||[Dec. 31st, 2011|11:40 pm]
A slash comm for British panel shows
Title: Angry [1/?]
Fandom: Misc [NMTB-ish]
Pairing: Jimmy Carr/Mark Lamarr
Rating: M to be safe
Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will. Never happened. Never will. *sob*
Summary: The more Jimmy told himself that, the less freaked out he felt, until he'd nearly forgotten about the matter entirely.
The second time Jimmy was a guest on Buzzcocks, he had an even more enjoyable time than the first. Not that the first time hadn't been a laugh, but something just seemed to click that night. It wouldn't be until later, when the episode aired, that he would realize how he looked at their snarky host.
It was weird, and a little disturbing, really, because how much more obvious could he have been? He was practically staring at the man; every time he opened his mouth Jimmy's gaze was drawn to him. And the goofy grin - what was that about? It was like he was a teenage girl, giggling idiotically at everything her crush said in the hopes that he'd notice her.
Could he have acted more like a besotted fool?
Possibly, but it was bad enough without imagining all the possible - humiliating - scenarios.
The weird thing was, at the time of the filming, he hadn't noticed he was doing it. It seemed to have been something subconscious, which was really the only thing that kept Jimmy from panicking and running down the street in rainbow-print pants and high heels. It was just admiration, right? Just an acknowledgement, from one comic to another.
The more Jimmy told himself that, the less freaked out he felt, until he'd nearly forgotten about the matter entirely.
Sadly, it was at about that point that Mark Lamarr showed up at his flat, looking surly and uncomfortable.
He had traded his customary suit for a pair of jeans and a band shirt, the leather jacket thrown over one shoulder and cigarette dangling from his lips making him look less like the fifties throwback everyone still saw him as and more like a hard, world-weary punk rock reject.
Grinding the butt of his fag into the pavement with the heel of one scuffed trainer, Mark ran a hand through his hair and asked to come in.
Jimmy let him.
There was small talk (showbiz, music, music, mutual friends, music, music, music), a beer for Jimmy and a Coke for Mark, and Jimmy laughed a lot. Sometimes Mark laughed with him. They both had sort of odd laughs, but they sounded nice together, and neither would ever tease the other, because, well...because. Even when he laughed, though, Mark seemed uneasy, shifting in his seat and pacing about the room a lot.
There was more talk about music, and Mark flipping through Jimmy's records and rolling his eyes at a lot of them. He wasn't an elitist, but Mark seemed a bit put-out by the way everyone around him tended to stick to a couple of genres. Jimmy just shrugged when Mark pursed his lips at him. He knew what he liked, and what he didn't like, and at least his tastes varied a bit. Karoline wasn't nearly so eclectic.
Mark snorted a bit when Jimmy told him this, crumpling his Coke can and tossing it with impressive accuracy into the bin. Jimmy may have said something about recycling, or he may have only thought it but not got the words out, because then Mark had him pinned against the wall with his thigh between Jimmy's leg and Jimmy's ear between his teeth and oh.
It was rough and brief, and there was a lot of growling and a bit of muttered invictive, and Jimmy couldn't help but feel that it was mostly anger and frustration and very little actual substance, but he couldn't really bring himself to care. It wasn't that he was just saying that to save his ego; he really wasn't in a position to care whether or not Mark was honestly attracted to him.
There was a bit more biting, which Jimmy didn't mind, and bruising hands on his hips, which he really didn't mind. Shortly before it was over there was a loud bang, and Mark's fist had managed to hit the wall without Jimmy realizing it. A few pictures rattled against the paintwork, and Mark swore loudly, and again Jimmy wondered just what Mark was angry about.
Afterword, Mark apologized without looking at him, shifting from foot to foot like a naughty schoolboy who'd been caught skipping school. Jimmy didn't say anything. He was confused, yes, and a bit winded and very sore, but he hadn't quite got round to having an opinion about the whole event besides holy fuck on a stick. A few weeks later, when he'd stopped being confused and the bruises had faded, he would leave a message on Mark's ansaphone, explaining that it was fine, and that it would be forgotten, and not to worry about it.
But at the time, all he could do was nod when Mark excused himself and left, leather jacket hanging over one arm and hiding the mess, shutting the door quietly after himself. Jimmy sank to the floor and breathed deeply, hands still shaking and feeling too hot for his skin. It wasn't until Karoline called to say she was on her way home that he scrambled for the shower and tried to scrub the whole afternoon off.
The next time they called to book him on Buzzcocks, he said 'no thanks'.