(no subject)
Author: wildemoose
Title: Vaguely Missing Link
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: SeanB/Viggo
Rating: PG for content, R for language
Disclaimer: Don’t know them, don’t own them. This is all pretend.
Notes: Written in 45 minutes for the contrelamontre “Grocery List” challenge. Long time RPS reader, first time writer. The SB/VM pairing just will not leave me in peace.
The most deserted place Sean could think of was the alley behind the soundstage, so that’s where he went. Because sometimes you just need to punch the wall in peace for awhile. And sometimes even an actor doesn’t need an audience. Bang. Bang. Shit. Shit. He examined his torn knuckles, watching as the blood welled up and slowly dripped down his hand, leaving streaks of red that looked like tear tracks on his skin. He hit the wall once more for good measure, slapping it with the palm of his hand this time. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-
“Sean?” Ian’s voice is gentle, but startles him anyway. What happened to letting a man have his temper tantrum in private? “I wouldn’t have disturbed you, Sean, but they’re shooting in there, and they can’t figure out why the walls are shaking.” Then that slight give under his fist hadn’t been his imagination. Fuck it, he could bring this whole building down if he tried. “You might want to see the medic about that,” Ian continued, pointing to Sean’s still-bleeding hand. “Do you know, they told me that’s what they see most often on movie sets.”
“What?” If I’m halfway sociable, maybe he’ll leave me alone.
“Injuries incurred from punching at walls.” Right now, if Sean had one wish and one wish only for the rest of his life, he would wish for Ian to go away. But Sean can’t be angry with Ian, no one can, because he’s like somebody’s very proper grandfather, only the kind who wears bright purple ties with matching pocket handkerchiefs to award shows and tells impossibly dirty jokes in that impossibly posh accent.
“Ian, I-”
“I understand. Private frustration time, the prerogative of all actors. But Sean, if you ever need someone to talk to…”
“You’ll be the first one I’ll call.” Which they both know is a lie, but Ian doesn’t seem to mind. He must have heard about the divorce. And if he’s heard, then everybody’s heard, because Sir Ian McKellen is very, very good at many things, but keeping other people’s secrets is not one of them.
“Bean! Hey, Bean! What happened to your hand?” Not Orlando. Please, anyone but Orlando.
“Orlando.” Sean squints at the figure darting back and forth in front of him, a red blur that he can’t quite keep up with. “Don’t you ever stand still?”
“It’s Friday, man! Aren’t you going to have a drink with us?”
“What are you wearing?”
“Like it? It’s new.”
“Well, it’s very, uh…” Shiny? Sparkly? Tight? Ugly? “What would you call that fabric, then?”
“Mesh, Bean. Ruby metallic mesh. So? You’re coming, right, man?”
“No, I’m all in, mate. I’m off home. Tough day.” Orlando shrugs, and Sean has never before seen anyone convey the sentiment, “Oh well, your loss, you won’t get to watch me try to shag everything that moves tonight, have a nice evening anyway, call me if you need anything, and see you tomorrow,” in a single gesture. He zooms off in the direction of the trailers, and Sean can still only see a red blur knocking down a few assorted hobbits and emitting a high-pitched shrieking sound that probably wakes up the entire bat community of the North Island. Blurry, Sean thinks, why is everything so blurry? He brushes his hand over his eyes and it comes away wet. No. Not crying. Not crying.
There’s a dark figure on Sean’s front steps, and for one horrifying moment he thinks that Orlando has actually followed him home with his own special brand of malicious intent. But the figure isn’t moving and it’s not shining brilliant red in the light of the setting sun, and Sean breathes a sigh of relief, because of course it’s Viggo.
“You’ve been talking to Ian.” Viggo nods.
“I brought beer.” Lots of beer, Sean thinks. Funny how no one around here can have a serious conversation without beer. Must be a manly thing. He picks up one of the cases and unlocks the door of his house.
“What kind of beer is this?” It’s got a red label, lettering in a foreign language that Sean can’t make out in the dim light. He can
barely make out Viggo’s grin.
“Danish. Guaranteed to cure all ills.” And maybe Sean imagined the grin, because he’s turning on the lights now, and Viggo is settling down on the couch and popping open one of the weird red cans, and right now he looks like Aragorn at his most concerned. “You know, I’ve been through it, Sean.” Sean laughs at that.
“Yeah. Me too. Three times now. Don’t get any easier, though.” Sean takes a beer, too, and sinks down next to Viggo, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his leg through his jeans. Viggo’s warmth.What the hell am I doing, he thinks, before he realizes that he’s been sitting contemplating Viggo’s leg for five minutes and that Viggo has been talking the entire time.
“I gave her a violin when we got married.”
“A what?”
“A violin. She didn’t play, but I thought she’d like it.” A Viggo gift. Something beautiful and meaningful and completely useless. Perfect. “So, the day she sent me the divorce papers, she sent me the violin, too. Smashed to hell.”
“Viggo.” Sean’s voice is too loud in the silence, already a little shaky from the beer. “It was my fault.”
“No, Sean…” He can’t let Viggo finish, has to get this out.
“She thinks I’m in love with somebody else.” Only Viggo would have to think about this for a full three minutes before asking the same question that anyone else would have asked immediately.
“Are you?”
“I didn’t think I was. But now…” He laughs, and it sounds like a stranger, someone else’s laugh. I’m not the type to laugh bitterly, he thinks. “Funny how someone thousands of miles away can know something about you that you don’t know yourself.”
“Who is it?” Viggo is still so warm next to him. He knows. He has to know. Fuck, Viggo, can’t you make this easy for me, Sean thinks. And their faces are inches apart and Sean can hear his own heart thumping in his ears, and Viggo knows. He has to know. And when their lips meet, all Sean can think is, yes. He knows. He knows.
“It’s you, dear boy,” Ian had told Viggo. “It’s the way he looks at you.”
“I’ve seen it,” Viggo had said. “I know.”
Title: Vaguely Missing Link
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: SeanB/Viggo
Rating: PG for content, R for language
Disclaimer: Don’t know them, don’t own them. This is all pretend.
Notes: Written in 45 minutes for the contrelamontre “Grocery List” challenge. Long time RPS reader, first time writer. The SB/VM pairing just will not leave me in peace.
The most deserted place Sean could think of was the alley behind the soundstage, so that’s where he went. Because sometimes you just need to punch the wall in peace for awhile. And sometimes even an actor doesn’t need an audience. Bang. Bang. Shit. Shit. He examined his torn knuckles, watching as the blood welled up and slowly dripped down his hand, leaving streaks of red that looked like tear tracks on his skin. He hit the wall once more for good measure, slapping it with the palm of his hand this time. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-
“Sean?” Ian’s voice is gentle, but startles him anyway. What happened to letting a man have his temper tantrum in private? “I wouldn’t have disturbed you, Sean, but they’re shooting in there, and they can’t figure out why the walls are shaking.” Then that slight give under his fist hadn’t been his imagination. Fuck it, he could bring this whole building down if he tried. “You might want to see the medic about that,” Ian continued, pointing to Sean’s still-bleeding hand. “Do you know, they told me that’s what they see most often on movie sets.”
“What?” If I’m halfway sociable, maybe he’ll leave me alone.
“Injuries incurred from punching at walls.” Right now, if Sean had one wish and one wish only for the rest of his life, he would wish for Ian to go away. But Sean can’t be angry with Ian, no one can, because he’s like somebody’s very proper grandfather, only the kind who wears bright purple ties with matching pocket handkerchiefs to award shows and tells impossibly dirty jokes in that impossibly posh accent.
“Ian, I-”
“I understand. Private frustration time, the prerogative of all actors. But Sean, if you ever need someone to talk to…”
“You’ll be the first one I’ll call.” Which they both know is a lie, but Ian doesn’t seem to mind. He must have heard about the divorce. And if he’s heard, then everybody’s heard, because Sir Ian McKellen is very, very good at many things, but keeping other people’s secrets is not one of them.
“Bean! Hey, Bean! What happened to your hand?” Not Orlando. Please, anyone but Orlando.
“Orlando.” Sean squints at the figure darting back and forth in front of him, a red blur that he can’t quite keep up with. “Don’t you ever stand still?”
“It’s Friday, man! Aren’t you going to have a drink with us?”
“What are you wearing?”
“Like it? It’s new.”
“Well, it’s very, uh…” Shiny? Sparkly? Tight? Ugly? “What would you call that fabric, then?”
“Mesh, Bean. Ruby metallic mesh. So? You’re coming, right, man?”
“No, I’m all in, mate. I’m off home. Tough day.” Orlando shrugs, and Sean has never before seen anyone convey the sentiment, “Oh well, your loss, you won’t get to watch me try to shag everything that moves tonight, have a nice evening anyway, call me if you need anything, and see you tomorrow,” in a single gesture. He zooms off in the direction of the trailers, and Sean can still only see a red blur knocking down a few assorted hobbits and emitting a high-pitched shrieking sound that probably wakes up the entire bat community of the North Island. Blurry, Sean thinks, why is everything so blurry? He brushes his hand over his eyes and it comes away wet. No. Not crying. Not crying.
There’s a dark figure on Sean’s front steps, and for one horrifying moment he thinks that Orlando has actually followed him home with his own special brand of malicious intent. But the figure isn’t moving and it’s not shining brilliant red in the light of the setting sun, and Sean breathes a sigh of relief, because of course it’s Viggo.
“You’ve been talking to Ian.” Viggo nods.
“I brought beer.” Lots of beer, Sean thinks. Funny how no one around here can have a serious conversation without beer. Must be a manly thing. He picks up one of the cases and unlocks the door of his house.
“What kind of beer is this?” It’s got a red label, lettering in a foreign language that Sean can’t make out in the dim light. He can
barely make out Viggo’s grin.
“Danish. Guaranteed to cure all ills.” And maybe Sean imagined the grin, because he’s turning on the lights now, and Viggo is settling down on the couch and popping open one of the weird red cans, and right now he looks like Aragorn at his most concerned. “You know, I’ve been through it, Sean.” Sean laughs at that.
“Yeah. Me too. Three times now. Don’t get any easier, though.” Sean takes a beer, too, and sinks down next to Viggo, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his leg through his jeans. Viggo’s warmth.What the hell am I doing, he thinks, before he realizes that he’s been sitting contemplating Viggo’s leg for five minutes and that Viggo has been talking the entire time.
“I gave her a violin when we got married.”
“A what?”
“A violin. She didn’t play, but I thought she’d like it.” A Viggo gift. Something beautiful and meaningful and completely useless. Perfect. “So, the day she sent me the divorce papers, she sent me the violin, too. Smashed to hell.”
“Viggo.” Sean’s voice is too loud in the silence, already a little shaky from the beer. “It was my fault.”
“No, Sean…” He can’t let Viggo finish, has to get this out.
“She thinks I’m in love with somebody else.” Only Viggo would have to think about this for a full three minutes before asking the same question that anyone else would have asked immediately.
“Are you?”
“I didn’t think I was. But now…” He laughs, and it sounds like a stranger, someone else’s laugh. I’m not the type to laugh bitterly, he thinks. “Funny how someone thousands of miles away can know something about you that you don’t know yourself.”
“Who is it?” Viggo is still so warm next to him. He knows. He has to know. Fuck, Viggo, can’t you make this easy for me, Sean thinks. And their faces are inches apart and Sean can hear his own heart thumping in his ears, and Viggo knows. He has to know. And when their lips meet, all Sean can think is, yes. He knows. He knows.
“It’s you, dear boy,” Ian had told Viggo. “It’s the way he looks at you.”
“I’ve seen it,” Viggo had said. “I know.”