Allophilia
Title: Allophilia
Pairing: None, Billy, Orlando
Rating: G
Notes: This fic lives in Nostalgia 'Verse, same one as "Faking It". It is not meant to be a chronological story, per se, merely snapshots in time. It will be catalogued in chronological order though.
A/N: I rescued this from an old computer after my hard drive failed. I am almost positive I posted it somewhere years and years ago when I first wrote it. Might have been in my personal journal, might have been in Wrisomifu, might have been elsewhere. I honestly have no idea, but if anyone recognizes it, that's probably why.
Heathrow was a throng of multi-cultured urgency. Not quite the same as the rest of London's melting pot, where everyone mostly kept to their own unless forced. Heathrow was the force, a white flag where everyone had to come to such close quarters that politeness ruled.
Across the terminal hall, a small group of Buddhist monks in their saffron robes sat quietly beside a group of almost militant Chinese businessmen in pressed suits. At another gate, a Bengali boy shared his Gameboy with an orthodox Jew of near the same age over the seatbacks of a row of plastic chairs, calling out pointers. Their more traditionally dressed parents glanced warily at each other, but made no efforts to separate the two. The PA system made announcements in English, French and other languages almost continuously.
Orlando had once seen Sir Anthony Hopkins in this airport. He’d been about the same age as those boys, and it was just months after The Silence of the Lambs had come out, and Hannibal bloody Lector was sat at the very next gate, wearing a knit cap and dark glasses and reading a newspaper with the dull monotony of a regular, grandfatherly bloke. No one approached him; Orlando figured either he wasn’t recognized or everyone was too fucking terrified to do so. He personally hadn’t been afraid because of the film, though, just… it was Tony Hopkins, only one of those most esteemed, classically trained actors in history, and Orlando was enchanted.
Tony had noticed him staring and blithely ignored him until some indeterminate minute or hour later when his gate had been called, and he’d pointedly looked up, nudged those shades down and winked right at him with the cool, eloquent air of a man who could make you truly believe he’s a sociopath who eats people.
And Orlando had carried that wink with him to school, to every audition, to every opening night on stage, to day-long bit-parts in television shows and walk-ons in films, and now here, right back to where it had come from. Now he was flying away to film a huge set of movies that would either be an enormous blockbuster or a spectacularly expensive mistake, if his agent and the heavy novel in his carry-on were to be believed. And if the timeline was to be believed, a year and a half in New Zealand, playing an elf. Not a impy Santa's helper elf, but a tall, princely, magnificent elf that shot a bow and wielded long knives, running around with wizards and little people. It was sort of like Star Wars without the spaceships and rayguns, and he-a nobody from Kent who had literally just graduated from Acting 1-0-fucking-1-was in it. All for a bloody wink, he now had a part along side contemporaries of the very man who gave it. He couldn’t believe his luck.
Above the murmur of a dozen languages he heard a distinctly northern voice at the check-in counter, a small gingery man who needed to know-with absolute certainty, mind-whether his guitar was being loaded on this same flight and not another, and could the attendant check, please? She was as reluctant as any of them tended to be, but a smile and a compliment and a sly, almost sweet quasi-mention of it being his birthday had her going through the employee door that led down to the tarmac herself. Bloody impressive, really. The man stood by the counter patiently until she returned, and offered more smiles and handshakes at confirmation before shouldering his carry-on and disappearing.
Perhaps the man was a musician, though it was a hell of a long way to go for a gig.
And really, why were any of these people going to New Zealand? A group of people with outdoor recreation type gear were likely going for the any number of thrills. Which ones? Mountain climbing, bungee-jumping, white-water rafting? A young woman attempted to keep her three young children from wandering away, looking tired and strained. Was she running from something, or running to it? What would happen if the Scot’s beloved guitar didn’t make it to Zed with him?
He had come back and settled in the next bank of chairs with a newspaper, reading it systematically while he devoured an overpriced muffin and a paper cup of coffee. Occasionally he shook his head at one bit of news, and smirked at another.
The businessmen yammered on their mobiles in lightning-fast Mandarin and significantly slower English, pacing up and down the hall. The Bengali boy had produced several more games from his carry-on and now both boys sat on the floor, passing the game back and forth and enthusiastically cheering the other on. The young mother changed two diapers, solved a tantrum with ice cream all around, and looked as though she wanted nothing more in the world than to sleep for a week. The Scot eventually did sleep, slumped over his bag, his newspaper fallen to the floor and pilfered by an old man in high waters and a tweed jacket.
Orlando read another half chapter of The Lord of the Rings, and still hadn’t reached a part where his own character came in. Talk about a book written specifically to torment any kid who scrambled his letters a bit. Right now, all he knew was that the hobbit Merry seemed to know a lot about everything, and Pippin acted like he was about ten years old, they’d apparently be spending all of their time in Middle-Earth walking through various types of countryside. And for the life of him, he still couldn’t figure out what the difference was between Sauron and Saruman.
They opened the gate and began calling rows, and still the ginger-haired man slept on, slumped as he was in the chairs with his empty muffin wrapper still wadded in his fist, looking innocent and childish. His row called, Orlando hitched his own rucksack up over his shoulder and tossed his drink cup in the nearest bin. The gate attendant who had been so helpful glanced anxiously over, at the same time answering questions from the distraught mother. It wouldn’t do if the Scot missed the flight of his precious guitar, so Orlando gently shook his shoulder.
“Hmm?” the man mumbled, blinking up with bleary eyes, nose squinching up at the light.
“Time to go.”
The man hopped up and gathered his own jacket and bag, patting down his pockets for his wallet and passport and ticket. If he’d had a pipe, a pocket handkerchief and been shorter and hairier, it would have completed the picture.
“You’re a hobbit.”
The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, certain it must be the most mental thing to say to a complete stranger who would be on the same twenty hour flight.
But then clear green eyes fastened straight to his at the word, brightening in recognition, and gave him a smile that put any doubt to rest.
Pairing: None, Billy, Orlando
Rating: G
Notes: This fic lives in Nostalgia 'Verse, same one as "Faking It". It is not meant to be a chronological story, per se, merely snapshots in time. It will be catalogued in chronological order though.
A/N: I rescued this from an old computer after my hard drive failed. I am almost positive I posted it somewhere years and years ago when I first wrote it. Might have been in my personal journal, might have been in Wrisomifu, might have been elsewhere. I honestly have no idea, but if anyone recognizes it, that's probably why.
Heathrow was a throng of multi-cultured urgency. Not quite the same as the rest of London's melting pot, where everyone mostly kept to their own unless forced. Heathrow was the force, a white flag where everyone had to come to such close quarters that politeness ruled.
Across the terminal hall, a small group of Buddhist monks in their saffron robes sat quietly beside a group of almost militant Chinese businessmen in pressed suits. At another gate, a Bengali boy shared his Gameboy with an orthodox Jew of near the same age over the seatbacks of a row of plastic chairs, calling out pointers. Their more traditionally dressed parents glanced warily at each other, but made no efforts to separate the two. The PA system made announcements in English, French and other languages almost continuously.
Orlando had once seen Sir Anthony Hopkins in this airport. He’d been about the same age as those boys, and it was just months after The Silence of the Lambs had come out, and Hannibal bloody Lector was sat at the very next gate, wearing a knit cap and dark glasses and reading a newspaper with the dull monotony of a regular, grandfatherly bloke. No one approached him; Orlando figured either he wasn’t recognized or everyone was too fucking terrified to do so. He personally hadn’t been afraid because of the film, though, just… it was Tony Hopkins, only one of those most esteemed, classically trained actors in history, and Orlando was enchanted.
Tony had noticed him staring and blithely ignored him until some indeterminate minute or hour later when his gate had been called, and he’d pointedly looked up, nudged those shades down and winked right at him with the cool, eloquent air of a man who could make you truly believe he’s a sociopath who eats people.
And Orlando had carried that wink with him to school, to every audition, to every opening night on stage, to day-long bit-parts in television shows and walk-ons in films, and now here, right back to where it had come from. Now he was flying away to film a huge set of movies that would either be an enormous blockbuster or a spectacularly expensive mistake, if his agent and the heavy novel in his carry-on were to be believed. And if the timeline was to be believed, a year and a half in New Zealand, playing an elf. Not a impy Santa's helper elf, but a tall, princely, magnificent elf that shot a bow and wielded long knives, running around with wizards and little people. It was sort of like Star Wars without the spaceships and rayguns, and he-a nobody from Kent who had literally just graduated from Acting 1-0-fucking-1-was in it. All for a bloody wink, he now had a part along side contemporaries of the very man who gave it. He couldn’t believe his luck.
Above the murmur of a dozen languages he heard a distinctly northern voice at the check-in counter, a small gingery man who needed to know-with absolute certainty, mind-whether his guitar was being loaded on this same flight and not another, and could the attendant check, please? She was as reluctant as any of them tended to be, but a smile and a compliment and a sly, almost sweet quasi-mention of it being his birthday had her going through the employee door that led down to the tarmac herself. Bloody impressive, really. The man stood by the counter patiently until she returned, and offered more smiles and handshakes at confirmation before shouldering his carry-on and disappearing.
Perhaps the man was a musician, though it was a hell of a long way to go for a gig.
And really, why were any of these people going to New Zealand? A group of people with outdoor recreation type gear were likely going for the any number of thrills. Which ones? Mountain climbing, bungee-jumping, white-water rafting? A young woman attempted to keep her three young children from wandering away, looking tired and strained. Was she running from something, or running to it? What would happen if the Scot’s beloved guitar didn’t make it to Zed with him?
He had come back and settled in the next bank of chairs with a newspaper, reading it systematically while he devoured an overpriced muffin and a paper cup of coffee. Occasionally he shook his head at one bit of news, and smirked at another.
The businessmen yammered on their mobiles in lightning-fast Mandarin and significantly slower English, pacing up and down the hall. The Bengali boy had produced several more games from his carry-on and now both boys sat on the floor, passing the game back and forth and enthusiastically cheering the other on. The young mother changed two diapers, solved a tantrum with ice cream all around, and looked as though she wanted nothing more in the world than to sleep for a week. The Scot eventually did sleep, slumped over his bag, his newspaper fallen to the floor and pilfered by an old man in high waters and a tweed jacket.
Orlando read another half chapter of The Lord of the Rings, and still hadn’t reached a part where his own character came in. Talk about a book written specifically to torment any kid who scrambled his letters a bit. Right now, all he knew was that the hobbit Merry seemed to know a lot about everything, and Pippin acted like he was about ten years old, they’d apparently be spending all of their time in Middle-Earth walking through various types of countryside. And for the life of him, he still couldn’t figure out what the difference was between Sauron and Saruman.
They opened the gate and began calling rows, and still the ginger-haired man slept on, slumped as he was in the chairs with his empty muffin wrapper still wadded in his fist, looking innocent and childish. His row called, Orlando hitched his own rucksack up over his shoulder and tossed his drink cup in the nearest bin. The gate attendant who had been so helpful glanced anxiously over, at the same time answering questions from the distraught mother. It wouldn’t do if the Scot missed the flight of his precious guitar, so Orlando gently shook his shoulder.
“Hmm?” the man mumbled, blinking up with bleary eyes, nose squinching up at the light.
“Time to go.”
The man hopped up and gathered his own jacket and bag, patting down his pockets for his wallet and passport and ticket. If he’d had a pipe, a pocket handkerchief and been shorter and hairier, it would have completed the picture.
“You’re a hobbit.”
The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, certain it must be the most mental thing to say to a complete stranger who would be on the same twenty hour flight.
But then clear green eyes fastened straight to his at the word, brightening in recognition, and gave him a smile that put any doubt to rest.