Booty Casting Call
by Anon
Pairing: DB/JM
Rating: R


James knows what they say about him.

It'd be pretty fucking hard to avoid it, really, though he does try. These 'fans' with their rumors and their hunger...

Like something out of bad poetry to look at their eyes, wet with unshed tears and all that *need*. As if it were *him* they wanted. Well, he's not bitter. He knows *exactly* where he'd be without them, and it wouldn't be here.

Furniture so expensive he can't even think about it. A black book full of numbers of ripe, beautiful girls just dying to get a taste of who they (want him to be) think he is. A *gig*, and James isn't...

He likes to think of himself as realistic.

He's never going to be Eddie Van Halen, or have anything like that (talent) luck. But he's good *enough*, and now he has the chance to show it off. It's possible -- just possible -- that some of the people at tomorrow's show will leave remembering *James*.

Not Spike.

In the meantime, he's free, rich, and years from twenty-one -- and no matter *what* they say about that, he's pretty satisfied.

Twenty-one was poverty and a complete lack of interest from the money-men and the cameras.

Forty-two is... something else entirely.

He smiles to himself and finishes off his beer. Gives deep, serious thought to getting another, but there's only four in the fridge, and Dave will be over soon, and Dave has a fucking hollow leg.

And really, there's no *earthly* reason for the visit -- it's not like Joss is actually going to *tell* them anything about the new season until it's absolutely necessary and/or they're already in costume, but, well, it's Dave.

In truth, it's the whole lot of them. They've all heard the rumors, and they all *know* the people he *used* to work with...

"We're a family here," Richards had said, and his face was so smooth and blameless that James knew he meant it.

He'd *seen* the man, after all, and he wasn't that good an actor. (And he knows what they say about *that*, too.)

But... he doesn't want to be one of *those* actors, either. Nose in the air like they're better than whatever's paying their bills and getting them all of that *attention*. It's not that James doesn't think he could do more -- he *knows* he can -- it's just that he's *abundantly* aware of the fact that he wouldn't be doing *this* much were it not for the fact that he pays his dues and smiles for the cameras and, well, sucks it up.

He knows Joss -- about as well as any of them seem to, in any event -- and he knows that the man will fire his ass in a heartbeat if he ever gives him a reason. Network or no network.

He likes to think he doesn't need that lesson pounded in the hard way, unlike some people he knows better not to name.

It's just that sometimes it all seems a little... tiring.

When he dreamed of this, the fame and fortune and the chance to be on *stage*, he always thought that it would end. That there'd be boundaries, and that everyone he worked with would agree about where those boundaries should be placed.

He'd have the respect of his peers, and a place all his own to be no one but himself, and there wouldn't be any bitterness or cynicism to beat down with booze or girls because... because it would all work out fine.

Sometimes he looks at his co-stars and wonders what it was like to learn that lesson as a child. Because really, the vast majority of them *are* children, or had been when this all started.

He wonders if he's jealous.

The knock on the door isn't a knock so much as a rough tattoo -- eminently Dave -- and James opens the door to find the man grinning on his step, a bottle of tequila in each hand.

"Oh, we're going to get a *lot* done today, aren't we?"

Dave grins a little wider and shoulders past him, looking around and making James way too conscious of his furnishings Was there something...? "Tons. It's gonna be epic. We're gonna get right down to the roots of Spike and Angel's characters, we're gonna -- where the hell are the shot glasses?"

James snorts despite himself and grabs a couple from the recessed bar. "I don't have any limes."

Dave sets the bottles down on the coffee table and sits. Folds his hands together and gives him a deep, earnest look. "The first thing you need to learn about Spike --"

"About *Spike*?"

"I'm imparting vastly important knowledge here, man, don't interrupt. Now. The first thing you need to learn is that -- are you listening?"

James gives up and laughs, grabbing a seat on the couch and gesturing for Dave to continue.

Dave leans forward, brow crumpling to, undoubtedly, impart the gravity of the situation. "Spike thinks limes are for pussies."

"Spike's an *idiot*."

"Very true, which is why we're lucky that Angel's so damned smart." Dave yanks a battered paper bag from inside his jacket, spilling limes and a penknife onto the table.

James groans. "This is going to kill us, you know."

"Au contraire, my brother. This is going to make us... uh. Stronger. Where's the salt?"

James shakes his head but can't feel any real anger anymore, or even annoyance. He fetches the salt shaker from the kitchen and does his best to toss it hand to hand without spilling anything.

Trying to stay grim and cynical around Dave was like trying to be pissed off at a Golden Retriever. Pointless at *best*.

Dave's already slicing the limes. James has a fleeting moment of sick terror about his coffee table, but forces it back. His bank account. Boundaries. Right. "So what else do I need to know about Spike?"

Dave hands him a brimming shot glass and a lime.

James rolls his eyes, licks his hand, dumps the salt, and takes the shot.

"He never tries to have a deep and serious conversation without drinking *first*."

"That's not --"

Dave looks at him warningly.

"Oh, fuck off and take your shot."

Dave beams at him approvingly and does so.

"So what does Angel have to say about drinking during the day?"

"Fuck if I know. Something about nuns, probably."

Christ, and how old were they, again? Something about being wise and realistic and *not* a frat boy? Apparently, not today.

"Besides, we both know what *Spike* would say about it."

"Why not?"

"Fuck, yes." Dave grins still more and fills their glasses.

Lick, shot, lick, shot, and Dave's still smiling like he knows something. Or... like there's absolutely nothing in the world *not* worth smiling about, and James... can appreciate it.

He's prettier when he's pretending to be gloomy, but not by much. He's just a big, tanned -- and how come they don't make *him* stay indoors? -- all-American *boy*, sprawled out on James' couch like growing up is an unfortunate disease that happens to *other* people.

James takes another shot. And he knows he's going to feel this in the morning -- or afternoon, whichever rears its ugly head first -- but... It's a little like slipping into costume to do this.

Another costume, a *better* one that wouldn't necessarily get him the panting girls and drooling boys, but would get him something better.

Years taken off his term with no loss of money, fame, or luck. A little bit of youth.

"You're not drinking enough," says Dave, finishing another shot.

James rolls his eyes and proffers his own glass. "I'm not even going to try to protest."

"Gettin' smarter every day."

And Dave's grin this time is almost a leer, or at least that species of leer that belongs solely to overgrown kids. *Guys*, who wouldn't believe half of what you thought when you saw them looking like that, and thought they knew twice as much as you ever could.

But... it's still too much to be angry. Too much to *expect*, even.

Another shot, and Dave gasps out something like satisfaction. "So are you gonna tell me why you're -- I hate this word so fucking much, by the way --brooding?"

Age. Money. Fans. Sex. Sex? James shakes his head. "Just one of those days."

Dave nods like he knows what James is talking about, what he's *not* talking about, and tops them off again. "I hear you. I should've brought more limes."

"Three more shots and we'll be eating the peels."

Dave winces and stares at the citrus wreckage. "God, you're right. That's horrible." And then he shrugs and takes his shot, mood back from wherever its been.

And he wants to ask if that's it, but more than that he wants to ask if Dave does this with *everyone* on Angel. But it's not as if he can't picture it. It's... Dave. The first time they'd met he'd tried to get James on a basketball court. It was probably only random chance that the man didn't bring some kind of sports equipment instead of (or along with) the bottles.

And it's a little like helplessness just to be in the man's sphere of influence. Like breathing the same air will make him just as calm and easy with the world as Dave is, where the only blackness is out of wardrobe and nothing can't be cured with a shot.

"You're staring at me. Glaring, even. Hey, I rhymed."

James gives up. He *could* try hating the man, but the world is getting that warm and fuzzy blur of good tequila and the taste is somewhere between tart and... slick. There's just no point. "You're hot."

Dave nods solemnly. "It's true. Everyone --"

But James doesn't let him finish the thought. Just does his best -- and it is *very* good -- slink over to Dave and straddles him. Takes the man's shot.

"That's not nice."

"The first thing you need to learn about Angel --"

And Dave's already laughing, wide mouth open, lips slick with spit and tequila and lime juice. "Tell me, Obi-Wan."

James licks the man's lower lip and tries his own smile. "Are you listening?"

Dave raises an eyebrow, something between shock and incredulity on his face. "Oh, I'm listening."

James licks him again and gets pulled into a wet, messy, ridiculously *good* tasting kiss. Alcohol-acetone burn at the back of it, and everything about Dave is huge, right down to his tongue.

He sucks it for a moment and takes another to wonder if he's really going to do this. If *this* is the way he wants to start their working relationship. And then Dave's hands are on his ass and the shot glass hits the carpeting with a muffled thud and Dave's eyes are closed just as if he's taking this seriously.

James pulls out of the kiss with a wet sound. "The first thing you need to know about Angel --"

Spark of something bright and sharp in those brown eyes. "Is that he's not nice? Yeah, I got that..." Another kiss, and this one is all Dave. Almost an attack, if Dave wasn't *Dave*, but as it is, it's about as gentle as a kiss from a big, stubbled, half-drunk guy can be.

Dave hums into it and squeezes his ass, yanks him closer by main force, and yeah, he's feeling it. They both are.

Two pairs of jeans and a few scraps of cotton away from skin to skin, and it almost doesn't matter, because Dave kisses like he means it, like this is something more than a stupid game between drunk people, and it only takes a moment to push him down.

Flat on his back and legs sprawled like an invitation, and James doesn't wait. Gets Dave's pants open with hands that feel clumsier by the minute, the second, and doesn't get a chance to yank them down before Dave's yanking *him* down.

Thumbs tracing his cheekbones and tongue tracing his palate and his dick knows the difference betweens jeans and boxers, and his hips won't -- can't -- stop grinding down --

"Fuck yeah --"

Dave's hands on his ass again, and James can feel himself losing it. *Big* hands, hard hands, *good* hands slipping into his jeans and making him grind faster. Harder. Pulling the fabric tight across his dick and *fuck*. Control is something important. Desirable, even, but suddenly this is nothing but sex, and fuck the games. Right.

Pulls back again just long enough to get his pants open, get them down around his hips, and Dave goes right for it, cupping his balls in one hand and pushing at his boxers with the other and *looking* at him. Wide-eyed and hungry and weirdly young.

And James wants this, wants more of this than he really wants to *deal* with, but mostly he wants that *look*. "C'mon, gimme --"

Works his hand around both their dicks and Dave arches up and groans, twining a hand with James' own and tugging.

Apparently he likes it slow, but James wants it fast and Dave isn't complaining. Dave isn't doing much but making those great sounds and silly expressions and leaking all over them. Getting them wet, getting them hot, getting them *off*.

"Jesus -- Jesus *Christ*, James --"

And then he's biting his lip and shaking his head and trying to slow them down and James *knows* what that means. Knows the smile on his face would look damned mean-spirited if Dave opened his eyes. Strokes faster, giving a little flick across the head of Dave's big, pretty dick and that's all it takes.

Dave comes all over both of them and it's wet and it's messy and it's so fucking dirty and hot that for a moment James almost loses it -- to the images in his head if nothing else, but he manages to disentangle himself.

Watches Dave pant and blow blink stupidly and has just enough time to savor it before Dave rolls them both off the couch.

The coffee table goes scraping across the floor with the help of his shoulder blade, but there isn't enough time to notice the pain before Dave's holding him down and giving him a look.

"You know, if you wanted to have sex, you could've said something *before* we got fucked up."

"The first thing you need to learn about Angel --"

"Shut the fuck up."

And it's another Dave-kiss, this one hard and long and slow and sloppily obvious, deadly obvious and full of intent and James is dimly aware of the carpet and the fact that rug burns are imminent, but mostly he's aware of Dave's hard-and-soft belly on his dick and Dave's tongue and Dave's hands like the best do-it-yourself bondage ever.

And Dave isn't hard anymore, but it doesn't stop him from grinding down, using all of that weight on him, and it's only uncomfortable beyond -- far beyond -- the right-now feel of it.

"Fuck..." he hears himself say, or maybe moan, and Dave is licking his throat.

Not quite sucking, not quite kissing, not *quite* using his teeth as much as James abruptly wants him to, and it's not *enough*.

"Come on, come on --"

He can *feel* Dave's smile against his skin, and there's a moment to wonder if he's underestimated the man, and then his shirt is being pushed up, pulled half over his head and Dave is dragging his mouth down and around and there's not enough pressure and friction on his dick and he's starting to go a little nuts.

More when he feels his pants and shorts being dragged out of the way, and Dave licks his hipbones and hums wordlessly against the oversensitive skin.

"God, you're skinny."

"Fucking feed me later, come *on* --"

A laugh that doesn't stop even with Dave's lips around his dick, even with the tongue teasing his slit, and James hears himself groan and doesn't care. *Can't* care, because he hadn't even really *thought* about Dave's mouth, not the way it clearly needed to be thought about, not the way his body is thinking about it.

Gets his fist up to his mouth just in time to bite off a yell, and then Dave wraps his hand around the base of his dick and starts to jerk him off.

And it's not on rhythm, and it's not perfect, except in the way that it's exactly what he needs. That rough suction on the head of his dick and that big, hard hand pumping him and James feels his knees draw up, jerks at the feel of stubble against the insides of his thighs and bites off another scream because, fuck, *teeth*.

Not an accident, or even clumsiness. Dave just... *punishing* him with a blowjob and James can't help it and doesn't want to. Pictures himself bent over, bruised and naked and fuck, he's too *old* for this, but it still makes him come hard enough to see colors.

Dave strokes him briefly, affectionately, and the weight on him is gone. James opens his eyes to find the man on the couch, drinking straight from the bottle. "Uh," he manages.

Dave winks at him.

James pinches the bridge of his nose. Thinks, again, about asking if Dave does this with his other co-stars. And decides he really couldn't take the answer just now.

"Gonna stay on the floor?"

"It's a good floor. Comfy."

Dave grunts at him and hands down the bottle.

James props himself up just enough to drink and feels himself smiling.

Family. Right.


-End