Define "This"
Title - Define "This"
Author - daftavocado
Pairing - bb/dm
Rating - pg
Summary - putting speculation to rest.
Word count: 1,189
Disclaimers - the real men don’t know me. i don’t know them. the men in my story are not real. they’re fictional. resemblance to actual actors painstakingly attempted. should the actual actors wish to give me a piece of their minds, i would be most grateful and receptive.
Feedback - welcome.
Acknowledgements: for farothear, though this might not be exactly what she had in mind when she saw pictures from the red carpet.
"Wait. You know what? We're never doing this again," he said, his voice sounding the deadliest of serious.
“Define ‘this’,” I answered. I wasn’t agreeing to anything this time, until I knew all the terms. That’s how I’d gotten into this mess in the first place. I lightly rubbed my sore chin.
“Well, for starters, ‘this’ means listening to my publicist. We’re never listening to my publicist again. In fact, we’re never listening to any publicist again. Not mine. Not yours.” He tipped his head back as he took a swig from a bottle of water. My eyes were drawn to the cuff on his wrist. The cuff that covered the marks that I’d put there. I cringed at the memory of it. And chuckled just a little.
~
“C’mon, Bill. It’ll be fun. You, me, in a tree again,” he’d said. I’d agreed. His publicist called my publicist and they planned a photo shoot of the two of us… with no feet, no wigs, no costumes, just our everyday modern clothing and jewelry and smiles. Get it out to the press as soon after the Oscars as possible, they said.
We headed out to meet the photographer in the wee hours of the morning. 6:00 am really is “wee” when you’ve been pounding the drinks until four in the morning. I imagine we were both still more than a little pissed when we got there. I still think it was a flash of brilliance that one of us insisted we do the shoot barefoot in homage to our hobbitselves. Was it my insistence? Was it his? Does it matter? Our shoes were on the ground at the base of the trunk, and I climbed up after he did, and I remember the photographer saying something about what a lovely view I had as I climbed up. I smiled at her, I slurred a response, and I laughed when I heard the sound of my voice.
We were sitting in a big fork giggling like schoolgirls. He had some sidewalk chalk in his back pocket that he’d brought especially for the occasion. I helped him fish it out while he clung to the big branch, mumbling something about dizzying heights while I pointed out it was more than likely the drink that had made him dizzy. The photographer snapped more than one picture of my hand in his pocket, and commented that the adoring female public would love those pictures in particular. I wrestled the chalk out and handed it over. I had to grapple for his attention, as it was focused on a moth that I hadn’t noticed.
“See how perfectly it blends in with the bark,” he said, “You’d never have noticed it if you didn’t look closely while your mate had his hand on your arse.” I chuckled and replied, “My hand on your arse and all you can think about is a bug. The end is near, hen.”
Voices cackled below us.
“They’re madder than fish,” I said to him.
“But are they madder than Viggo?”
“Naebody’s madder than Viggo.” I do believe the cackling got worse. Just a slip of Scots and people seem to fling themselves headlong round the bend.
I tried to get out of the way as he twisted back to reach the trunk of the tree.
“It’s now or never,” he said.
“Better now than tomorrow. I don’t want to sit up here much longer,” I said.
I watched as he drew one pale white eye, then another. He added a long wonky nose and a somehow-wizened grinning mouth.
“Well, Treebeard he’s not, but it’ll have to do.” I had to agree. I always agreed. Unless it was funnier not to. This was, as I mentioned, how I got myself into fine messes.
“Oh, it works fine from down here,” called the photographer’s assistant.
He was still drunk. No doubt about it. He rubbed the bark and said, “Hello, Mr. Tree.”
“Don’t encourage it!” I joked.
We horsed around a bit. Raised our hands above our heads and pretended to throw rocks. Sneered at each other. Took turns covering the other's eyes. Somehow, someone started tickling. I’m sure it wasn’t me. I’m sure he did it first. I admit I joined in. We were unstable in more ways than one. A crooked leg, a swish of last night’s drink, unstable indeed. That’s how we slipped. I heard a gasp from the ground as I grabbed his wrist and held on for dear life.
“Arse!” he growled. Into the trunk of the tree face-first I went. But he didn’t let go.
There was a bit of scuffling and some panicked shrieks from below, but somehow I eventually ended up on the ground with no further insult. He climbed down carefully, rubbing his wrist and looking concerned.
“Are you all right, then?” he asked me.
“Aye, I think so.” My chin hurt like a bastard but I didn’t feel any blood. “I always liked going South, somehow it feels like going downhill.”
He looked at me like I was mental and then his face broke out in that crooked grin of his. It seemed like only hours later we were surfing.
~
And a few days later we were on the beach, and another pretty photographer was telling us to climb up on the rocks.
"Wait. You know what? We're never doing this again," he said.
“Define ‘this’,” I answered.
“Well, for starters, ‘this’ means listening to my publicist. We’re never listening to my publicist again. In fact, we’re never listening to any publicist again. Not mine. Not yours.” He tipped his head back as he took a swig from his bottle of water. My eyes were drawn to the to the cuff on his wrist. The cuff that covered the marks that I’d put there trying to keep myself from falling out of the tree. The marks that his publicist said were causing all kinds of speculation among those adoring fans. I rubbed my chin as I considered what mine had said.
“On the net they’re all saying that you and Dom had a falling out because you didn’t look lovingly into his eyes when he rubbed your chin on the red carpet.”
His had said, “They’re all thinking you’re into bondage. Half are approving, a quarter think it’s maladaptive, and a quarter haven’t made up their minds yet.”
A photo shoot, they said. Show them all you’re still the best of mates, they said. And now we were staring at a jetty more ragged than any orc teeth, somehow more foreboding than Mount Doom.
“I think we’ll stay down here for now,” I told the photographer.
I looked over at him to see an approving grin, lollipop stick stuck between his gleaming teeth. His eyes were dancing a bit more than they were right after the tree mishap. I looked back at his cuffed wrist.
He’s got a good grip, that one, he does. But mine is better, I think.
by the by, there are two lines in here from the two towers. credit where it's due, and all.
("Don't encourage it." "I always liked going South, somehow it feels like going downhill.")
Author - daftavocado
Pairing - bb/dm
Rating - pg
Summary - putting speculation to rest.
Word count: 1,189
Disclaimers - the real men don’t know me. i don’t know them. the men in my story are not real. they’re fictional. resemblance to actual actors painstakingly attempted. should the actual actors wish to give me a piece of their minds, i would be most grateful and receptive.
Feedback - welcome.
Acknowledgements: for farothear, though this might not be exactly what she had in mind when she saw pictures from the red carpet.
"Wait. You know what? We're never doing this again," he said, his voice sounding the deadliest of serious.
“Define ‘this’,” I answered. I wasn’t agreeing to anything this time, until I knew all the terms. That’s how I’d gotten into this mess in the first place. I lightly rubbed my sore chin.
“Well, for starters, ‘this’ means listening to my publicist. We’re never listening to my publicist again. In fact, we’re never listening to any publicist again. Not mine. Not yours.” He tipped his head back as he took a swig from a bottle of water. My eyes were drawn to the cuff on his wrist. The cuff that covered the marks that I’d put there. I cringed at the memory of it. And chuckled just a little.
~
“C’mon, Bill. It’ll be fun. You, me, in a tree again,” he’d said. I’d agreed. His publicist called my publicist and they planned a photo shoot of the two of us… with no feet, no wigs, no costumes, just our everyday modern clothing and jewelry and smiles. Get it out to the press as soon after the Oscars as possible, they said.
We headed out to meet the photographer in the wee hours of the morning. 6:00 am really is “wee” when you’ve been pounding the drinks until four in the morning. I imagine we were both still more than a little pissed when we got there. I still think it was a flash of brilliance that one of us insisted we do the shoot barefoot in homage to our hobbitselves. Was it my insistence? Was it his? Does it matter? Our shoes were on the ground at the base of the trunk, and I climbed up after he did, and I remember the photographer saying something about what a lovely view I had as I climbed up. I smiled at her, I slurred a response, and I laughed when I heard the sound of my voice.
We were sitting in a big fork giggling like schoolgirls. He had some sidewalk chalk in his back pocket that he’d brought especially for the occasion. I helped him fish it out while he clung to the big branch, mumbling something about dizzying heights while I pointed out it was more than likely the drink that had made him dizzy. The photographer snapped more than one picture of my hand in his pocket, and commented that the adoring female public would love those pictures in particular. I wrestled the chalk out and handed it over. I had to grapple for his attention, as it was focused on a moth that I hadn’t noticed.
“See how perfectly it blends in with the bark,” he said, “You’d never have noticed it if you didn’t look closely while your mate had his hand on your arse.” I chuckled and replied, “My hand on your arse and all you can think about is a bug. The end is near, hen.”
Voices cackled below us.
“They’re madder than fish,” I said to him.
“But are they madder than Viggo?”
“Naebody’s madder than Viggo.” I do believe the cackling got worse. Just a slip of Scots and people seem to fling themselves headlong round the bend.
I tried to get out of the way as he twisted back to reach the trunk of the tree.
“It’s now or never,” he said.
“Better now than tomorrow. I don’t want to sit up here much longer,” I said.
I watched as he drew one pale white eye, then another. He added a long wonky nose and a somehow-wizened grinning mouth.
“Well, Treebeard he’s not, but it’ll have to do.” I had to agree. I always agreed. Unless it was funnier not to. This was, as I mentioned, how I got myself into fine messes.
“Oh, it works fine from down here,” called the photographer’s assistant.
He was still drunk. No doubt about it. He rubbed the bark and said, “Hello, Mr. Tree.”
“Don’t encourage it!” I joked.
We horsed around a bit. Raised our hands above our heads and pretended to throw rocks. Sneered at each other. Took turns covering the other's eyes. Somehow, someone started tickling. I’m sure it wasn’t me. I’m sure he did it first. I admit I joined in. We were unstable in more ways than one. A crooked leg, a swish of last night’s drink, unstable indeed. That’s how we slipped. I heard a gasp from the ground as I grabbed his wrist and held on for dear life.
“Arse!” he growled. Into the trunk of the tree face-first I went. But he didn’t let go.
There was a bit of scuffling and some panicked shrieks from below, but somehow I eventually ended up on the ground with no further insult. He climbed down carefully, rubbing his wrist and looking concerned.
“Are you all right, then?” he asked me.
“Aye, I think so.” My chin hurt like a bastard but I didn’t feel any blood. “I always liked going South, somehow it feels like going downhill.”
He looked at me like I was mental and then his face broke out in that crooked grin of his. It seemed like only hours later we were surfing.
~
And a few days later we were on the beach, and another pretty photographer was telling us to climb up on the rocks.
"Wait. You know what? We're never doing this again," he said.
“Define ‘this’,” I answered.
“Well, for starters, ‘this’ means listening to my publicist. We’re never listening to my publicist again. In fact, we’re never listening to any publicist again. Not mine. Not yours.” He tipped his head back as he took a swig from his bottle of water. My eyes were drawn to the to the cuff on his wrist. The cuff that covered the marks that I’d put there trying to keep myself from falling out of the tree. The marks that his publicist said were causing all kinds of speculation among those adoring fans. I rubbed my chin as I considered what mine had said.
“On the net they’re all saying that you and Dom had a falling out because you didn’t look lovingly into his eyes when he rubbed your chin on the red carpet.”
His had said, “They’re all thinking you’re into bondage. Half are approving, a quarter think it’s maladaptive, and a quarter haven’t made up their minds yet.”
A photo shoot, they said. Show them all you’re still the best of mates, they said. And now we were staring at a jetty more ragged than any orc teeth, somehow more foreboding than Mount Doom.
“I think we’ll stay down here for now,” I told the photographer.
I looked over at him to see an approving grin, lollipop stick stuck between his gleaming teeth. His eyes were dancing a bit more than they were right after the tree mishap. I looked back at his cuffed wrist.
He’s got a good grip, that one, he does. But mine is better, I think.
by the by, there are two lines in here from the two towers. credit where it's due, and all.
("Don't encourage it." "I always liked going South, somehow it feels like going downhill.")