Wheee! So happy to be posting this next bit. I never imagined, when I wrote a little one-off comment fic for cherrybina's Tom/Joe fest that it would balloon into a fic that's already over 40K, but it has been a fun thing anyway. Thanks to everyone leaving the awesome comments, they are such an encouragement. I will wrap this up soon!

Oh, and special thanks to anatsuno and xenakis for French help with this part.

Fandom: Inception/TDKR RPF I guess
Pairing: Joe/Tom
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Joe isn’t looking for Tom, he’s looking for ten minutes alone to catch up on Twitter and Tumblr -- but, looking for Tom or not, Joe turns a corner, bumps into him, and is too fucking polite to admit that he isn’t really interested in talking.
Warnings: None, for this part. People who have been avoiding the angst are now safe to catch up!

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

It would be good, Joe thinks, to see Tom at least once before New York; better yet if they can exchange a few words and somehow agree on mutual civility, at least in a professional context.

So Joe sends texts, calls at odd hours, leaves voice messages that he’s practiced carefully beforehand from scripts he’s written. Barring that first angry reply, though, Tom ignores everything completely. Joe remembers all the times Tom’s confessed hiding from Pnut and thinks that Tom’s probably an expert at avoiding people he doesn’t want to see. There’s no help for it — Joe’s going to have to track him down in person.

Joe doesn’t know where Tom is staying while he’s in LA but he knows someone will tell him if he just tries hard enough. He picks up the phone and calls his agent, makes up some bullshit excuse about having planned to meet Tom for drinks in the hotel bar but forgetting to check where it was, Tom’s phone doesn’t seem to be working, blah blah blah. His agent’s known Joe a long time and probably knows when he’s full of shit, but he at least pretends to buy the story and promises to make some calls and see if he can’t track Tom down.

Joe thanks him one time too many and hangs up, sags back into his armchair, draws his feet up under him. He gets why Tom’s angry, he really does, but it’s fucking exhausting to be the one doing all the work. Joe blames himself for having misread Tom, but he’s sure there’s at least a little blame left over for Tom’s side of things, Tom’s apparent inability to verbalize something so simple and yet important as I think I’m falling for you. And okay, Joe fucked up the whole breaking up talk, he knows it, but couldn’t Tom at least acknowledge that Joe wants to set the record straight now?

It’s pissing down rain when Joe gets to the hotel that night, which is actually a stroke of good luck because he knows for a fact that tonight’s shooting schedule involved outdoor work and they’re sure to cut it short in this weather. Joe parks himself just outside the entrance to the hotel, leans against the wall under the awning, waits. The air smells like wet car exhaust fumes and everything has that soggy tired hush that comes with a real downpour. It makes Joe feel tired to the bone, and Tom hasn’t even shown his face yet.

When Tom does show his face, Joe nearly misses it; Tom’s hunched under a hoodie with the hood pulled over a baseball cap, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders hunched down against the rain. Tom looks for all the world like a bull with its shoulder to the yoke, like he’s dragging something impossibly heavy just behind him. Joe’s throat hurts just watching him, and when he goes to speak his voice is a little choked. “Tom,” he says, and steps forward, makes himself known.

Tom looks up, sees Joe. His step checks a tiny bit but then he keeps moving, faster now.

“Tom, come on,” Joe says, “Tom, dammit!”

Tom stops, frozen, but doesn’t turn his face to look at Joe.

“I just,” Joe says, coming closer warily, “I just need to know if we’re going to be cool when we’re shooting in New York. You know, professionally.”

Tom’s face is shadowed from the brim of his hat; all Joe can make out clearly is the way his mouth twists downwards. “I managed to be a professional when I was off my head on crack ten years ago,” he says neatly. “What makes you think I’d be any different now?”

Joe nods quickly, accepting this. “Okay,” he says, trying to sound appeased, calm. “Yeah, that’s — that’s all I wanted to”—

—“That’s all you wanted to know?” Tom breaks in, lifting his chin now, making eye contact with Joe. “That’s the whole reason you’ve been leaving messages constantly?”

Joe blinks, unprepared for this. “Well,” he says, “that was — no. I mean, if you —“

“If you start in about how much you respect me again,” Tom says in a dangerous low voice, “I will lose my shit, Joseph.”

“That wasn’t what,” Joe begins, confused, but now he can’t think of anything else to say. He sticks with the obvious: “I’m really fucking sorry.”

“Oh, well,” says Tom, “if you’re sorry,” and he shoulders through the hotel door without another word, leaving Joe gaping with all the things he should have said instead.

***

So Tom goes to New York, and Joe follows shortly after, and soon enough he finds himself on set with Tom. There are enough other people around that things are well buffered between them, but not so many that anyone could help but notice the coolness between Tom and Joe where there used to be friendliness.

Chris wisely pretends he doesn’t notice though, and everyone else follows his lead, and it’s fine, because Tom wasn’t shitting Joe — he really does have the professional chops to pull through anyway. Joe tries not to be too surprised, but this is the same guy who fidgeted through every single Inception junket like a toddler hopped up on apple juice; that guy is the guy who now seems to have pulled himself together, abruptly, become steady and quiet and focussed in rehearsal. Even his bad moods seem to have gone, much to everyone’s obvious relief.

Instead, Joe is the one having a hard time.

It makes no sense. Joe has literally been doing this job since age six, and even if he hadn’t, Blake’s not exactly a deeply challenging emotional role or anything. Still, Joe’s never struggled like he’s struggling now, blowing blocking and then lines, and then fumbling words he never fumbles, and then stepping on someone else’s lines in a hurry to get his right. It’s like amateur hour, and Joe hasn’t been an amateur in over two decades.

“Okay, take five,” Chris finally tells everyone while Joe wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Fucking Gary Oldman is here; Christian Bale is here. Chis Nolan is probably rethinking ever including Joe in this project, and rightly so at this point. Joe smiles, tries to shake it off, winces apologetically at Chris even as Chris heads his way.

“I know,” he says before Chris can speak, “I’ll get it together.” Joe’s seen other actors get this treatment but has never been there himself. His ears are burning.

“Yeah?” Chris says. “Because we can move on to other coverage and come back to you.”

“No, you’ll have to stop and relight everything,” Joe hastens to say, “don’t — I’ve got this.”

Chris gives him a steady searching look. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Joe nods. He waits until Chris is headed back over to talk to the DP before he shakes his hands, his feet, his face, trying to refocus, jittery like he’s had too much coffee even though he hasn’t had any yet today. He can’t shake it out of his mind, though, the knowledge that Tom is only a few feet away, hating Joe. It’s overwhelming. He looks over, though he’s been avoiding it all day. Tom’s out of the Bane mask for the moment, drinking water and playing with his phone.

They’ve got about a minute left before they resume shooting, and Joe doesn’t feel any better. His phone buzzes suddenly in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and Joe slips it out, takes a look.

use it

Joe blinks. The message is from Tom.

Use what? Joe writes back, rather than lifting his head and speaking, because apparently this is how they’re doing this.

The answer is swift: whatever it is thats blocking u, use it

Joe is too thrown to make any sense of this at all, just tucking the phone away again and trying to remember his lines, but the phrase Tom chose has awakened the memory of the night in Seattle, Tom on his knees and elbows in front of Joe, Tom saying gonna use this, and Joe’s skin is prickling hot and and then cold and his stomach is pitching. If anything he’s in worse shape than he was before the break. Maybe that was Tom’s intention. Joe looks over at him to see if he’s gloating, but Tom’s masked again now and Joe can only make out the glitter of those slanted grey-blue eyes above the blank space where Tom’s nose and mouth should be.

They start calling the cues: rolling, speed, marker, then clap. Set, action. Joe swallows, takes a moment.

Use it.

Joe lets himself think about it, about Tom, lets himself feel Tom so close and yet so distant, breathes out through his nose, and starts to act.

***

better innit

Thank you, seriously.

well sometimes u cant stuff it all down no matter how hard u try

Smile now, cry later? I remember reading that somewhere.

***

“Sit here, mate,” Tom says when Joe hesitates, last to the table. Tom hooks his ankle around the chair next to him and pulls it out for Joe. Joe unthinkingly checks with Pnut, sitting across from Tom; Pnut gives him a hint of a nod. Joe sits.

They don’t talk anyway. Christian and Marion are dominating the conversation, and Tom himself is continuing that strong silent type thing he’s been doing the whole time they’ve been in New York. Still, he’s a warm presence at Joe’s left elbow. Joe keeps a respectful few inches between them, resisting the impulse to brush his arm casually against Tom’s, sure that would fracture this new detente. It would be going the wrong direction anyway, because there’s an important difference between moving on and falling back.

At some point Pnut excuses himself for a minute, and the moment he’s gone Tom’s hand snakes over and grabs one of Joe’s roasted baby potatoes. Joe laughs in spite of himself and Tom grins around the potato already in his mouth, unrepentant, mischievous, handsome. “Carb speakeasy,” Joe says, snorting.

“Good show you’re back,” Tom says, “I was having to find my carbs in the gutters.”

“Digging through cigarette butts for fallen fries,” Joe says, giggling now.

“Offering sexual favors for a taco shell,” Tom elaborates mournfully.

“You’re giving it up for taco shells, man?” Joe says, feigning shock and dismay. “You should hold out for, like, a dinner roll. You’re a big Hollywood star now, it’s all over the news.”

“Right, I’ll hold out for a dinner roll next time I’m hard up,” Tom promises, finally cracking up too, holding up a hand in demonstration. “No, wait, Joseph Gordon-Levitt says that a croissant is the going rate for a blow job in a back alley.”

“Damn right I do,” Joe says, and Tom is wriggling with laughter in his seat now, and it feels so fucking good and easy, and Joe thinks — maybe they can get through this after all. It’s the happiest he’s felt in weeks.

***

“Hand goes here,” says the stunt coordinator, and takes Joe’s wrist, lays his palm flat on Tom’s shoulder. “Push off like this, step back with your right to open your body to the camera, then Tom, your right hand comes up from under here and you, yes, one-two-three — Joe, back it up, that’s it, we’ll have a mat for your landing.”

Joe’s trying to stay focused — he’s done a lot of fight choreography but it’s still a bit alien to him, all the sharp moves and intensity — but it’s hard when he can feel the way Tom flinches back from the simple brush of Joe’s hand in answer to the stunt coordinator’s directions. Tom’s gone back to cool and polite today, and it seems like he might be retreating further still into hostility the way he’s reacting to this little bit of choreography rehearsal.

“Okay, try it,” says Tom the stunt coordinator. “Slowly.”

Joe goes to throw the left hook first and Tom holds steady, but when his right hand comes up and makes for Tom’s shoulder, Tom goes tense and shrugs it off, the move ridiculous when Joe’s meant to be inflicting actual injury, however mild.

“Steady that shoulder,” says the stunt coordinator. “Come on, Tom, steady. Again.”

Joe backs up, starts over, and again Tom slips his shoulder out from under Joe’s touch. “Sorry,” Joe says automatically, like he’s at fault. Then, confusedly, he apologizes again — “Sorry, sorry,” — because he’s back at that hotel entrance on the rainy LA night, watching as Tom shrugs away Joe’s apologies just like he’s shrugging off Joe’s touch now.

“Steady, Tom,” says the stunt guy again. “Roll into it.”

Tom shakes his arms out, bows his chin, nods to show he’s ready for another go. This time he doesn’t pull back from Joe and they get into the part where he lands three punches to Joe’s side, three of them, Tom’s big fists bumping gently in mock battle while Joe staggers back like the blows are landing hard. “And then the mat?” Joe checks, because it’s doing funny things to him too, having Tom’s hands on him, even in this mock fight.

“And then the mat,” says the other Tom, nodding. “Remember to land hips first, spread your arms out to distribute the impact more evenly.”

“Can’t we use a double,” says Tom, breaking the silence he’s been keeping this whole time. “For Joseph?”

“No, Chris wants to get in some close-ups of this sequence,” says the stunt guy, shaking his head. “Joe can do it, no worries.”

“I can do it,” Joe affirms, nodding along. “Tom, I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” says Tom, shuffling his feet, looking at some point over Joe’s shoulder. “Sure, let’s — let’s run it again.”

***

Tom goes on like that, running hot and cold, laughing with Joe one minute and barely able to make eye contact the next, and Joe gets it, he really does, because he’s the same way even if he’s less obvious about it. Talking to Tom is one thing; touching him is another thing entirely. Happily Joe’s character doesn’t present much of a physical challenge to Tom’s, so their fight sequence is short — but short in movie terms still means the better part of an afternoon to shoot, four different angles for coverage and waiting to relight every time.

“You okay?” Joe dares to ask while they wait for the last set-up to be complete. Tom’s holding a coffee cup but seems to have forgotten the fact, staring into the middle distance and looking lost in thought.

Tom snaps out of it at the sound of Joe’s voice, though. He looks over and blinks, like he’s surprised that Joe is so nearby. “Yeah,” he says, and squints like he’s still in the middle of an internal debate. “You know, I’m still on that bloody training regime.”

“I know,” says Joe sympathetically, because everyone has seen Tom and his press-ups between takes, his endless plates of chicken and vegetables.

“No, I mean,” Tom says, and lifts his eyebrows, making eye contact, “that training regime from that MMA fighter.”

“Oh,” says Joe, then gets it. “Oh. Fuck, really? This whole time?”

“Really,” says Tom, nodding grimly. “It was just getting easier finally and now —“ he gestures at Joe. “Now it’s not.”

Joe feels the blush sweep up from his neck as this sinks in; Tom’s having trouble with the fights not because he’s angry with Joe (though maybe he is) but because — Joe swallows hard. “Sorry about that,” he says, always apologizing.

“Yeah,” says Tom, smirking, “would you stop being so fucking fit?”

Joe laughs with surprise, partly at Tom’s words and partly at the fact that Tom’s not rejecting his apology this time. “How much longer is it?” he asks, trying to sound like it’s a matter of polite interest.

“A week,” says Tom. “We’re meant to be wrapped on the bridge sequence one week from today.”

“Big night,” Joe says, grinning.

“Big sixty seconds in my trailer the second Nolan calls cut,” Tom says, sketching a hand gesture, pulling a wild face.

Joe knows he’s supposed to smile and make a joke in answer, but his brain is abruptly hung up on the image, Tom flushed and desperate and still in wardrobe, working himself off frantically, Tom coming hard after weeks of abstaining. How would he look, Joe wonders — how much would his hands be trembling, after waiting so long?

He realizes too late that he’s missed his chance for a casual answer, looks over and sees the way Tom is watching him, curious and open. “Just,” Joe says, blushing, “just — I bet that’ll — huh.”

Tom’s gaze sharpens a little more and his cheeks flush in answer, like he’s thinking about it too, or maybe thinking about how Joe’s going to jerk off picturing it later. “You definitely keep me keyed up,” Tom says, matter-of-fact. “I guess I should thank you for that.”

“Well, if you win an Oscar,” Joe says, “you can add it to your speech.”

“Oh, I will do,” Tom says, “I’ll thank the Academy, and Chris, and my family, and then I’ll praise your hands and your dimples and your pert little arse.”

It’s gone too far; they realize it at the same moment. Joe clears his throat, steps away to the craft services table in search of water, tries not to pay too much attention to the way Tom’s suddenly broken into another series of press-ups even though Pnut isn’t anywhere to be seen.

They get through the final shoot of the scene; that’s about all Joe can say about it.

***

“Have you heard the latest?” asks Marion when she arrives on set the next day, kissing Joe on each cheek, smelling heavenly and looking even better.

“No,” says Joe. “The latest what?”

“Oh,” she says, “only that a friend emailed me, apparently you and I are having a scandalous affair on the set of Batman.”

Joe breaks into delighted laughter; sometimes the gossip rags get things so wrong, it’s actually hilarious. “You and me?” he repeats.

“Don’t be too amused, you’ll hurt my feelings,” she says with mock reproach.

“Well,” Joe says, “not that I wouldn’t be honored to have a torrid on-set romance with you, but I think your boyfriend might have something to say about it.”

She purses her lips against a smile. “Well, apparently you and I have split up now,” she continues. “You are heartbroken and I am cruel.”

“Where do they even get this shit from?” Joe marvels, shaking his head.

Marion lifts a shoulder. “I can’t be sure,” she says, “but it’s something to do with you singing Piaf in Toronto at your show, according to the article.” She switches to French, voice light and amused. “Chanter Piaf est forcément me faire une déclaration d'amour, comme tu le sais.” Singing Piaf is the same as declaring your love for me, as you know.

Joe grins ruefully. “My fault, then,” he says. “Je suis vraiment désolé.”

“De rien, chéri,” says Marion, waving it away. “I quite like the idea of having a younger lover. Makes me seem more glamorous.”

“As if you need any more glamour,” Joe says gallantly. They’re called away to make-up a moment later, and as Joe goes he notices that Tom’s arrived at some point during this conversation, hanging out a few feet away with his phone in hand as usual. Joe squeezes a tight smile his way, and Tom presses his lips together in answer. Joe would lay odds that neither of them feels very glamorous at all about their own failed on-set affair.

***

It’s a long-ass day, Chris doing his level best to pack all Joe’s remaining New York scenes into the time remaining before he and the production will be decamping to Jersey to shoot the big climactic bridge sequence and Joe himself will be headed home again. Joe doesn’t get done until after midnight and he’s moving slowly by the time he gets back to his trailer to collect his belongings. He blames his exhaustion for the fact that he doesn’t notice the murky shadows a few feet away until they’ve already resolved into a figure moving fast towards him. Joe’s pulse kicks up with alarm because this person is moving with purpose, and there’s no one else anywhere in sight, no one to see or help him. He takes a step back, dropping his trailer keys to the asphalt, hands in the air, and registers that it’s not a stranger bearing down on him, it’s — and then Tom’s got him pinned up against the side of his trailer and he’s kissing Joe.

Joe was braced for some kind of assault but this isn’t anything like what he’d anticipated. It takes him a minute to get with the program — Tom’s hand pushing Joe’s shoulder against cool metal, the other cupping his jaw to hold him steady — and then Joe’s all in, unthinking, pushing back against Tom even though it’s futile, kissing him and gasping for air and past any thought other than I missed this, I missed it, I missed him.

When Tom pulls back Joe goes after him helplessly, making a frustrated sound, but Tom is smiling in the half-light and Joe has to pause to take it in, the sight of Tom smiling like that for Joe; he’d never appreciated it properly before. “What’s this all about?” Joe asks, not really caring.

“Chanter Piaf est forcément me faire une déclaration d'amour,” says Tom in perfect quiet French, and for a long minute Joe doesn’t get it in the least, and then he does. His cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“You saw that?” Joe asks, pulling a face, smiling.

Tom’s suddenly letting go, digging in the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out his phone. “Couldn’t stop watching it all day,” he says. “It was driving Christian mad, I think.” He fiddles with it, turns the screen around so Joe can see, and there Joe is, on stage in Toronto with his guitar, giving his spiel about liking to play something that’s not HitRecord’s intellectual property at every show, strumming and tuning as he goes.

So I guess I’ve been having kind of a shitty time lately, Joe says on the little screen, trying to get over something I never planned to — well, broken hearts are all the same, who the fuck cares how they get that way. This one goes out to everyone who knows what this feels like. And Joe-in-the-phone plays a few chords, steps a little into the mic, and starts singing Hymne à l’amour. Truth be told, the song is too big for Joe’s singing voice, and he’d been too tired from the 50/50 premiere to give it the effort it had deserved, and a little too choked from thinking of Tom to do it justice, and it’s kind of a low point in the show from Joe’s perspective — but Joe looks up from the phone to see Tom watching it raptly, and Joe abruptly can’t feel a little bit regretful about how he’d sung a single note.

The song finishes out to sort of lukewarm applause and Tom looks up at Joe, beaming. “I — did you mean it?”

“Did I mean it?” Joe repeats, not getting which part Tom means.

“Is your heart broken, Joseph?” Tom says, quietly, breathlessly. “How could it be broken if you’re not in love with me?”

“Fuck,” Joe grates out, heated with embarrassment and fear and happiness until he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling most. He grabs Tom by the back of the neck in lieu of words, reels him back in to kiss him with Tom’s phone pressed awkwardly between them.

“No, no,” Tom says, pulling back a moment later even though he’s iron hard against Joe’s thigh, “no, not without saying it. Say it, go on.”

Joe doesn’t want to say it, but the words are already lodged in his throat and hurting him, and it’s clear he won’t be allowed to go back to kissing Tom until he lets them out. Joe rubs the pads of his fingers up through the faint stubble at the back of Tom’s head, gathering his courage. “Yeah, okay,” he admits, roughly, “okay, yes. I — I’m in love with you.”

Tom wrinkles his nose at Joe and drops his mouth open with playful shock. “Are you mad, saying something like that when we’ve only been shagging for what, two months?” he says, all feigned outrage. “That’s as crazy as getting a tattoo for someone who — ouch, stop it, you git!” And Tom’s laughing and wriggling as Joe tries to pinch his nipples in retaliation. “Annie told me all about it. You honestly thought I got inked for you? I’m not a nutter, you know, I just play one in the movies.”

Joe laughs and finally gets a hold of Tom’s right nipple, twists it, and Tom yelps and laughs and pushes Joe’s hand away. “I don’t believe in love,” Joe tells Tom, because it feels safe to say it, now. “It’s a terrible idea.”

“I can’t disagree with you there,” Tom says, “but if you’re going to go mad with it, at least you’re in good company.”

Joe’s breath catches and he grabs Tom’s shoulder, big and warm under his palm. “You say it now,” he says, a little embarrassedly.

Tom’s mouth goes soft at the edges and he stuffs his phone away before bringing his hands up to hold Joe by the waist. “I’m in love with you, Joseph,” he says, “so you’d better not say anything about inspiration or respect or professionalism or bloody passion for your work.”

“Oh,” says Joe, casually, “trust me, I’m feeling very disrespectful at the moment,” and he closes in, grinds his hips to Tom’s, tucks his face up against Tom’s neck and licks a stripe over a bit of ink poking out from the edge of the hoodie.

“We should go in the trailer,” says Tom, fingers gripping into Joe’s waist, breath coming short.

“Are you kidding me?” Joe says, lifting his head. “We’re in New York. I have a place here.”

Tom looks startled and then tremendously pleased. “Are you inviting me over?” he asks.

“Of course I’m fucking inviting you over,” Joe says, laughing, “are you coming or not?”

“Well,” says Tom, pained, “I’m coming, but you know I can’t come, right?”

“Oh shit, seriously?” Joe says, because he honestly thought that Tom would bend his rule on this occasion.

“Six more days,” Tom says. “Unless — fuck, you’ll be back in LA, won’t you?”

“No,” says Joe, “no, I have a feeling I’ll be hanging out in New York for a while longer.” It feels stupid, saying it out loud, but it’s worth it to see Tom smile again. “Come over,” Joe says, kissing the corner of Tom’s beautifully curving lips. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I swear.”

“Oh, I fucking well hope not,” Tom says in a low raspy voice, turning his face a little to kiss Joe again, pulling Joe in closer.

Part 9