Walk on By - Part VI
WALK ON BY - VI
Author: Lottie Lenya
Type: RPS
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: PG (R/NC-17 in later chapters)
Category: AU
Disclaimer: This is fiction, not based in reality - to the best of my knowledge Viggo Mortensen has never lived rough and Orlando Bloom was never part of the Constabulary.
Beta: Ana, whose new best friend is the ubiquitous Fowler… Thanks, love, one day I’ll get the hang of this pesky punctuation thing!
A/N - Thanks to everyone who sent such fab feedback. This chapter is dedicated to Griffndor who has been a veritable brick!
The following month passed by in a haze of activity for Orlando. He decided that he was going to make it his personal mission to find the cop who was dealing. As D I Grantham had pointed out, they didn’t need CIB knocking on their door. Orlando begun to make discrete inquiries; he put out feelers amongst the huge network of informants that the guv’nor had given him access to. There was also the usual round of paper work and ongoing investigations to keep him busy. Somehow, though, it didn’t quite assuage the feelings of guilt that kept bothering him. He knew he’d been less than fair to Viggo, having sort of guessed from his mantra back in the cell that he’d done time. He hadn’t realised that Viggo was American either, and he kicked himself for not picking up on the slight lilt that was still there. If he’d really thought about it he would have remembered that Viggo hardly ever spoke and when he did it was always short sentences in a quiet, raspy tone. It was hardly surprising that Orlando had missed the accent.
When Orlando had checked Viggo out on the internet he felt worse than ever. Reading between the lines he could see it was probable that, had a witness taken the stand and verified his story, Viggo wouldn’t have gone to jail. He also noticed that once he had been released Viggo had, it seemed, fallen off the planet. It was a sad story and one which made Orlando feel even more guilty. He wondered whether he should see the guy, but as George had remarked, it was impossible to help every lame duck that came their way. Then again, if Orlando was being totally honest with himself he would admit that there was something about Viggo that he found very attractive. He remembered seeing him, wet, naked and terrified. It was an image that came back to him in his dreams. He could see that, underneath the grime and fear that hung around Viggo, there lurked a very attractive man.
Shaking his head, Orlando came out of the trance he appeared to have sunk into and got up from his desk. He was meeting Greg for pre-theatre drinks. They managed to speak a couple of times a month and both men were happy to have remained friends. As he headed for Covent Garden he caught a glance of a familiar figure; taking a second look he realised that it wasn’t Viggo and cursed himself for his weakness. With a sigh, he entered the bar/restaurant that had been one of their regular haunts.
“Good evening Sir, may I….”
The Maitre’D interrupted the waiter when he saw who had just come in.
“Mr Bloom, it’s been too long since we saw you. Your usual table will be ready for you in just a moment. Will Mr Sheringham be joining you?”
Sitting down in their favourite spot, Orlando glanced round the bar; it was still early and only a few tables were occupied. Taking a second glance, he noticed a guy who seemed familiar. Sliding down in his seat, he stared at the couple who seemed to be transacting a business arrangement of some sort. It came to him in a flash; it was the PC who had managed to terrify Viggo. Why did it always come back to Viggo, he wondered.
The couple got up, the woman throwing some notes on the table, and as they passed Orlando he leant down as if to pick something up. When they had left he got up to go, passing Greg on the way out.
“Sorry man, gotta go see a man about some scum.”
Greg rolled his eyes good naturedly, calling out to the departing man.
“Nothing changes does it ‘Lan?”
Keeping his distance and being careful to remain in the shadows of the buildings, he pulled on the beanie that he kept in his pocket for just these occasions. The couple were heading for a shop that stocked the more exotic sort of adult entertainment. Vice were keeping an eye on them but were constantly frustrated by bad information. What Orlando saw made it all crystal clear. Chuckling quietly to himself, he made a call to D I Bicknall’s mobile, the mobile that was always switched on, even though Orlando knew he was at his kids’ parents evening. There was some muffled swearing as the phone was answered.
‘This better be good D S Bloom, otherwise you’ll find yourself back in Immigration faster than you can say Channel tunnel.”
Orlando’s grin was apparent in his voice. ‘Well, ‘guv, I think I’ve found our bad apple. I was...’
‘Say no more, Bloom, I’ll be there in twenty. Meet me back at the nick, I don’t wanna have this conversation over the phone.’
**************
Viggo had moved back to Soho. The last month had been the worse he could recall since he’d found himself on the streets. He was so miserable he decided that he didn’t care about the consequences. It didn’t seem to matter if they caught up with him or not. Since Orlando had rejected him he felt like he just couldn’t be bothered. His cough, which didn’t normally bother him so much during the summer, was back and despite the warm weather he felt constantly cold. The little sleep he had was haunted with dreams of brown eyes, a warm smile, kind words which would suddenly became shrill and taunting, waking Viggo up. Coming to he’d realise he was crying.
‘For fuck’s sake, it’s bad enough living on the sodding streets without listening to you moaning and groaning. If you wake me up again I’m gonna cut your head off and shit down your neck! Have you got that?’
The man sleeping near him was sick to death of Viggo’s constant whining. It had been going on for nights and the straw had finally broken the camel’s back. He didn’t have anything against Viggo per se, but a bloke was entitled to his sleep.
Gathering his bags, Viggo got up and prepared to move on. He was beginning to wonder how much more of this he could take.
Heading down Old Crompton Street, he passed the bin men collecting the bags of never ending rubbish that was the scourge of the area.
‘Here you,’ One of them shouted at him. ‘Have a sarnie, go on mate, me wife made it fresh last night. She forgot I can’t eat cheese without some fucking pickle and you look like you need to eat.’
Viggo took the sandwich gratefully; he realised he hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty four hours and his stomach was protesting. He wolfed it down before moving on, trudging with his head down, and no idea where he was heading. He just wanted to keep moving, if he stopped he would have to think. Looking up he saw the sun was rising and an explosion of light burst over the London vista, bathing it in an ethereal glow. He was on Hungerford Bridge, gazing at a sight that he hadn’t seen for many years, when something made him look behind him. He saw two men approaching him. There was something about them that put the fear of God into Viggo and he moved on, walking as fast as he dared. Something told him that he needed to be away from the river. He got off the bridge as fast as he could and made for the Royal Festival Hall, where he knew there was 24 hour security. He slumped down by the Artists’ Entrance, wheezing and coughing. Two security guards came out to see what the noise was. Expecting abuse, Viggo curled up but to his surprise one of the guys offered him a plastic cup of water.
‘You sound rougher than a bear’s arse . Here see if this helps.’
Viggo couldn’t find the breath to talk but he sipped gratefully at the water.
‘Stay there, get your breath back, just be gone by the time the staff start arriving. We can do without the complaints and, no offence, but you smell like something died.’
The guards went back inside. As his breathing slowed to normal and the wheezing subsided, Viggo got up and looked around. The guys appeared to have gone and maybe, Viggo pondered, maybe they hadn’t been after him at all.
He decided to head to the café Orlando used to take him to. There was always the possibility that someone would take pity on him get him some breakfast. The cheese sandwich had reminded him how hungry he was.
As he took a short cut down a dark alley around the labyrinth of Waterloo Station, he heard a voice and realised his mistake.
‘Well, well. You, my smelly friend, have led us a bit of dance’.
Turning round he saw one of the men who’d been following him. As he made to run he saw the other guy was right in front of him. He dropped to the floor like a stone, arms instinctively protecting his head from the blows and kicks that begun to rain down.
TBC
Author: Lottie Lenya
Type: RPS
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: PG (R/NC-17 in later chapters)
Category: AU
Disclaimer: This is fiction, not based in reality - to the best of my knowledge Viggo Mortensen has never lived rough and Orlando Bloom was never part of the Constabulary.
Beta: Ana, whose new best friend is the ubiquitous Fowler… Thanks, love, one day I’ll get the hang of this pesky punctuation thing!
A/N - Thanks to everyone who sent such fab feedback. This chapter is dedicated to Griffndor who has been a veritable brick!
The following month passed by in a haze of activity for Orlando. He decided that he was going to make it his personal mission to find the cop who was dealing. As D I Grantham had pointed out, they didn’t need CIB knocking on their door. Orlando begun to make discrete inquiries; he put out feelers amongst the huge network of informants that the guv’nor had given him access to. There was also the usual round of paper work and ongoing investigations to keep him busy. Somehow, though, it didn’t quite assuage the feelings of guilt that kept bothering him. He knew he’d been less than fair to Viggo, having sort of guessed from his mantra back in the cell that he’d done time. He hadn’t realised that Viggo was American either, and he kicked himself for not picking up on the slight lilt that was still there. If he’d really thought about it he would have remembered that Viggo hardly ever spoke and when he did it was always short sentences in a quiet, raspy tone. It was hardly surprising that Orlando had missed the accent.
When Orlando had checked Viggo out on the internet he felt worse than ever. Reading between the lines he could see it was probable that, had a witness taken the stand and verified his story, Viggo wouldn’t have gone to jail. He also noticed that once he had been released Viggo had, it seemed, fallen off the planet. It was a sad story and one which made Orlando feel even more guilty. He wondered whether he should see the guy, but as George had remarked, it was impossible to help every lame duck that came their way. Then again, if Orlando was being totally honest with himself he would admit that there was something about Viggo that he found very attractive. He remembered seeing him, wet, naked and terrified. It was an image that came back to him in his dreams. He could see that, underneath the grime and fear that hung around Viggo, there lurked a very attractive man.
Shaking his head, Orlando came out of the trance he appeared to have sunk into and got up from his desk. He was meeting Greg for pre-theatre drinks. They managed to speak a couple of times a month and both men were happy to have remained friends. As he headed for Covent Garden he caught a glance of a familiar figure; taking a second look he realised that it wasn’t Viggo and cursed himself for his weakness. With a sigh, he entered the bar/restaurant that had been one of their regular haunts.
“Good evening Sir, may I….”
The Maitre’D interrupted the waiter when he saw who had just come in.
“Mr Bloom, it’s been too long since we saw you. Your usual table will be ready for you in just a moment. Will Mr Sheringham be joining you?”
Sitting down in their favourite spot, Orlando glanced round the bar; it was still early and only a few tables were occupied. Taking a second glance, he noticed a guy who seemed familiar. Sliding down in his seat, he stared at the couple who seemed to be transacting a business arrangement of some sort. It came to him in a flash; it was the PC who had managed to terrify Viggo. Why did it always come back to Viggo, he wondered.
The couple got up, the woman throwing some notes on the table, and as they passed Orlando he leant down as if to pick something up. When they had left he got up to go, passing Greg on the way out.
“Sorry man, gotta go see a man about some scum.”
Greg rolled his eyes good naturedly, calling out to the departing man.
“Nothing changes does it ‘Lan?”
Keeping his distance and being careful to remain in the shadows of the buildings, he pulled on the beanie that he kept in his pocket for just these occasions. The couple were heading for a shop that stocked the more exotic sort of adult entertainment. Vice were keeping an eye on them but were constantly frustrated by bad information. What Orlando saw made it all crystal clear. Chuckling quietly to himself, he made a call to D I Bicknall’s mobile, the mobile that was always switched on, even though Orlando knew he was at his kids’ parents evening. There was some muffled swearing as the phone was answered.
‘This better be good D S Bloom, otherwise you’ll find yourself back in Immigration faster than you can say Channel tunnel.”
Orlando’s grin was apparent in his voice. ‘Well, ‘guv, I think I’ve found our bad apple. I was...’
‘Say no more, Bloom, I’ll be there in twenty. Meet me back at the nick, I don’t wanna have this conversation over the phone.’
**************
Viggo had moved back to Soho. The last month had been the worse he could recall since he’d found himself on the streets. He was so miserable he decided that he didn’t care about the consequences. It didn’t seem to matter if they caught up with him or not. Since Orlando had rejected him he felt like he just couldn’t be bothered. His cough, which didn’t normally bother him so much during the summer, was back and despite the warm weather he felt constantly cold. The little sleep he had was haunted with dreams of brown eyes, a warm smile, kind words which would suddenly became shrill and taunting, waking Viggo up. Coming to he’d realise he was crying.
‘For fuck’s sake, it’s bad enough living on the sodding streets without listening to you moaning and groaning. If you wake me up again I’m gonna cut your head off and shit down your neck! Have you got that?’
The man sleeping near him was sick to death of Viggo’s constant whining. It had been going on for nights and the straw had finally broken the camel’s back. He didn’t have anything against Viggo per se, but a bloke was entitled to his sleep.
Gathering his bags, Viggo got up and prepared to move on. He was beginning to wonder how much more of this he could take.
Heading down Old Crompton Street, he passed the bin men collecting the bags of never ending rubbish that was the scourge of the area.
‘Here you,’ One of them shouted at him. ‘Have a sarnie, go on mate, me wife made it fresh last night. She forgot I can’t eat cheese without some fucking pickle and you look like you need to eat.’
Viggo took the sandwich gratefully; he realised he hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty four hours and his stomach was protesting. He wolfed it down before moving on, trudging with his head down, and no idea where he was heading. He just wanted to keep moving, if he stopped he would have to think. Looking up he saw the sun was rising and an explosion of light burst over the London vista, bathing it in an ethereal glow. He was on Hungerford Bridge, gazing at a sight that he hadn’t seen for many years, when something made him look behind him. He saw two men approaching him. There was something about them that put the fear of God into Viggo and he moved on, walking as fast as he dared. Something told him that he needed to be away from the river. He got off the bridge as fast as he could and made for the Royal Festival Hall, where he knew there was 24 hour security. He slumped down by the Artists’ Entrance, wheezing and coughing. Two security guards came out to see what the noise was. Expecting abuse, Viggo curled up but to his surprise one of the guys offered him a plastic cup of water.
‘You sound rougher than a bear’s arse . Here see if this helps.’
Viggo couldn’t find the breath to talk but he sipped gratefully at the water.
‘Stay there, get your breath back, just be gone by the time the staff start arriving. We can do without the complaints and, no offence, but you smell like something died.’
The guards went back inside. As his breathing slowed to normal and the wheezing subsided, Viggo got up and looked around. The guys appeared to have gone and maybe, Viggo pondered, maybe they hadn’t been after him at all.
He decided to head to the café Orlando used to take him to. There was always the possibility that someone would take pity on him get him some breakfast. The cheese sandwich had reminded him how hungry he was.
As he took a short cut down a dark alley around the labyrinth of Waterloo Station, he heard a voice and realised his mistake.
‘Well, well. You, my smelly friend, have led us a bit of dance’.
Turning round he saw one of the men who’d been following him. As he made to run he saw the other guy was right in front of him. He dropped to the floor like a stone, arms instinctively protecting his head from the blows and kicks that begun to rain down.
TBC