Oscar
Title: Oscar
Ships: James/Georgie
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Do I really need to say that I'm not these people, I don't know these people, and everything within is a work of fiction? Didn't think so.
Summary: James accidentally confesses too much in front of a billion people. [set in approx 2015]
Authors Notes: This slightly random fic is a belated birthday present for alexi_lupin and an early birthday present for narnialovers. I know they wont mind sharing. *squishes* I can't believe it's been over a year since I've written J/G. I've missed them. Enjoy!
Oscar
i. Award
"And the Best Actor Oscar goes to…" The ripping of the envelope echoes in the large auditorium before, "James McAvoy."
James sits in total shock for a moment. He can hear thousands of people clapping and cheering for him, can feel the lips of his wife kissing his cheek in congratulations, even though on the inside he feels stunned into numbness.
He stands, buttoning his tuxedo jacket as he ascends the steps and accepts the statue. There is a kiss and heavy statue in his hand and a spotlight and everything is too surreal. He almost doesn't know what to do with himself. He feels out of his body, waiting to come back to reality.
He steps up to the microphone, smiling bashfully and staring at the gold between his fingertips as he waits for the noise to die down.
"Wow," is the first word out of his mouth. Not very sophisticated or original but it is the only word he can think of to sum up what he is feeling.
He takes a deep breath. "Thank you so much. Thanks to the Academy for this wonderful honour. I'd like to thank my wife for her support over the years. My director, the mad-cap genius that is Mr David Thewlis, for believing in me and making me a better actor. Uh, the wonderful cast this film has, actors so brilliant it was scary just to be in their presence. The hard working crew, who were a joy to be around every day. My agent, thanks for all your hard work." A pause. "Um, this film, when I read the script, it touched me very deeply, and even though it was quite difficult at times, I did have someone in my life who helped me get inside the skin of this character." His eyes automatically find hers amongst the crowd before him, unable to believe he is about to say what he is about to say, but unable to stop himself. "This person inspired me a great deal. They have been an important part of my life, whether they knew it or not. They were my Muse, for lack of a better word, and I would not be here if it weren't for them. So to this person I just want to say ‘thankyou'. Thanks."
He walks off the stage to thunderous applause; doesn't look back, refuses to look back to the confused faces of his wife and agent, refuses to look back to his Muse's face. He can't bear to think of her reaction.
ii. Press Room
"Congratulations"
"Thankyou."
"What does this mean to you?"
"It's the ultimate recognition, isn't it? It's the best compliment you could ever receive and I'm just so flattered and honoured that people thought me worthy of this great institute."
"Do you think this will affect your career?"
"I'm sure it will." A smile. "Though who can tell in what way?"
Laughs.
"Did you know when you were filming what a great film you were making?"
"I knew that we were making something very special. I knew we were making something that had a timeless quality to it. I knew it meant a great deal to me, and that everyone who worked on it gave it their all every single day. But you can never tell what's going to happen to a film once it's out of your hands. I hoped it would do well and that people would embrace it. I certainly didn't expect this," raising the gold statue in his hand, smiling.
"How did you feel when they called your name?"
A slight pause. "I'm trying to think of a stronger word than shock."
More laughs.
"Did you have a speech prepared?"
A grin. "Did it sound like I had a speech prepared??"
Even more laughter.
"I always ask people if there was someone they forgot to thank in their speech, because everyone always comes off stage really dazed and they inevitably remember someone they forgot."
"'Remember someone they forgot' - I like that. Actually, as soon as I walked off stage I realised I had forgotten to thank our amazing screenwriter. So, Kim, if you're watching, thanks for everything."
"Any chance you will tell us who your so-called muse was for this film?"
A shake of the head.
"Well, can you tell us how they inspired you?"
Another shake of the head. "I'd prefer not to go into it, for a few reasons. I don't like to break down the method of my madness because I don't think it matters to everyone else. All that matters is the end result. Plus, it's my personal life, which as you know is something I don't really talk about."
"Fair enough. Congratulations again."
"Thankyou."
iii. After Party
He stands at the bar, waiting for the overworked bartenders to get to him, sandwiched between an icon of the acting world and the current ‘hot young thing' director, so he doesn't hold out much hope that he will be served any time soon. His wife is chatting amiably with a bunch of people at a table on the other side of the room, Oscar sitting proudly in front of her, and even though he is hot and squished between two people with more people at his back, he is grateful for the space. He only wishes he didn't want more space than a ballroom provided.
He gives up after a few minutes. He really shouldn't drink any more this evening anyway. Not that he has had a lot to drink, far from it; it's just that he has already had a loose tongue working against him without the aid of alcohol. Who knows what he would say if he added alcohol lubricant to his system.
With a sigh, he extracts himself from the two person deep crowd that surrounds the bar.
When he pushes free of the designer silk and dark wool, there she stands, still and silent, waiting for him. He stops dead in his tracks. They stare at each other for a moment before he tilts his head with the slightest motion, and they both slowly creep away, past the bar, a dark corner.
They stand apart, facing each other, he with an expectant expression and she with simple wonder.
"It was me, wasn't it?" she asks. Her voice is soft and low, a music that suddenly fills his head and drowns out any other noise but her.
He doesn't want to say yes. He doesn't want to admit to what they both know. Doesn't want to remember his stupid confession in front of a billion people that she is the reason for everything. But lies are useless and she deserves better. So much better. She deserves everything he can't give her, so he finally decides on the truth.
"Of course it was you, Georgie."
She lets out a breath, her surreal calmness giving way to emotion and small shivers as she glances away, down at her feet and back up.
"Why would you say that?" She's genuinely curious, almost as though she is more concerned about how this could affect him than worried about what this means for her, for them.
He doesn't know how to answer. He's finding it hard to concentrate. She looks so beautiful. Long chocolate hair in loose, subtle curls pulled back from her face and cascading down her back. Dark emerald dress, fitted on the bodice but loose from the waist down. Even though her feet are covered he knows she's not wearing heels.
"Believe me, it's not something I gave too much forethought too. I don't know why I said it. Maybe because it's the truth. Maybe because I'm sick of pretending. Maybe because, I don't know, I'm an idiot and don't know when to keep my stupid mouth closed." She smiles at that, and he is more happy than he should be that he can still make her smile after all these years. "Maybe it's because you inspire me. And I wanted you to know."
Her eyes are bright as she stares at him. "You could have just told me," she whispers, taking the smallest of steps towards him. "I saw you not one hour before your name was called. You could have told me then. You could have told me when we caught up a month ago, or the three months before that. You could have told me when I visited you on set. Why did you say it then? Why would you make that much trouble for yourself?"
He doesn't know if she is angry at him or just worried. She blinks, and a tear cascades down her porcelain cheek. He edges forward slightly, his fingertips suddenly on her warm skin, wiping away the tear.
"I don't know," he replies, and they stare at each other for a moment before quietly laughing. His hand falls from her cheek, fingertips lightly trailing down her bare arm, her fingers ready and waiting to entwine with his.
"I wish you could take it back." Her voice is quiet, pained, regretful. He suddenly hates himself for causing that tone. For making her hurt. For making things harder than they already are.
"Me too." He leans forward, his mouth to her ear. "But that doesn't mean I didn't mean every word of what I said."
He kisses her cheek, lingers too long for it to be considered a chaste, platonic kiss, then turns and walks away, into the crowd and lights and glitter, without looking back.
iv. Aftermath
It was a late night and he wakes past midday. His mind is blank for a moment and then he remembers: the award, the glory, the mistake, the truth.
With a groan he stumbles out of bed and into the shower. The water can't wash away the memories. He wishes they could.
He wanders out to the kitchen. Anne-Marie has left the paper on the bench. Pictures of the two of them arriving home, victorious, stares out at him from the first page. They look grumpy, tense, and the journalist has generously attributed that to jet-lag. He quickly turns the paper over. He has never been comfortable with seeing press about himself, and he really doesn't need more reminders of the words that came spewing from his mouth the other night.
He heads out the back, desperate for fresh air, a warm mug of coffee warming his fingers. The wind is cool on his face, refreshing, rejuvenating.
He spends the day idling around the house. Making eggs for brunch. Reading the latest scripts he has been sent. Trying to find somewhere for the little gold man. He is proud of his achievement and wants to display it somewhere, but doesn't want to show off, scream ‘look at me'. In the end he settles for the top shelf of his corner bookshelf in the study.
He is still tired. Even after all these years and all the travel it still takes a couple of days to get over the jetlag. He puts on a movie and lightly naps through most of it.
When he wakes he realises it's time for dinner. It is only when he is searching through the kitchen cupboards and fridge, deciding what to cook, that he realises that Anne-Marie still isn't back from wherever she has been all day. He thinks about calling her. He decides not to.
He is halfway through cooking some chicken and rice when he hears the front door open. His wife appears in the kitchen. Her face is drawn, sad. She sits on a stool at the breakfast bar.
"Where have you been?" he asks, hands stirring the rice in a clockwise motion.
"Mum's."
"That's nice. What were you guys doing?"
"Trying to find somewhere for me to live."
He looks up at that, meets her eyes. She looks away from his intent gaze, lowers her eyes, flicks through the paper on the bench. His eyes follow her gaze. He can see his own face peering back up at him. Her hand on the paper is bare, empty.
"This hasn't been working for a long time. We both know that. But I thought we could work through it, or you would get over it, that we could one day be okay again. But then you went and made that stupid speech…"
And he is suddenly there again, standing on the stage, hearing the words echo throughout his brain.
"I remember you saying once, when you began filming, that everyone thought your character dark and complex and beautiful and dangerous. But you thought the truth was that he was in love with someone he shouldn't be, and it was that emotion that drove him to do the things he did. That he was just trying to deal with an impossible situation, only he was dealing with it in the completely wrong way."
She looks up at him. He ducks his head, guilty, caught out.
"I can't do this anymore. We shouldn't be together, not when you-" She can't bear to say the words, and he doesn't blame her. Saying it out loud would only cause more additional pain.
She reaches into her pocket and places two white gold rings on the table. He looks at her. He didn't mean for any of this to happen. He never wanted to hurt her. But he couldn't help what had happened to him, to them. And he is suddenly sad, thinking of broken promises and lives unlived.
"Goodbye, James," her voice wavers, but her face is determined as she stands up.
"Goodbye," he says before watching her walk out the door.
He is suddenly alone. And everything is different. He takes his wedding band from his finger, puts it with hers on the bench. Three small rings, symbolising something that wasn't meant to be. He looks at them for a long time.
His dinner burns.
v. Freedom
He knocks on the heavy wooden door. He glances back at the street behind him. He thinks he lost the paps that were chasing him but he can't be too sure. The dawn light is cool on his skin, his mind too anxious and excited to worry about dressing appropriately for a winters morning.
She opens the door. Their eyes meet. He worries that he woke her. She stands there in long dark blue cotton pyjama pants, a white singlet, a light blue dressing gown. Her hair is pulled back in a simple plait. She looks beautiful.
"James," her voice is surprised, but not unhappy.
"Hey," he replies.
She takes a few steps back and he walks inside, closing the door behind him. She is still slowly taking step by step backwards, as though she can't bear to break eye contact with him. He moves quickly, taking her hand in his and stopping her tracks.
"What are you doing h-"
Her words are cut off his by lips on hers. She responds instantly, their arms wrapping around each other. He edges them to the nearby wall, pressing her body against it, trapping her with his own. Her hands wander everywhere and he pushes the dressing gown from her shoulders, pushing it off her body so it pools at her feet.
Her hands land on his shoulders, gently pushing him back. He comes out the kiss dazed, confused. She looks gorgeous, standing there all breathless.
"We can't do this. You're married."
He holds up his left hand, completely barren. "Separated. Officially. Funnily enough, my wife didn't want to be married to someone who was in love with someone else."
She can do nothing but stare into his eyes, frozen. He worries he has said too much, scared her away. He smiles gently, encouragingly. She still doesn't move, her vision beginning to swim. He places his hands on her hips, slowly raising his right hand, fingertips tickling her ribs before cupping her breast. She closes her eyes with a sigh, a small tear escaping the corner of her eye. His thumb moves back and forth over her nipple. A moan escapes her lips.
Emboldened, he gently grasps the bottom of her singlet. He pulls it up, Georgie aiding him by raising her arms. He tosses the material aside and when he looks back, her eyes are open and staring at him again. She repeats the motion on him, grasping the material of his t-shirt and throwing it somewhere down the hallway.
They looked at each other for just a moment before both crashing forward, mouths meeting with a violent intensity. Every feeling they have had for each other over the last few years comes pouring out, their bodies pressed together, hands roaming. He presses his mouth to her breast, taking the rosy nipple between his teeth. She moans his name as he kisses the valley between her breasts.
His mouth is at her collarbone when he whispers the word, "Bedroom," and by the time he makes it up to her mouth she is shaking her head. "Too far," she manages to get out between kisses. "Need you now."
Tongues dance playfully as her fingers work at his belt, undoing the buckle before popping the button open and undoing the zip, pushing his jeans and shorts down his legs. He smiles against her lips before pushing her pyjama pants and underwear down her legs. They step back, away from the wall into the centre of the hallway, kicking various pants and shoes off.
Now completely naked, they look at each other for a moment. He can't believe that after all the denial and lies and angst and pain that they are finally here together like this. He steps forward, keeping his eyes locked on hers. He raises his hands, placing his fingertips on her cheeks. He trails his hands down, down her neck, over her shoulders, down her arms, past her hips to her thighs. She sucks in a breath, eyes still staring into his, as his hands press her inner thighs and, understanding his meaning, she widens her stance. Keeping his eyes on hers as long as possible, he sinks to his knees. His arms wrap around her legs as he presses his mouth to her core. She throws her head back, eyes closed, as the sensation rolls over her. He explores, running his tongue along her folds, little licks and nibbles. Her fingers thread through his hair. He begins to focus on her clit. She gasps, groans. She can feel desire building within her, but she doesn't want to come like this. She needs him inside her. Now.
She steps back, out of his grasp, and he looks at her, confused. She sinks to her knees in front of him, so they are now face to face. She presses her palms flat to his chest, pushing him back. With a grin he easily rolls back onto the floor. She throws one leg over his other side. She grasps his cock, running her hand up and down only a few times before positioning herself above him and sinking down.
They both moan at the long-awaited contact. She pushes herself up and down. Her hands find his chest as her hips roll back and forth. He is enthralled by her. She looks amazing, eyes closed, mouth open, moving on him like it was something they had done a million times before. And all he can think is I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, "I love you."
She stills, and he realises he has said the words out loud. He smiles uncertainly at her and she slowly leans down and captures his mouth with hers. They kiss for a moment, slow and simple.
He rolls them over so he's atop her and he begins moving. She wraps her legs around his hips, urging him deeper. Her breath is coming in shallow gasps. She moans. He moves his hand between their bodies, his fingertips finding her clit. "Oh God," she cries.
"Georgie," he breathes, and she opens her eyes and looks at him.
He wants to see her. He wants to look in her eyes and see her expression as she loses control and comes around him. And he wants her to see him too. He wants them to start their new life together with eyes wide open.
It doesn't take long. "Yes," she pants. "James!" And then with a shudder she comes.
He has been careful, holding back, and so it only takes a few more thrusts before he comes, crying her name.
He collapses against her, sweaty skin sliding together. They are both breathless, clinging to the other. His head is tucked under her chin, her hand finding his and their fingers lacing together. When she has enough energy and breath to say, "I love you too," she does so without hesitation.
vi. Forever and a Day
The sun shines brightly down, not a cloud in the sky despite the chilly winter weather. As they walk down the green hill he grasps her hand, their fingers lacing together, the feel of her wedding band still a surprise even after all this time.
"Oscar, don't run too fast," his wife calls to their eldest. "The grass is slippery so be careful. And watch out for Valeria."
"Yes, mum," Oscar calls back before taking his younger sisters hand. James watches as they run down the hill, regardless of what Georgie just said, and he smiles.
They continue their walk, slow, watching their children climb over the playground equipment at the bottom of the hill. James looks around, scanning the horizon for paparazzi. He worries about how their careers and all the pitfalls that come with it will affect the kids, but so far they seem unfazed, normal, perfect.
He squeezes Georgie's fingers and when she turns to him he leans over and kisses her. He still loves her as much today as he did the day he married her. He loves her as much as the day they finally got together. He would have married her that very day if it wasn't for the fact they had to wait a year for his divorce. He didn't believe in fate or destiny, but he couldn't help but take it as a sign when little Oscar was born the day after his divorce was finalised. He still smiled at the memory of how they decided on his name. Georgie was insistent on Oscar. Not only had she always loved the name, but she said, and he couldn't argue, that the night he won that small gold statue was the night everything changed for them. So, James said that if she insisted on Oscar as the first name, he could insist on George for the middle name. She was the most important person in his life, and it felt only right that they name this brand new life after her. She had nodded, but wasn't very enthusiastic about it, and he could tell that something was wrong. After much pressing, she finally admitted that she wanted to give him the middle name of James. He had smiled, climbing onto the hospital bed with her and putting his arms around his family. He said, "Okay, I'll make you a deal. I agree to give Oscar the middle name of James and you agree to marry me." She had turned to him and, upon seeing in his eyes he was serious, kissed him in answer.
"What are you thinking about?"
Her voice, a lullaby in the quiet, brings him back to the present. They are standing in front of the playground. He can see Oscar and Valy running around with the other children at the playground. He smiles. "I was thinking about the day I asked you to marry me."
"You mean the day you tricked me into marrying you."
He puts a hand to his heart in mock pain. "Oh, that cuts deep." A pause. "At any rate, it worked, so who am I to complain."
They laugh. She wraps her arms around him, hugs him tight. She puts her mouth to his ear, whispers, "I love you," and everything is as it should be.
Ships: James/Georgie
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Do I really need to say that I'm not these people, I don't know these people, and everything within is a work of fiction? Didn't think so.
Summary: James accidentally confesses too much in front of a billion people. [set in approx 2015]
Authors Notes: This slightly random fic is a belated birthday present for alexi_lupin and an early birthday present for narnialovers. I know they wont mind sharing. *squishes* I can't believe it's been over a year since I've written J/G. I've missed them. Enjoy!
Oscar
i. Award
"And the Best Actor Oscar goes to…" The ripping of the envelope echoes in the large auditorium before, "James McAvoy."
James sits in total shock for a moment. He can hear thousands of people clapping and cheering for him, can feel the lips of his wife kissing his cheek in congratulations, even though on the inside he feels stunned into numbness.
He stands, buttoning his tuxedo jacket as he ascends the steps and accepts the statue. There is a kiss and heavy statue in his hand and a spotlight and everything is too surreal. He almost doesn't know what to do with himself. He feels out of his body, waiting to come back to reality.
He steps up to the microphone, smiling bashfully and staring at the gold between his fingertips as he waits for the noise to die down.
"Wow," is the first word out of his mouth. Not very sophisticated or original but it is the only word he can think of to sum up what he is feeling.
He takes a deep breath. "Thank you so much. Thanks to the Academy for this wonderful honour. I'd like to thank my wife for her support over the years. My director, the mad-cap genius that is Mr David Thewlis, for believing in me and making me a better actor. Uh, the wonderful cast this film has, actors so brilliant it was scary just to be in their presence. The hard working crew, who were a joy to be around every day. My agent, thanks for all your hard work." A pause. "Um, this film, when I read the script, it touched me very deeply, and even though it was quite difficult at times, I did have someone in my life who helped me get inside the skin of this character." His eyes automatically find hers amongst the crowd before him, unable to believe he is about to say what he is about to say, but unable to stop himself. "This person inspired me a great deal. They have been an important part of my life, whether they knew it or not. They were my Muse, for lack of a better word, and I would not be here if it weren't for them. So to this person I just want to say ‘thankyou'. Thanks."
He walks off the stage to thunderous applause; doesn't look back, refuses to look back to the confused faces of his wife and agent, refuses to look back to his Muse's face. He can't bear to think of her reaction.
ii. Press Room
"Congratulations"
"Thankyou."
"What does this mean to you?"
"It's the ultimate recognition, isn't it? It's the best compliment you could ever receive and I'm just so flattered and honoured that people thought me worthy of this great institute."
"Do you think this will affect your career?"
"I'm sure it will." A smile. "Though who can tell in what way?"
Laughs.
"Did you know when you were filming what a great film you were making?"
"I knew that we were making something very special. I knew we were making something that had a timeless quality to it. I knew it meant a great deal to me, and that everyone who worked on it gave it their all every single day. But you can never tell what's going to happen to a film once it's out of your hands. I hoped it would do well and that people would embrace it. I certainly didn't expect this," raising the gold statue in his hand, smiling.
"How did you feel when they called your name?"
A slight pause. "I'm trying to think of a stronger word than shock."
More laughs.
"Did you have a speech prepared?"
A grin. "Did it sound like I had a speech prepared??"
Even more laughter.
"I always ask people if there was someone they forgot to thank in their speech, because everyone always comes off stage really dazed and they inevitably remember someone they forgot."
"'Remember someone they forgot' - I like that. Actually, as soon as I walked off stage I realised I had forgotten to thank our amazing screenwriter. So, Kim, if you're watching, thanks for everything."
"Any chance you will tell us who your so-called muse was for this film?"
A shake of the head.
"Well, can you tell us how they inspired you?"
Another shake of the head. "I'd prefer not to go into it, for a few reasons. I don't like to break down the method of my madness because I don't think it matters to everyone else. All that matters is the end result. Plus, it's my personal life, which as you know is something I don't really talk about."
"Fair enough. Congratulations again."
"Thankyou."
iii. After Party
He stands at the bar, waiting for the overworked bartenders to get to him, sandwiched between an icon of the acting world and the current ‘hot young thing' director, so he doesn't hold out much hope that he will be served any time soon. His wife is chatting amiably with a bunch of people at a table on the other side of the room, Oscar sitting proudly in front of her, and even though he is hot and squished between two people with more people at his back, he is grateful for the space. He only wishes he didn't want more space than a ballroom provided.
He gives up after a few minutes. He really shouldn't drink any more this evening anyway. Not that he has had a lot to drink, far from it; it's just that he has already had a loose tongue working against him without the aid of alcohol. Who knows what he would say if he added alcohol lubricant to his system.
With a sigh, he extracts himself from the two person deep crowd that surrounds the bar.
When he pushes free of the designer silk and dark wool, there she stands, still and silent, waiting for him. He stops dead in his tracks. They stare at each other for a moment before he tilts his head with the slightest motion, and they both slowly creep away, past the bar, a dark corner.
They stand apart, facing each other, he with an expectant expression and she with simple wonder.
"It was me, wasn't it?" she asks. Her voice is soft and low, a music that suddenly fills his head and drowns out any other noise but her.
He doesn't want to say yes. He doesn't want to admit to what they both know. Doesn't want to remember his stupid confession in front of a billion people that she is the reason for everything. But lies are useless and she deserves better. So much better. She deserves everything he can't give her, so he finally decides on the truth.
"Of course it was you, Georgie."
She lets out a breath, her surreal calmness giving way to emotion and small shivers as she glances away, down at her feet and back up.
"Why would you say that?" She's genuinely curious, almost as though she is more concerned about how this could affect him than worried about what this means for her, for them.
He doesn't know how to answer. He's finding it hard to concentrate. She looks so beautiful. Long chocolate hair in loose, subtle curls pulled back from her face and cascading down her back. Dark emerald dress, fitted on the bodice but loose from the waist down. Even though her feet are covered he knows she's not wearing heels.
"Believe me, it's not something I gave too much forethought too. I don't know why I said it. Maybe because it's the truth. Maybe because I'm sick of pretending. Maybe because, I don't know, I'm an idiot and don't know when to keep my stupid mouth closed." She smiles at that, and he is more happy than he should be that he can still make her smile after all these years. "Maybe it's because you inspire me. And I wanted you to know."
Her eyes are bright as she stares at him. "You could have just told me," she whispers, taking the smallest of steps towards him. "I saw you not one hour before your name was called. You could have told me then. You could have told me when we caught up a month ago, or the three months before that. You could have told me when I visited you on set. Why did you say it then? Why would you make that much trouble for yourself?"
He doesn't know if she is angry at him or just worried. She blinks, and a tear cascades down her porcelain cheek. He edges forward slightly, his fingertips suddenly on her warm skin, wiping away the tear.
"I don't know," he replies, and they stare at each other for a moment before quietly laughing. His hand falls from her cheek, fingertips lightly trailing down her bare arm, her fingers ready and waiting to entwine with his.
"I wish you could take it back." Her voice is quiet, pained, regretful. He suddenly hates himself for causing that tone. For making her hurt. For making things harder than they already are.
"Me too." He leans forward, his mouth to her ear. "But that doesn't mean I didn't mean every word of what I said."
He kisses her cheek, lingers too long for it to be considered a chaste, platonic kiss, then turns and walks away, into the crowd and lights and glitter, without looking back.
iv. Aftermath
It was a late night and he wakes past midday. His mind is blank for a moment and then he remembers: the award, the glory, the mistake, the truth.
With a groan he stumbles out of bed and into the shower. The water can't wash away the memories. He wishes they could.
He wanders out to the kitchen. Anne-Marie has left the paper on the bench. Pictures of the two of them arriving home, victorious, stares out at him from the first page. They look grumpy, tense, and the journalist has generously attributed that to jet-lag. He quickly turns the paper over. He has never been comfortable with seeing press about himself, and he really doesn't need more reminders of the words that came spewing from his mouth the other night.
He heads out the back, desperate for fresh air, a warm mug of coffee warming his fingers. The wind is cool on his face, refreshing, rejuvenating.
He spends the day idling around the house. Making eggs for brunch. Reading the latest scripts he has been sent. Trying to find somewhere for the little gold man. He is proud of his achievement and wants to display it somewhere, but doesn't want to show off, scream ‘look at me'. In the end he settles for the top shelf of his corner bookshelf in the study.
He is still tired. Even after all these years and all the travel it still takes a couple of days to get over the jetlag. He puts on a movie and lightly naps through most of it.
When he wakes he realises it's time for dinner. It is only when he is searching through the kitchen cupboards and fridge, deciding what to cook, that he realises that Anne-Marie still isn't back from wherever she has been all day. He thinks about calling her. He decides not to.
He is halfway through cooking some chicken and rice when he hears the front door open. His wife appears in the kitchen. Her face is drawn, sad. She sits on a stool at the breakfast bar.
"Where have you been?" he asks, hands stirring the rice in a clockwise motion.
"Mum's."
"That's nice. What were you guys doing?"
"Trying to find somewhere for me to live."
He looks up at that, meets her eyes. She looks away from his intent gaze, lowers her eyes, flicks through the paper on the bench. His eyes follow her gaze. He can see his own face peering back up at him. Her hand on the paper is bare, empty.
"This hasn't been working for a long time. We both know that. But I thought we could work through it, or you would get over it, that we could one day be okay again. But then you went and made that stupid speech…"
And he is suddenly there again, standing on the stage, hearing the words echo throughout his brain.
"I remember you saying once, when you began filming, that everyone thought your character dark and complex and beautiful and dangerous. But you thought the truth was that he was in love with someone he shouldn't be, and it was that emotion that drove him to do the things he did. That he was just trying to deal with an impossible situation, only he was dealing with it in the completely wrong way."
She looks up at him. He ducks his head, guilty, caught out.
"I can't do this anymore. We shouldn't be together, not when you-" She can't bear to say the words, and he doesn't blame her. Saying it out loud would only cause more additional pain.
She reaches into her pocket and places two white gold rings on the table. He looks at her. He didn't mean for any of this to happen. He never wanted to hurt her. But he couldn't help what had happened to him, to them. And he is suddenly sad, thinking of broken promises and lives unlived.
"Goodbye, James," her voice wavers, but her face is determined as she stands up.
"Goodbye," he says before watching her walk out the door.
He is suddenly alone. And everything is different. He takes his wedding band from his finger, puts it with hers on the bench. Three small rings, symbolising something that wasn't meant to be. He looks at them for a long time.
His dinner burns.
v. Freedom
He knocks on the heavy wooden door. He glances back at the street behind him. He thinks he lost the paps that were chasing him but he can't be too sure. The dawn light is cool on his skin, his mind too anxious and excited to worry about dressing appropriately for a winters morning.
She opens the door. Their eyes meet. He worries that he woke her. She stands there in long dark blue cotton pyjama pants, a white singlet, a light blue dressing gown. Her hair is pulled back in a simple plait. She looks beautiful.
"James," her voice is surprised, but not unhappy.
"Hey," he replies.
She takes a few steps back and he walks inside, closing the door behind him. She is still slowly taking step by step backwards, as though she can't bear to break eye contact with him. He moves quickly, taking her hand in his and stopping her tracks.
"What are you doing h-"
Her words are cut off his by lips on hers. She responds instantly, their arms wrapping around each other. He edges them to the nearby wall, pressing her body against it, trapping her with his own. Her hands wander everywhere and he pushes the dressing gown from her shoulders, pushing it off her body so it pools at her feet.
Her hands land on his shoulders, gently pushing him back. He comes out the kiss dazed, confused. She looks gorgeous, standing there all breathless.
"We can't do this. You're married."
He holds up his left hand, completely barren. "Separated. Officially. Funnily enough, my wife didn't want to be married to someone who was in love with someone else."
She can do nothing but stare into his eyes, frozen. He worries he has said too much, scared her away. He smiles gently, encouragingly. She still doesn't move, her vision beginning to swim. He places his hands on her hips, slowly raising his right hand, fingertips tickling her ribs before cupping her breast. She closes her eyes with a sigh, a small tear escaping the corner of her eye. His thumb moves back and forth over her nipple. A moan escapes her lips.
Emboldened, he gently grasps the bottom of her singlet. He pulls it up, Georgie aiding him by raising her arms. He tosses the material aside and when he looks back, her eyes are open and staring at him again. She repeats the motion on him, grasping the material of his t-shirt and throwing it somewhere down the hallway.
They looked at each other for just a moment before both crashing forward, mouths meeting with a violent intensity. Every feeling they have had for each other over the last few years comes pouring out, their bodies pressed together, hands roaming. He presses his mouth to her breast, taking the rosy nipple between his teeth. She moans his name as he kisses the valley between her breasts.
His mouth is at her collarbone when he whispers the word, "Bedroom," and by the time he makes it up to her mouth she is shaking her head. "Too far," she manages to get out between kisses. "Need you now."
Tongues dance playfully as her fingers work at his belt, undoing the buckle before popping the button open and undoing the zip, pushing his jeans and shorts down his legs. He smiles against her lips before pushing her pyjama pants and underwear down her legs. They step back, away from the wall into the centre of the hallway, kicking various pants and shoes off.
Now completely naked, they look at each other for a moment. He can't believe that after all the denial and lies and angst and pain that they are finally here together like this. He steps forward, keeping his eyes locked on hers. He raises his hands, placing his fingertips on her cheeks. He trails his hands down, down her neck, over her shoulders, down her arms, past her hips to her thighs. She sucks in a breath, eyes still staring into his, as his hands press her inner thighs and, understanding his meaning, she widens her stance. Keeping his eyes on hers as long as possible, he sinks to his knees. His arms wrap around her legs as he presses his mouth to her core. She throws her head back, eyes closed, as the sensation rolls over her. He explores, running his tongue along her folds, little licks and nibbles. Her fingers thread through his hair. He begins to focus on her clit. She gasps, groans. She can feel desire building within her, but she doesn't want to come like this. She needs him inside her. Now.
She steps back, out of his grasp, and he looks at her, confused. She sinks to her knees in front of him, so they are now face to face. She presses her palms flat to his chest, pushing him back. With a grin he easily rolls back onto the floor. She throws one leg over his other side. She grasps his cock, running her hand up and down only a few times before positioning herself above him and sinking down.
They both moan at the long-awaited contact. She pushes herself up and down. Her hands find his chest as her hips roll back and forth. He is enthralled by her. She looks amazing, eyes closed, mouth open, moving on him like it was something they had done a million times before. And all he can think is I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, "I love you."
She stills, and he realises he has said the words out loud. He smiles uncertainly at her and she slowly leans down and captures his mouth with hers. They kiss for a moment, slow and simple.
He rolls them over so he's atop her and he begins moving. She wraps her legs around his hips, urging him deeper. Her breath is coming in shallow gasps. She moans. He moves his hand between their bodies, his fingertips finding her clit. "Oh God," she cries.
"Georgie," he breathes, and she opens her eyes and looks at him.
He wants to see her. He wants to look in her eyes and see her expression as she loses control and comes around him. And he wants her to see him too. He wants them to start their new life together with eyes wide open.
It doesn't take long. "Yes," she pants. "James!" And then with a shudder she comes.
He has been careful, holding back, and so it only takes a few more thrusts before he comes, crying her name.
He collapses against her, sweaty skin sliding together. They are both breathless, clinging to the other. His head is tucked under her chin, her hand finding his and their fingers lacing together. When she has enough energy and breath to say, "I love you too," she does so without hesitation.
vi. Forever and a Day
The sun shines brightly down, not a cloud in the sky despite the chilly winter weather. As they walk down the green hill he grasps her hand, their fingers lacing together, the feel of her wedding band still a surprise even after all this time.
"Oscar, don't run too fast," his wife calls to their eldest. "The grass is slippery so be careful. And watch out for Valeria."
"Yes, mum," Oscar calls back before taking his younger sisters hand. James watches as they run down the hill, regardless of what Georgie just said, and he smiles.
They continue their walk, slow, watching their children climb over the playground equipment at the bottom of the hill. James looks around, scanning the horizon for paparazzi. He worries about how their careers and all the pitfalls that come with it will affect the kids, but so far they seem unfazed, normal, perfect.
He squeezes Georgie's fingers and when she turns to him he leans over and kisses her. He still loves her as much today as he did the day he married her. He loves her as much as the day they finally got together. He would have married her that very day if it wasn't for the fact they had to wait a year for his divorce. He didn't believe in fate or destiny, but he couldn't help but take it as a sign when little Oscar was born the day after his divorce was finalised. He still smiled at the memory of how they decided on his name. Georgie was insistent on Oscar. Not only had she always loved the name, but she said, and he couldn't argue, that the night he won that small gold statue was the night everything changed for them. So, James said that if she insisted on Oscar as the first name, he could insist on George for the middle name. She was the most important person in his life, and it felt only right that they name this brand new life after her. She had nodded, but wasn't very enthusiastic about it, and he could tell that something was wrong. After much pressing, she finally admitted that she wanted to give him the middle name of James. He had smiled, climbing onto the hospital bed with her and putting his arms around his family. He said, "Okay, I'll make you a deal. I agree to give Oscar the middle name of James and you agree to marry me." She had turned to him and, upon seeing in his eyes he was serious, kissed him in answer.
"What are you thinking about?"
Her voice, a lullaby in the quiet, brings him back to the present. They are standing in front of the playground. He can see Oscar and Valy running around with the other children at the playground. He smiles. "I was thinking about the day I asked you to marry me."
"You mean the day you tricked me into marrying you."
He puts a hand to his heart in mock pain. "Oh, that cuts deep." A pause. "At any rate, it worked, so who am I to complain."
They laugh. She wraps her arms around him, hugs him tight. She puts her mouth to his ear, whispers, "I love you," and everything is as it should be.