|The Therapist's Control
Author: Elise Davidson PM
Just a one-shot sort of deal. Lionel thinks on his self-control; Bertie, as always, feels a need to put it to the test. Elizabeth reads magazines and hears Bertie prove her correct. SLASHRated: Fiction T - English - Romance - Bertie/George VI & Lionel L. - Words: 2,374 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 8 - Follows: 1 - Published: 06-16-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7089053
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: The Therapist's Control
Fandom: The King's Speech
Rating: PG-12 for kissing, swearing.
Warnings: Slash. I've also been told by my beta that while the writing is solid, it didn't quite fit the characters. So there's that. But she also said it's a very difficult pairing to write for. Slight warning for this being my first King's Speech fanfiction, if that counts for anything.
Author: Elise Davidson
Author's Notes: Hey all. And holy cripes, Batman, it's not a Scrubs story! Whew. With that out of the way, this is a slash fanfiction between Bertie Windsor and Lionel Logue from "The King's Speech". I don't own it, don't intend to make money off of it, and this is strictly movie-verse; no RPF by my books.
That being said as well, I did have my best bud and beta take a look at this. She said the writing was solid, as well as grammar and vocal tonality, but she didn't see it happening. I left it as is, against her wishes, and I hope it turns out okay. Enjoy!
Lionel Logue valued control over a great many things. Honor and loyalty weren't terribly complicated; those two were traits that came easily to a person, or did not. He lived by a commoner's rules, lived under the thumb of a ruler that hadn't been voted for, but reigned through divine right.
That was enough for Lionel.
Control, on the other hand, was learned, practiced. It was something that was taught from infancy to death. It had to be not only cultivated, but earned in a fashion. It also had to be regularly tested to ensure longevity.
Just as with himself, Lionel took a matter of pride within the control he encouraged in his patients, in his family, in himself. After all, control meant routine, and routine ensured good practices of speech therapies, which promoted self-confidence.
It wasn't a surprise that Bertie regularly tested Lionel's self-control and temper. Not unexpected, but unsettling at least.
After all, Lionel had regularly acted as a punching bag—both verbal and physical at times—to wounded soldiers, to patients with no self-esteem who finally saw someone they could bring down. It had only given him more confidence in his abilities to give those a voice who needed it the most.
No doubt if someone ever needed—no, deserved—their voice and control given back to them, it was Bertie.
Lionel straightened the throw on the couch in a semblance of tidying up the consultation room.
Though Bertie rarely spoke of it (if at all), Lionel suspected that the majority of his problems came from an utter lack of self-confidence, which probably made the King feel as if anything he had to say wasn't worth listening to at all.
The King, after all, was expected to represent, with articulated eloquence, not only his people, but himself as well. Proper delivery of words demonstrated an even-tempered man with enough self-control not to go blindly stampeding into the violence of the unknown night.
Lionel grimaced deprecatingly at that. Bertie rarely came to him calmly. Though Lionel didn't feel his office was particularly intimidating or violent, he imagined Bertie felt it was every bit as daunting as a room of the public listening to his stammers.
No doubt about it, Bertie probably rather hated this room.
Drawing in deep breaths, Lionel began steeling his control against the inevitable outburst that often accompanied Bertie's visits. It was rare for Lionel to feel so strongly; he was a long-time advocate that one could only be helped if they were willing to help themselves. Bertie seemed willing; he practiced often and meticulously.
Lionel heard the bell ring and he sighed. He'd spent a great deal of time thinking about many things, and now he felt slightly under-prepared for Bertie's meeting. No matter; he'd simply see where the meeting took them.
Elizabeth sat patiently in the waiting room as Bertie entered the room and shut the door behind him. Lionel thought he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth's face looking rather sour. It was quite uncommon for her.
Bertie hunched on the couch. "Well? Are w-w-we going to have our a-p-p-pointment?"
P's and w's today, then.
Lionel nodded. "Is your wife going to be joining us today, Bertie?"
Bertie's face twisted briefly at the impropriety of his nickname slipping from the commoner's mouth. "Not today, Logue."
"Logue," Bertie said stubbornly.
"Bertie," Lionel said almost amusingly, as if they were naming each other.
"You're insuf-f-f-f-" Bertie trailed off and didn't continue, though the frustration was clear on his face. He muttered swear words, struggling to sing them and swear at the same time. Instead, a sharp list of epithets fell from his lips, and he buried his face in his hands.
"Bertie," Lionel said quietly. "If you're not up to your appointment today, we should reschedule."
"I don't want to b-b-bloody reschedule!"
As a prince not in line for the throne, Lionel doubted much that Bertie had learned anything in the way of self-control. After all, what governess or teacher or guardian would dare tell the second-in-line prince "no"?
"Breathe, Bertie," Lionel continued calmly.
"Go f-f-f-fuck y-y-y-ourself!" Bertie's tenuous grip on his temper seemed to be coming loose and he got to his feet to pace the room. "I c-c-c-can't even insult you p-p-p—" He cut off again, shutting his eyes and struggling to drown out the stammering consonants that plagued him today.
Lionel stood as well, still remaining calm with little effort. "Today seems to be a poor day. Would you like a drink?"
Bertie didn't respond, his hair finger-raked now and his eyes looking defeated as the temper drew itself out. It left him looking tired, stressed and miserable. He took the glass of brandy without a complaint, but continued to pace restlessly about the room.
"She thinks I f-f-f-fancy you," Bertie finally said after a moment, his tone so quiet that Lionel wasn't sure he'd heard it.
Lionel cocked his head in Bertie's direction. "What's that now?"
"Elizabeth." Bertie finished the drink and held it out for a refill. Lionel obliged him, though he didn't care to point out that alcohol was only likely to worsen his speech. Like cigarettes, it may help temporarily, but the long-term damage was irreparable.
"Elizabeth?" Lionel asked, though he didn't push any further. He knew better than to inquire about Mrs. Johnson after all.
"She bloody thinks I fancy you," Bertie spat out, no evidence of a stammer this time. "And she will not shut off about it."
Lionel felt a queer jump in his stomach, and the image of kissing Bertie fell unbidden to his mind. He shook his head briefly to clear it, and felt his control shimmering quickly. He thought again that it was unsettling, but not unexpected.
"What makes her think that?" Lionel finally asked, even though he knew the territory was dangerous.
Bertie didn't respond right away. It didn't concern Lionel that he hesitated to speak; after all, it was why Bertie had come to him in the first place. When Lionel noticed that Bertie was making no attempt to speak at all, he frowned.
"I've told her it's gratitude, and nothing more." Bertie looked at Lionel almost for approval on this statement. "Nothing more," he repeated through gritted teeth.
"Well, it seems to me that it must be something," Lionel finally pushed, even though he could see the ripple of temper shake its way through Bertie's shoulders. "Otherwise, you might be more forthcoming, I'd imagine, about what would make her think such a thing."
"It matters not why she thinks as such."
"Then why bring it up?"
Bertie opened his mouth for a moment before shutting it again. The jaw muscles worked along his maxilla and throat, his mandible twitching in thought. It wasn't the same stuttering spasmodic tics that Lionel was used to; this was more of a thought process than a stammer.
Lionel frowned. That meant Bertie thought there was something to it.
His stomach gave that queer jolt again, and he smoothed a hand down his slightly wrinkled shirt in a misguided effort to calm it. Bertie was staring at him, he realized, with dark eyes that and a look that desperately pleaded for Lionel to agree with his explanation that it was gratitude.
And nothing more.
"Do you really think it's gratitude?" Lionel asked before he could stop it. He had always been blunt and frank, and he saw little reason to stop now.
Bertie's jaw muscles worked again briefly. "Would it matter if I said y-y-y-yes?"
Lionel considered the answer, considered Bertie's rank, the man's station…he even thought of his own commoner-standing, his Australian background.
"I suppose if you're the King, than it matters not what anyone else really thinks, now does it?"
Bertie nodded briefly, and his eyes flicked back to the window. The intense thought dripped from him in waves, and Lionel crossed his arms, lost in his own thought. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought of it before. After all, as much time as they'd spent rolling about the floor and dancing like children, they'd had the opportunity to be in close proximity to each other.
Lionel decided it wasn't the most terrible thing in the world. Few things were, when thought about long enough.
"It is a sin," Bertie finally said. "It is not a decision I can make in good c-c-c-conscious."
Lionel felt the control keeping him from comforting Bertie begin to tense again, threatening to break and shift. He kept his hands calm and approached Bertie quietly from behind. He made sure his steps, however, were clean and audible. Bertie tensed as he approached, his shoulders moving and shifting again beneath his tailored jacket.
"What are you doing, Logue?"
"This again?" Lionel asked, the chuckle evident in his voice. "Is the decision something you simply refuse to make or is it something you literally cannot make?"
Bertie didn't answer that one, not sure entirely where Lionel was going with the line of questioning.
"You've helped my speech tremendously. And in that, you've helped and f-f-fixed me in q-q-quite a few more ways than I can articulate," Bertie finally said, and the misery was back in his voice. "That is not the same as attraction."
"Than why would Elizabeth assume—"
"I bloody dreamed about you," Bertie finally muttered, his voice breaking into anger again and he whirled on Lionel. "I bloody dreamed about you and said your name, and it was a sexual dream!"
Lionel struggled to come up with words to respond, mostly because now instead of kissing Bertie, the king had him bent over a table instead and was slowly working his clothing off. And the thought didn't make him recoil or jump as he thought it would.
If anything, it made him feel entirely too overheated and his skin felt sensitive and covered in goosebumps.
Or maybe that was because Bertie had grabbed his shoulders and was staring him down. "I can't do this," he finally muttered dejectedly before he slanted his mouth over Lionel's and kissed him brutally. Lionel wished it didn't quite taste so much of reluctant defeat, and obviously, less of stale cigarettes.
But when Bertie's groan filled Lionel's mouth and made his entire body tremble, Lionel forgot the taste all together and fell back against the wall, knocking several vinyl albums to the floor. Lionel grasped for anything to ground himself with; the intense emotion of it rocking the floor beneath his feet.
He felt Bertie's tongue trace along his lips, hands racing over Lionel's wiry frame. Lionel felt the wall digging into his back, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Bertie yanked back after a moment finally, his eyes wild and defeated at the same time. "She's always right, you know."
Lionel quirked an eyebrow. "Oh?" He struggled to pretend that Bertie's hands weren't still making patterns over his shirt, the sensation of it going straight to his groin. "And what's that?"
"I do fancy you." Bertie buried his head into Lionel's neck. "I couldn't stop."
"Perhaps in this case, your wife knows best." Lionel grinned at him, being ultimately glad that Bertie wasn't swinging a fist across his face. He doubted Bertie would actually hit anyone, but this was an exceptionally special case.
And as such, it demanded exceptionally careful treading.
Lionel didn't think much more on it; Bertie's lips were tracing a hard pattern over his neck and dipping below his shirt collar.
"I can't stop," Bertie finally said, and the defeat and victory laced through his tone made Lionel want to comfort him and hug him and tell him that everything would be alright.
"Then don't," Lionel said and lost himself in Bertie's mouth again.
Elizabeth hummed to herself and glanced up when she heard the clattering inside the consultation room. She smirked, a private thing as it were, and went back to her ladies' magazine.
A/N: Again, my beta said the writing was solid, as was the grammar and tone of voice (except perhaps for when Bertie tells Lionel to go fuck himself) but she just didn't see the pairing happening. So I left it as is, against her wishes. It's my first writing with this, and honestly, my first writing with a fandom other than Scrubs in a little over five years XD Hope you enjoyed!