Not that the admonitions seemed to matter once the phone started vibrating across the counter. He didn't recognize the number, but that was nothing new. His agent had been setting him up with a slew of phone interviews – although, normally she'd text him first to remind him of the time so he'd know to be ready. Well, more like so he'd know to be awake and not still drunk or spectacularly hung over. Which, really, it all amounted to the same thing, didn't it? So it wasn't precisely his fault that he wasn't paying much attention when he held the phone up to his ear whilst trying to fish a mug out of the cabinet without dropping it on his toes. Coordination wasn't his strong suit in the mornings. (Well, that was his story, anyway, and he was sticking to it, no matter what was said to the contrary about how it was never his strong suit, no matter what time of day.) "Michael speaking," "Excuse me, is this the rakishly handsome Michael Fassbender?" The person on the other end of the line was speaking in a ridiculous falsetto, amusement clear in every high-pitched word. Michael could feel the corners of his lips curling upwards in response. He'd know that voice anywhere, half-awake or not, and no matter how cleverly (or, not so cleverly, in this case) disguised the voice was. "James, is that you?" The falsetto continued. "Oooooh, you are him, aren't you? The very same Michael Fassbender who just worked with that dreamy Viggo Mortensen? Could you give him my number, please, and tell him I'm his number one fan?" "Twat," Michael laughed affectionately, as he filled his mug and took a deep first sip. He sighed his appreciation at the first bitter-rich taste. Much better. The synapses were slowly starting to fire, although he wasn't nearly up to normal speed just yet. "You're not allowed to ring me up if you're just going to use me to try to shag another man." "Well, Keira won't introduce me, so where else am I to turn?" James asked, dropping the act and responding in his normal (and very delightful, although Michael would never say it out loud – James had a big enough ego) brogue. "Also, are you aware that your legions of fans refer to you as Fassy?" "Do they?" Michael asked distractedly, as he made his careful way through his flat – he really should see about doing laundry – to flop on his sofa. The view of London outside his windows was spectacular, the reason he'd taken the place, and he'd seen far too little of that view in the past few weeks of traipsing about the world doing press and going to premieres. It was good to have a break – even if he was perversely glad that James had called. The past few days of blissful peace had felt a little empty without James around cracking a joke or three. (Not that he'd dream of telling James that, either – see aforementioned ego.) "I think it's brilliant," James declared, with one of his delighted giggles. Only James could make a grown man giggling sound charming instead of juvenile. "It just rolls so well off the tongue, doesn't it - oooh, Fassy, you're so dead sexy and mysterious, oooh, Fassy, ravish me now, you devilish brute..." Trust James to make such trite bullshit sound both completely ridiculous and completely provocative at the same time. Michael had no idea how he did it. "Are you quite certain you haven't hit your head recently?" "Right as rain, but I appreciate the concern. Fair warms my heart to know you care," James said, with a mock, breathless sigh that brought to mind Victorian gothic romances and heaving bosoms (and a very brief thought of James in a dress, which shouldn't have been as attractive as it was.) "Don't you think it's got a great ring to it, though? Fassy. Just saying it makes me feel all warm and tingly inside." Michael pointedly ignored the very interested twitch his body made in response to James' confession. He was well used to their particular brand of flirtation by now, and to James trying to wind him up as often as possible. It was lowering enough that it always worked. Michael's libido where James was concerned had no sense of shame, apparently, the tart. "It's ridiculous. Makes me sound like a choreographer." He settled back on the cushions, coffee mug cradled in both hands. If he just had some nubile young thing to rub his feet, he'd declare it the perfect morning. "Or maybe a dodgy DJ at some illicit spank club." "What sort of music do you reckon you'd spin?" "I have no idea," Michael replied, not really certain he knew what they were talking about anymore. Talks with James tended to derail into the surreal with alarming alacrity. "Something dark and esoteric, I suppose." "Hmm, yes, that could work," James mused. Michael could clearly picture him tapping his finger to his lips the way he did when he was deep in thought. "Also, I think I might've just told a reporter you were shite in bed. Sorry." Michael looked at the phone in confusion for a moment before putting it back to his ear. Perhaps he wasn't as awake as he'd thought. "I'm sorry, you did what?" "It wasn't my fault!" "James..." Michael knew better. He always knew better where James was concerned. Dear James, who was blessed with an angelic and innocent face that could get away with bloody murder, but who also possessed a streak of mischief that Hermes himself would love. Michael could – and did – appreciate the dichotomy. At least, he did most of the time, when it didn't involve James talking about his (alleged) lack of sexual prowess to total strangers. "Fine, maybe it was my fault, a little bit," James conceded, not sounding the least bit contrite. "Anyhoo, if any intrepid reporter asks you why you don't like to cuddle after sex, feel free to blame me straight off." "Really, luv, how could you?" Michael asked, in what he hoped was convincing dejection. Two could play that game, and Michael did pride himself on being a fairly good actor. "I'll have you know we Irish are champion cuddlers. If it were an Olympic sport, we'd fair sweep the board." "Are you now?" James sounded contemplative. "Good to know." Michael narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The coffee was finally starting to work its way into his system, which meant he was slightly more alert and on his game now. "Was all this just an excuse to trick me into going to bed with you so you could judge for yourself what sort of lover I am?" There was only the slightest of pauses. "And if it was?" Well, well, well. Finally, Michael thought to himself, and allowed himself one brief moment of triumph. "Cheeky, I like that," he replied out loud, fascinated and more than a little willing to see how far James was willing to take this. And if James was willing to take it all the way into the bedroom, Michael certainly wasn't going to stop him. It wasn't as if they'd never talked about what the sex would be like between them (mostly over a few too many pints, competing to see who could get each other to blush first – James had a filthy imagination and wasn't afraid to use it), and, almost everyone already thought they'd slept together at least once. May as well be hung for committing the actual crime. "You could have simply asked, you know. Most would have done." James making a tsking sound. "Ah, but where's the fun in that?" James, as ever, had a point. "We'll continue this discussion in person," he said, mostly to hear James' response. James sounded delighted at the prospect. "I must insist on tequila body shots first. Imagine the fun we could have with all of that salt and lime juice." Michael could imagine very well, thank you. "There's a good lad," he laughed, instead, willing his body to ease down. Not much point in getting too excited until the deed was actually happening. James was a notorious tease. "And for God's sake, no more maligning my technique in the sack in the meantime." "Duly noted. I'll see you next week, then?" James asked. He sounded as eager as Michael felt, which was more than a little gratifying. Perhaps James wasn't teasing, after all. "Tuesday, yes. I'm looking forward to it." He tried to infuse it with as much sincerity as he could. "Excellent. And don't forget condoms! Plenty of them!" Before Michael could get a last word in, James had hung up. "Cheeky," Michael repeated to himself, and tossed the phone to the coffee table. Still, he couldn't help the wide grin. Tuesday couldn't come fast enough. Onto Unorthodox Methods of Persuasion
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