Disclaimer: That would be illegal. Fun. But illegal.

Written to a picture of Jude Law and RDJ because there was no way I couldn't. You can find the link on my profile. The song is Grey by Ani Difranco.

The sky is gray

The sand is gray

And the ocean is gray

He usually introduces himself as Robert.

Junior, maybe, if he's feeling cocky.

It doesn't matter either way really because they already know who he is. They always know who he is. It gets old fast.

But then again, what doesn't?

Robert Downey Junior; the title is like one of his tailored suits, accentuating his waist and the color of his eyes. Making people look up and take interest, the click of a full toothy smile sliding into place.

He just wishes he could take it off sometimes.

Just once, he'd like someone to help him unbutton that too. Loosen the chokehold it has around his neck.

Money, fame, it clings to skin like oil. Slick and darkening good intentions.

Just once, he'd like to be something more than the worse kept Hollywood secret, the lovechild of legends married to other people. For once, he'd like to introduce himself and not have them know his whole life story.

That's why he's here, isn't he?

A crowded bar in LA, hoping to blend in with the rush of faces. So far Robert's been successful, keeping his face carefully turned from anybody coming too close, looking at the dance floor through the refraction of his glass.

He can't remember what's in it but he's had quite a lot.

There's the advantage of nobody expecting him in a place like this. An unheard of dance club, the lights low enough to reduce everybody to silhouettes and shadows.

It's been a long uneventful night, too many close calls for Robert to expect the tense muscles in his neck to relax. No doubt his masseuse will throw a fit, he knows his mother will.

She worries about him getting hurt without his escort, that he'll be kidnapped and ransomed for the nuclear codes or something equally ridiculous. The most eventful thing that's happened to him tonight is that his fly got jammed. Temporarily.

Robert checks his watch and realizes with frustration that it's only ten. He refuses to go home before midnight.

It's a matter of pride.

Swallowing back a sigh, he finds himself a dark corner and leans against the wall, bracing himself for a long night. More than anything he just wishes he could be normal.

For a day; an hour.

Walk home, wander through the city sidewalks and not worry about photographers, not worry about fans, people who want nothing more than to shake his hand, nothing personal, they're not doing it on purpose.

It is, after all, not everyday that you meet royalty.

Robert shakes his head, clearing away the bitter thoughts. They don't help.

And I feel right at home

In this stunning monochrome

Alone in my way

He watches the dancers instead, if you can call them that.

Most are swaying back and forth, hardly moving as arms twist around necks and waists, foreheads pressed together. It's a slow song, not anything familiar, not his mother, thank god.

It's the last thing he needs, now.

Robert has had to explain to more people then he wants to think about that fucking, or doing anything remotely sexual, to the sound of his mom's greatest hits just does not do it for him.

At all.

It disturbs him how many people must fuck to her music, if his conquests are anything to go by. He tries not to think about it.

Really, though, it's not a bad place, this.

Classy verging on the edge of pretentious, of over-compensating. The men wear suits and the women a variety of dresses and sheer tights. The music itself is tasteful, dark and full. A crooning male's voice though he can't be sure.

The club goers themselves have potential as well.

He scans the crowd with a critical eye, a variety of viable choices jumping out at him, men and women indiscriminately. All willing to follow him home, or take him to theirs, with the hint of a smile, a whispered introduction.

Of course, he's been rejected before. He's not infallible.

He's tried the married ones before, the ones that no interest in his cock, beautiful as he is told it is. It doesn't bother him too much after it's all said and done, the moment of rejection always being the worst.

He's confident he can take it. It's been said that his ego is beautiful too.

The blonde at the counter, he decides. He's always liked blondes, and he suspects hers might even be natural.

It happens then, as he steps forward to make his move, knocking back what's left of his drink.

A slight movement at the edge of his vision.

Later, he'll replay the moment in his head. Freeze it and stop, breathing shallow.

Later, he'll wonder why.

A small motion catches his attention, turns his head without him realizing what he is doing. It's a familiar motion, the one he turns toward, maybe that's why. A subconscious longing.

A flick of the wrist, a cigar delicately touching lips.

Later, Robert will tear the moment into pieces. Analyze and question, frustration stretching the seconds to make up for how short it really is.

A man, eyes dark as they watch him, exhales. Trailing smoke behind him as he shifts his weight, turning away already.

For a moment, they are connected, the man's eyes full of amusement as he looks over his shoulder. Robert thinks he is being laughed at, taunted, and cannot bring himself to care, not right now.

Later.

And just as it starts, it's ends abruptly and he is left reeling, stepping backward so that he is pressed against the wall again.

He is left unsteadied, uncertain, trying to find his balance.

Something has changed, from one tick of the clock to the next, and he takes a breath, realizing that he's been holding it. It's five after ten, the glittering numbers on his wrist tell him and it feels wrong.

His heart is pounding and he couldn't tell you why, not for the life of him.

Something has just happened, happened profoundly.

And fuck, if he knows what.

I smoke and I drink

And every time I blink

I have a tiny dream

Pride be damned, he makes his way to the bar, sliding his glass across the bar.

The bartender takes it without looking at him and he's grateful for small blessings because he thinks he's had too much to drink; his head is spinning.

The blonde girl is gone and Robert is a little less grateful for that, tries to put energy into the disappointment but it comes up feeling hollow and he's a fantastic liar, really, he's been told. But he tries to be honest with himself.

And right now, he really wants a smoke.

Okay, so he's mostly honest with himself. They get there eventually.

A cool glass is slipped in between his fingers.

Robert looks up to snap, no, you can't have my autograph but the bartender gestures down the bar, nearer to the exit. His eyes follow the motion, something tightening in his chest before they even find what he's looking for.

The man grins crooked, cigar slanting dangerously from his mouth.

His arm is around a curvy blonde. Robert's stomach clenches; his curvy blonde.

He is distantly aware that he's staring and a part of brain hopes that he doesn't look like as much the idiot he thinks he does, lips parted with a quiet intake of suprise. The cigar tilts downward, the grin widening and Robert has the sinking feeling that he's failing.

It's all just so. Unexpected.

He can't remember the last time that's happened.

And then, just as Robert thinks he's managed to compose himself, render his face inscrutable, the other man winks.

Honest-to-god, winks at him.

Like it's nothing, like he does this everyday, plays with people's minds and expectations and this is all just a casual victory. A friendly game.

And then, arm slipped around the girl's waist, they walk out the door.

But as bad as I am

I'm proud of the fact

That I'm worse than I seem

The title, Never While I Sleep, refers to the Mark Twain quote: "I make it a rule never to smoke while I'm sleeping."