FIC: In Flight (LotRPS)
Title: In Flight
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: LotRPS
Pairing: Bean/Viggo
Rating: PG
Archive: Lothlorien, sons_of_gondor, and Green Opals.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Absolutely did not happen. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Summary: Sean swears he is becoming a better flier.
Warning: It's been a while since I needed a warning, but here it is -- Sean's children are mentioned. Granted, it's in a rather abstract, amorphous sort of way, but if references to non-celebrity RP characters in any form squicks you, keep moving.
Notes: I'm behind on emails, on replies to comments, on that bloody great RPS epic thing savageseraph and I are working on, and on too many RL obligations to count. So why is it that I'm finding myself flush with ficlets lately? *shakes head* Blame rests squarely on Certain People's shoulders. That's right, I'm looking at you. And you too. Don't think you're getting away scot free.
In Flight
By Galadriel
Sean has a reputation as a bad flier. He knows this. It's gotten better since the white-knuckled days of Bravo Two Zero, in the wake of a steady stream of flights to and from distant places. He no longer balks at taking that last step from terminal to plane; his heart doesn't pound quite so much during take-offs and landings; and he isn't nearly as tempted to relive John Lithgow moments from that godawful Twilight Zone movie as he once might have been. After all, what's a father to do but buck up and get on the damn plane when there are three little girls waiting for him at the other end?
Three little girls that he remembers as angelic and perfect when he's talking to them over the phone; when he thinks of them before, after and during take after take; when he sees a flash of golden hair in a crowd. Three little girls that aren't so little anymore; that wrinkle their noses in disgust when they tire of waiting for him to get off the phone with his agent when he's at home; that roll their eyes and exclaim "Daaaad," when he kisses each of them on the forehead, careful, soft presses of lips just above each eye, dipping down to the space between eyebrows; that get angry, slam doors and cry when he commits the greatest parental crime known to man and says "no." Three not-nearly-as-little-as-they-should-be girls, who are perfectly imperfect.
He'd be an idiot to dig in his heels and stay on location for the duration of any shoot when they are waiting for him at home, thousands of tonnes of metal hurtling through the air be damned.
So it is for them that he's learning to become a better flier. He's displaced his strongest fears of 737's and 747's to tinier aircraft, obsessing over helicopter windspeed, specs and internal mechanisms instead, refusing to so much as consider standing near one of those flying deathtraps again. After all, when is he ever going to need to get in a 'copter to get to his girls?
Viggo knows Sean is at heart a bad flier. Sean sat him down early on and explained what to expect. It seemed important at the time, even though they'd only just started screwing around and there was little reason to do much more than grunt and show Viggo where he kept the condoms. It had seemed right, though, even as strange as it sounded, to tell an almost total stranger (who occasionally shared his bed) about this one deep-seated fear. Maybe it was a case of wanting a detached confessor to hear and hold onto his fears now that he was tiring of the burden. Maybe he simply knew the rest of the cast too well to unburden himself to any one of them. It didn't matter. It felt right, and Viggo had sat still and quiet while Sean talked, his words tumbling out in a confused stream, had done little more than reach out to cover one of Sean's hands with his own when Sean reflexively wiped sweaty palms over denim-clad knees.
And it is with those same sweating palms that Sean now shoves his luggage into the overhead compartment a tiny bit too enthusiastically, hoping to push some of his own pre-flight jitters into the space, locking them away for the duration. Against Sean's protests that he is neither a squalling toddler nor elderly and infirm, Viggo has suggested that they board early, has sweet-talked an overworked stewardess into pouring them a couple glasses of champagne, has smiled blithely and insisted that this is what First Class passengers drink when Sean mutters that he could do with a beer. And Sean sits reluctantly down in his seat, buckles together the tiny strips of fabric across his lap with equally flimsy flaps of metal, knowing all the while that it is nothing more than a fiction -- flames, explosions, mechanical failure and unexplained losses of pressure cannot be trumped by a teeny, tiny strap.
But those steady fingers stroking the back of his hand can.
Sean breathes out heavily. Viggo won't let him die. And there are three little girls at the flight's end that need to meet this man that will keep the plane from falling out of the sky today. Sean rests his head on Viggo's shoulder, sighs deeply, willing the tension out of his body (he is becoming a better flier, he reminds himself). From somewhere above his ear Viggo whispers Sleep, and Sean thinks that's the best fucking idea he's heard all day.
He won't die. Viggo wouldn't get on a plane that's about to crash. He's said so, and as stupid as it sounds, Sean is willing to believe him. On the off chance it does, he thinks, Sean is certain he can manage to claw his way back from wherever it is he's destined to go for the express purpose of kicking Viggo's lying arse.
Sean squeezes his eyes shut, and while Viggo's fingers keep up the slow stroke, stroke, stroke across the back of his hand, Sean manages to ease his grip on the armrest enough so that white knuckles warm to pink.
END
(March 15 & 17, 2004)
Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, rugbytackle, fellow_shippers.
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: LotRPS
Pairing: Bean/Viggo
Rating: PG
Archive: Lothlorien, sons_of_gondor, and Green Opals.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Absolutely did not happen. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Summary: Sean swears he is becoming a better flier.
Warning: It's been a while since I needed a warning, but here it is -- Sean's children are mentioned. Granted, it's in a rather abstract, amorphous sort of way, but if references to non-celebrity RP characters in any form squicks you, keep moving.
Notes: I'm behind on emails, on replies to comments, on that bloody great RPS epic thing savageseraph and I are working on, and on too many RL obligations to count. So why is it that I'm finding myself flush with ficlets lately? *shakes head* Blame rests squarely on Certain People's shoulders. That's right, I'm looking at you. And you too. Don't think you're getting away scot free.
In Flight
By Galadriel
Sean has a reputation as a bad flier. He knows this. It's gotten better since the white-knuckled days of Bravo Two Zero, in the wake of a steady stream of flights to and from distant places. He no longer balks at taking that last step from terminal to plane; his heart doesn't pound quite so much during take-offs and landings; and he isn't nearly as tempted to relive John Lithgow moments from that godawful Twilight Zone movie as he once might have been. After all, what's a father to do but buck up and get on the damn plane when there are three little girls waiting for him at the other end?
Three little girls that he remembers as angelic and perfect when he's talking to them over the phone; when he thinks of them before, after and during take after take; when he sees a flash of golden hair in a crowd. Three little girls that aren't so little anymore; that wrinkle their noses in disgust when they tire of waiting for him to get off the phone with his agent when he's at home; that roll their eyes and exclaim "Daaaad," when he kisses each of them on the forehead, careful, soft presses of lips just above each eye, dipping down to the space between eyebrows; that get angry, slam doors and cry when he commits the greatest parental crime known to man and says "no." Three not-nearly-as-little-as-they-should-be girls, who are perfectly imperfect.
He'd be an idiot to dig in his heels and stay on location for the duration of any shoot when they are waiting for him at home, thousands of tonnes of metal hurtling through the air be damned.
So it is for them that he's learning to become a better flier. He's displaced his strongest fears of 737's and 747's to tinier aircraft, obsessing over helicopter windspeed, specs and internal mechanisms instead, refusing to so much as consider standing near one of those flying deathtraps again. After all, when is he ever going to need to get in a 'copter to get to his girls?
Viggo knows Sean is at heart a bad flier. Sean sat him down early on and explained what to expect. It seemed important at the time, even though they'd only just started screwing around and there was little reason to do much more than grunt and show Viggo where he kept the condoms. It had seemed right, though, even as strange as it sounded, to tell an almost total stranger (who occasionally shared his bed) about this one deep-seated fear. Maybe it was a case of wanting a detached confessor to hear and hold onto his fears now that he was tiring of the burden. Maybe he simply knew the rest of the cast too well to unburden himself to any one of them. It didn't matter. It felt right, and Viggo had sat still and quiet while Sean talked, his words tumbling out in a confused stream, had done little more than reach out to cover one of Sean's hands with his own when Sean reflexively wiped sweaty palms over denim-clad knees.
And it is with those same sweating palms that Sean now shoves his luggage into the overhead compartment a tiny bit too enthusiastically, hoping to push some of his own pre-flight jitters into the space, locking them away for the duration. Against Sean's protests that he is neither a squalling toddler nor elderly and infirm, Viggo has suggested that they board early, has sweet-talked an overworked stewardess into pouring them a couple glasses of champagne, has smiled blithely and insisted that this is what First Class passengers drink when Sean mutters that he could do with a beer. And Sean sits reluctantly down in his seat, buckles together the tiny strips of fabric across his lap with equally flimsy flaps of metal, knowing all the while that it is nothing more than a fiction -- flames, explosions, mechanical failure and unexplained losses of pressure cannot be trumped by a teeny, tiny strap.
But those steady fingers stroking the back of his hand can.
Sean breathes out heavily. Viggo won't let him die. And there are three little girls at the flight's end that need to meet this man that will keep the plane from falling out of the sky today. Sean rests his head on Viggo's shoulder, sighs deeply, willing the tension out of his body (he is becoming a better flier, he reminds himself). From somewhere above his ear Viggo whispers Sleep, and Sean thinks that's the best fucking idea he's heard all day.
He won't die. Viggo wouldn't get on a plane that's about to crash. He's said so, and as stupid as it sounds, Sean is willing to believe him. On the off chance it does, he thinks, Sean is certain he can manage to claw his way back from wherever it is he's destined to go for the express purpose of kicking Viggo's lying arse.
Sean squeezes his eyes shut, and while Viggo's fingers keep up the slow stroke, stroke, stroke across the back of his hand, Sean manages to ease his grip on the armrest enough so that white knuckles warm to pink.
END
(March 15 & 17, 2004)
Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, rugbytackle, fellow_shippers.