A/N: For Neewa! Thank you for the song prompt "Bad Girls" by Donna Summer and the idea with the apartments! Hope everybody likes it!
OK, London officially sucks. It is dirty, noisy, people are rude, and it is freakishly expensive! Should you say bloody expensive? The apartment, flat, that you finally found is driving you crazy. The problem is that you are a night nurse, meaning you need to sleep during the day. And it is noisy. You toss and turn, and yet you can still hear the transport in the street and the voices of people outside. It turns out that a chippy shop produces a lot of noise. How is deep fried fish and French fries, and yes, that is exactly what they are, a reason for stepping on the pavement and yelling, "Oy, mate, that is barmy! Such a grub!"
You hide your head under the pillow and then hear a loud bang into your door. No way! Now what? You groan, and hear Thea stomping to the door. Have you forgotten to mention that you have a roommate? Yes, the glorious Thea Martin, your best friend and your nemesis. That was her idea to move to London. And you are such a wuss and were so heartbroken over Allan that you dragged your sorry ass across the ocean with her. Although her plan was well thought through, you two settled in rather smoothly, you still suspect that Benedict and Thomas William were her main reasons for moving. Neither of the two hotties does it for you, but you cannot deny the charm of the accent. The only thing is that most men you see everyday sound horrible. Apparently it's called East London accent. Meaning they are British equivalent of rednecks.
Thea is talking to someone, and the second voice is definitely male. Low and sexy. You momentarily question your sanity. You can hardly hear it, why did you assume it is sexy? You so need to get laid…
You give up and come out to the tiny kitchen. Thea is making her usual toast and scrambled eggs. "What was it?" She turns around and looks at you with pity. No wonder, you look like shit. That is the fifth night, well, technically day, that you are not getting enough sleep. "God, Wrennie, have some food at least." You flop on a chair. Thea is buttering you toast, and her face is dreamy. Oh-oh, not good. "That was our new neighbour, Wrennie. And I'll tell you I am finally starting to appreciate our building." You drop your head on your arms on the table. "Oh no, Thea… Do not sleep with our new neighbour, please..." You are moaning. "Last time you slept with apartment 56 and then apartment 59, and that was the same floor, and it got so awkward that we had to move."
"First of all, flat 56 and flat 59, and secondly, I shagged them, Wrennie, and finally, not my fault they do not understand one time thing concept." Chippy shop or not, at least the rent is not horrendous here. "Please, Thea..." "But Wrennie, you should have seen him! Tall, dark, handsome, large hands and feet, and the lips!" She is purring, and you tragically chew your toast. And the water was even hot here sometimes in the mornings... You will miss the building.
"And he is a musician, Wrennie! That bang, that was him accidentally bumping his cello into our door. He knocked to apologise! So polite!" Oh, no! "Cello?! Fuck, Thea, is he going to practise it here?!" Goodbye, the pathetic left-overs of sleep! "OK, Thea, I changed my mind, shag your dark, tall and handsome. And then we can swiftly move out. Or maybe he will move out." She laughs salaciously, and you groan.
The next day you come back home, take a shower and climb under the blanket. You closed all windows, but the street noises still seep in. Damn it! A floor above you, someone is stomping, and you bite into the pillow. By now you have tried everything: earplugs, earphones, earmuffs, nothing works. Since they changed your shifts and you started coming home at 8 instead of 5, you can't sleep.
That is when cello starts. At first you think it is a hallucination in your feverish brain, it is low and soft, and you realize it is Bach. You are no expert, but you saw August Rush. You had a thing for John Rhys Meyers for a bit there, but it passed. Not tall enough.
The music is amazing, it sort of crawls up on you, seemingly vibrates through the walls, gentle and erotic. What, erotic? You roll on your back and stare at the ceiling. You are not much for music, to be honest, dancing yes, music nah. Especially classics, but this is pure orgasm. There are forceful low dives, and then it flies up, and drops down again. Maybe it is because it is live, just behind the wall, maybe you are that sleep deprived, maybe it's Thea's "tall, dark and handsome". You close your eyes, and imagine long sensual fingers, deft and calloused. You really don't know, do they get calluses from those strings? Oh wait, they also have a bow…
You wake up from your alarm. You cannot believe it! You fell asleep! And you slept all your well-deserved nine hours! And all thanks to the cello! You are full of energy and very perky. You saunter into the kitchen and find Thea finishing her dinner. "I changed my mind again. If you as much as lay your finger on Tall, Dark and Cello Playing, I will murder your favourite striped top in a laundromat!" "It's called launderette, Wrennie, and why? Do you want him for yourself?" "I spent the whole day in bed, Thea!" "With him? So quickly?" "Don't be daft, I slept! His celloing made me sleep! It's like the world's best sleeping aid. Do not touch him! For once, keep your hands to yourself." Thea swears on her favourite black pumps, and you cheerfully skip to work.
The story repeats for the next ten days, and you are in Heaven. You are well-rested, highly functional and as cheerful as a lark. And then the music stops. For the whole day it is gone, and you are dying in your bed. You pray to all deities you can think of, but sleep doesn't come. The next night you are dozing on your station, and after your shift you go to a music store. You buy discs and try playing them. It doesn't work. The second day goes without his playing, and you are in agony. Weirdest theories float in your brain. Is it the vibrations through the wall that worked? You are staring at a picture of some fancy cello player on the disc case. The cello is between his legs, and there is this spike at the bottom that is jammed into the floor. Maybe the movement of the bow are transferred through it into the floor and into your walls… You groan and press a pillow to your face.
After the third no luck in the sleeping area day, you are desperate enough to buy a cello yourself and make Thea play it. How much is this thing anyways? You decide to give it the last chance, and then he is back! The warm, soft, orgasmic waves of Bach's Suite No. 1 pour into your ears. Yes, you now know what that is. The pile of useless discs got you educated.
You sleep like a baby. And for the next six days after that. And then he is gone again. You endure it like a trooper. Meaning you rage and kick furniture. And then you think that maybe it's not the vibrations, maybe it's something in how he is playing. You need to record him, and then you will be fine! It sounds crazy, but you are that desperate.
You have an old boombox, and one morning instead of going to bed you dress up and head to flat number 9. You put on a sexy top and jeans, a bit of mascara, and make a perky ponytail. Pretty much you are as dolled up as you can. You are not very good at that. You are passing Thea in the kitchen, and her eyebrows hike up. You make an innocent face and pretend nothing extraordinary is happening.
You exhale and knock at the door. The lock clicks, and you are hit by a full scale panic. What a fuck are you doing, Wren? The door opens, and he is in front of you. Mother of God! The eyes are blue, the shoulders and chest wide, a thick black beard and a ponytail! Tall, dark and handsome? That is a fucking understatement of the year! More like delectably large, orgasmically gifted with a luscious mane and fucking gorgeous! Bloody sod, he is fit! As it British meaning of this word, as in sexy as hell.
He lifts a brow. Right, you have been staring at him for the last few seconds. "Hi!" You stretch your hand. "I'm Wren, I live in 6." "Hi, Wren, I am John," you were right, the voice is sexy. He smiles, still holding your hand in his. It feels like you are being constantly slightly electrocuted. You so want to jump his bones. What in the name of Rassilon was that?
"Can I come in?" He lets you pass inside. You got so sidetracked by his sexiness that you forgot the point of your visit. Also, now you feel even more crazy to ask to record his practise. What kind of stalking behaviour would that be?
"So, John, I heard your playing..." You lick your lips. You had a nice speech prepared but your head is suddenly completely empty. He is barefoot, in a dark tee, and old denim. There is no belt, and the pants sit very low. Trousers, Wren. Although you can see the what is locally called pants as well. The waist is peeking. Fuck, you haven't had sex in thirteen months and a week. Not that you are counting.
He rubs the back of his neck with his large palm. "I am sorry, was it too loud? I specifically mentioned it to the landlord, and he said it is alright as long as it is during daytime." And here is the example of good British accent, ladies and gentlemen. Well articulated, all necessary sounds there. Although you are no expert, you can hear some sort of strange irregularity in it as well. You are just starting to figure the local accents out, but he sounds a bit like Doctor Number Nine. Would that be Northern accent then?
"No, no, you were not at all loud. Actually it is lovely! I really liked it!" The brows twitch. You decide to tear the bandaid off in one move. "You see, John, I work in a hospital, I am a night nurse, so when you start practising that is exactly the time when I'm going to sleep..."
"Oh..." His curved lips form this wonderful "o", and you gulp. "I am so sorry…" He sounds sincerely upset. "Oh no! That's not what I meant. Actually since you moved in, I finally started sleeping properly. When you were gone for a few days, I couldn't fall asleep at all. Where were you by the way?" You realize you sound like a jealous girlfriend and feel the blush. It is also known as "Wren's Bane", it's furious, uncontrollable and very, very noticeable. You are so pale in general that it is like watercolours on your cheeks.
He smirks. God, you are hardly controlling yourself! "I had a gig in Manchester." "And I couldn't sleep. Don't do it again!" He is staring at you in disbelief. You emit a pathetic laugh. "Kidding." He is scrutinizing your face. "So, John, to the point of my visit. I bought some discs but they don't work. That weird guy in the store sold me them, and he said they were the best. But I still don't sleep." "Are you American?" His voice has to be declared illegal. "Canadian. Calgary, Alberta." He hikes up his brows again. "It's a city. Calgary, in the province Alberta. A lot of oil, cowboy hats and beef." "Oh..." Again with the "o". You might get an "o" just from seeing his lips move. "So I was wondering if you have some recordings of your playing and if I can purchase them?" OK, in for an inch, as they say. "And if not, then maybe I can record your playing? I am hoping it'll work. When you are not here to put me to sleep I mean." You look at him from under your lashes. He tilts his head and is pondering your question.
Or possibly staring at your mouth. You lick your lips, and he exhales. So, the latter then. Oh fuck it all. And then you do something you never do. At all. Ever. You do not even know if people do it anywhere but in stupid romcoms. You leap at him and grab the handfuls of his tee on his chest. And then you pull him down. Damn, he is so tall. Considering that his lips land on yours he is more than willing. No way this feat is achievable anywhere but in movies if the other person doesn't meet you half way.
And he does. His hands are splayed on your back, and you moan into his mouth. So good, so fucking good! He picks you up under your buttocks, and you hang on him. He is delicious, he tastes of mint and tea, and your grab handfuls of his hair. "O" indeed! The smooth silkiness of his strands has to be illegal for sure!
You two topple into his bed, and you find out that yes, the fingers are calloused. And very, very talented. You come with a scream. And then again. And only then you can finally pull off those jeans from his hips. He is purring and rumbling, and all together he is wonderful. Your brain is off, and you do not care.
After round three and then four you two are spread on his bed. He is breathing heavily, and you are laughing. "I just wanted to record you play." He is staring at the ceiling. "Why don't you just stay and I will practice in the living room?" You screw your eyes at him, and he turns his head. He is smiling.
"That is very generous of you, John. But what am I going to do tomorrow? Seriously, I have this lovely old boombox, it might work…" "You can stay tomorrow as well." Is he serious? He rolls on his side and props his head on his hand. "Why? Is that such a mental idea? Thus, we both get what we want. You get to sleep, I get to see you in my bed. Sounds like a great plan to me." He is as they say here mental. You laugh in disbelief. "I hardly know you. I mean this was great, and we can discuss where we go from here. I mean, no pressure… But…" "But you are not moving in with me." His eyes are laughing, and you think he is obviously nuts.
You move in three days later, after three torturous sleepless days and a bouquet of daffodils left under your door. He is obviously twisting your arm into doing it, but the gesture is weirdly romantic. He does need to practice, and he is sacrificing it for you. As they say here, tosser. You sleep like a baby in his bed.
When he leaves for his next gig for three days, a disc of his playing recorded for you, you do not even need it. The smell of his skin on the sheets does the trick. He comes back, drops the suitcase on the floor and pulls you into him. He looks like shit. There are purple shadows under his eyes, he looks exhausted. "I could not sleep without you." You curl up into each other, and he nuzzles your neck. "Good day." "Good day, sleep tight." It doesn't rhyme, but you two think it's cute and romantic. And yes, you are that nauseatingly happy together!