul say that or had he imagined it? What he mostly remembered was something that had felt dangerously close to hyperventilation when Paul grabbed his arm and yanked him down onto the plastic chair. He looked up at Paul and Paul had looked back down at him. Now don’t try and tell me you don’t know how it works. He definitely said that at some point.
Everything happened very suddenly and rather too quickly for Ian to take it in properly. Before he’d quite figured out what was going on, suddenly Paul was on his knees and Ian was standing up and trying to get away because for some reason this was so much worse, and Paul, of course, had ignored him and reached for his zip anyway. He’d tried to say something like, ‘you don’t have to...’ but soon his trousers were pooling at his ankles and Paul’s mouth was hot and wet and- He squeezed his eyes shut and pretended it was someone else. Two other men, not Paul and Ian, doing something very wrong in some other dressing room.
It hadn’t lasted long and he’d been grateful for the cheap BBC dressing room chair afterwards. Paul had stood up, wiped his mouth and patted Ian’s cheek. That was a one-off, he’d said, no more freebies. Then he was gone and Ian wasn’t so much distressed as he was uncomfortably self-conscious, a fact that distressed him later on when he thought about it.
Ian went on to lose the next four games.
*
Ian’s knees ache a little more every week. Probably a sign that he needs to lose weight or that he’s getting older or something equally unpleasant. Paul helps him up and he refills the kettle, brushing the dust off his trousers as he does so. What do they pay the cleaners for, for God’s sake?
They talk about Tony Blair and holidays in Tuscany and the number of subscribers to Private Eye this month (yes, he says, it is a real magazine). The only politics they don’t talk about are their own and they never talk about Angus.
Paul likes his coffee black. Which is just as well, because the carton of milk’s almost empty and, he suspects, has been in the green room since last week. Paul asks for a teaspoon even though there’s really nothing to stir and sits in the second chair that somehow made its way into the dressing room over the years.
Paul finishes his coffee and, as he’s taken to doing recently, he continues their conversation on the way out of the studio, through the London streets – still alive as though it were midday despite it being closer to midnight - to the tube station. As they move to separate, heading for different platforms, Ian finally says what’s been worrying him.
“You know, this is much worse than what Angus did.”
Paul thinks for a moment. “Yes,” he says at last, “but Angus was a tosser, and you’re not. And we won’t get caught.”
“And that makes it alright?”
“Absolutely.”
And of course Ian laughs and of course Paul’s face is as straight as ever. Then he grins and half-waves and disappears off in the other direction. The station’s never empty, exactly, but it’s nice to be able to hear Paul’s footsteps echoing down the steps. Ian turns and heads for his own platform.
The train, of course, is late. But Ian waits for the full seventeen minutes with a silly grin that even a horrendous public transport system can’t erase.
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no subject
Date: 2004-06-27 03:24 am (UTC)Ahem.
Is there anything better than getting up in the morning and having a hignfy fic to read with breakfast? And this is a particularly splendifourous fic. Because you go inside their heads, and you make it all seem so real and relevant and terribly terribly witty.
Fabulous read :D
no subject
Date: 2004-06-28 06:28 am (UTC)