The Bird's Nest (Sean Bean, PG-13)

[mirabile_dictu]

Title: The Bird's Nest
Author: Mirabile Dictu
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: none really
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sean Bean receives a gift.
Disclaimer: Untrue, but with no intent to deceive.

A/N: Many thanks to my betas, my dearest darling the empress_wu and to kiltsandlollies; as so often, I didn't take all their advice. Thanks also to the princessofg for her encouragement. More author's notes follow the story.

This story is for thejennabides, who inadvertently inspired it. Thank you, Jenn. I wish only the best for you.

The Bird's Nest

The gift came in the post on a Saturday morning. Not a day and time he was often in, what with his youngest's footie practice and his own schedule, but that day, he was home. The housekeeper signed for it and left it on his desk, neatly squared in the centre on top of the pile of papers.

The package was quite small, fitting easily into Sean's big hands. Its brown paper wrapping was soft, the address smudged almost to illegibility. He peered closely at the stamps, but they were also smudged and torn. They were also partially obscured by the plastic tape Royal Mail had wrapped around the battered box.

Sean picked at the tape, but the stamps adhered to it. The return address had completely washed off, and only wavy dried ink remained. "What th' fuck," he murmured. Then he saw the time and dropped it, grabbing a jumper he'd slung over the back of his chair.

He didn't think of it again for nearly a week. He was in rehearsal for a new play written by David Grieg. It was, in Sean's opinion, a bit pretentious, and he wasn't entirely sure about the ending, but they were workshopping it in a small theatre in North London and he thought it had potential. Besides, Billy had a leading role and it was good to be working with one of his little ones again. Especially one who knew what good whisky was.

And working on the play meant that Sean could live at home for a while. He was so sick of traveling -- America, Australia, Asia. All the As of the world. He'd never liked flying, but after New Zealand, he loathed it. Sometimes he wondered if the long flight to New Zealand had increased his aversion, but evenings when he was sitting with Bill, sipping something that burned going down and warmed his entire body, he wondered if he hated flying now because he wasn't flying back to NZ.

It didn't matter, that much he knew for sure. He was just glad to be ferried from home to the theatre by a nice bloke in a tidy uniform who wore an American-style baseball cap, and gladder yet to be ferried back. It wasn't until Thursday night that he finally noticed the package again. His desk had been tidied up, something his housekeeper tended to do despite Sean's frequently and loudly expressed wish that she not. But he had to admit, it did look less of a tip when she'd finished -- and he could always find what he wanted. Still. Principle of the thing.

He stood on the wrong side of his desk and stared at the package. It looked even more battered than he remembered. Who could have sent it? Why couldn't Royal Mail deliver something without it looking as if it had been trampled?

He picked it up, juggled it lightly in one hand, and then set it down and carefully peeled back the sticky tape. It zizzed as it pulled the stamps from the fuzzy brown paper, and Sean sighed in annoyance but kept tugging gently until all the tape was in one hand. Then he unfolded the origami-like brown paper wrapping.

Inside was a battered cardboard box, once white, with tiny half-moons impressed into the material. The lid was selotaped to the body, so he rummaged in his pockets until he found the Swiss Army knife Elijah had given him for a birthday present years ago and slit the tape. At last, he lifted up the lid.

Inside sat a mess of twigs and sticks and feathers. He peered closer at the interior of the box. Was this a joke? What hidden meaning should he ascribe to this? Who on earth would send him this organic shit?

He sighed and scrubbed at the top of his head, pushing the hair out of his eyes. Well, fuck. Bit of a letdown, that. He left the box on his desk and went upstairs to brush his teeth and go to bed.

Two days later, he stood on the stage next to Billy, watching David and their stage manager hold a heated but whispered discussion about something. Sean didn't have a clue what about; they could have been going on about the colour of their socks. But this is what actors do, he reminded himself; they wait.

"We act for free; they pay us to sit on our arses," Billy whispered, making Sean laugh at how parallel their thoughts were running.

"Think they'd mind if we nipped out for a drink?"

Billy rolled his eyes. "If only."

They sighed in unison, making Sean laugh again. "You hear much from your cousin?"

Billy looked blankly at him for a moment, then Sean saw the penny drop. "Just two days ago. Tried to claim he surfed Pipeline, the lying sack of shit. Why?"

"Got this package and can't figure out where it's from."

"So you immediately thought of Dom?"

"Well, no, but it's got a something he might send in it."

"Lady's knickers?"

"Lady's knickers? What the fuck are you on about?

"Well, you said something that Dom might send. He might send lady's knickers. Then again, he might send his own knickers."

"For Christ's sake, it's a nest, not knickers."

"A nest."

"Yeah, you know, like birds sit in. Twigs and shit."

"Someone sent you a nest, and you're thinkin' it's Dom."

"Well, he's the Nature Boy of the Fellowship, yeah?" Sean pointed out grumpily. "Always gabbin' on about trees, writin' it on his hands. Thought he was talkin' about Elijah, actually."

"Oh, for fuck's sake --" Billy started, but Sean waved him quiet.

"Joke, joke. But who else would send me a nest? Seems a Dom thing to do."

"Seems a daft thing to do."

They grinned at each other. "Exactly," Sean said. "I take it he hasn't said anything to you."

Billy shook his head. "I'll ask him if ya like. Why not just call him?" He glanced at his watch. "It's too early there now, but when you get home."

"How many hours difference?"

"It's ten hours earlier. So it's five here but only seven in the morning there. He'll be dead to the world for a while."

"Isn't he working?"

"Not today or tomorrow. Somebody else's back story."

Sean stared at Billy. He knew that Billy and Dom were close, but he had no idea that Billy would know Dom's every move. "How often do you talk?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Billy looked away and shrugged. "We're friends," was all he said.

I'll wager you are, Sean thought, but this time kept his mouth closed. Then David turned around and said, "Okay. A couple of things to go over, and then let's take it from one and three, right?"

Ten hours, Sean thought. Ten hours.

When he got home, he sat at his desk, the open box in front of him, and studied the nest. It was a Dom thing to do, he decided. Maybe it was some Hawaiian bird's nest. Would lady's knickers make more sense?

He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers for Dom's mobile. He had all the Fellowship's numbers; they were good about things like that, even now, all these years later. Odd, he supposed; he didn't keep Brad Pitt's number, or Nicholas Cage's, but he had Elijah's and Ian's and the other Sean's and all of them. Just something they'd done and never stopped doing.

That was partly Dom, too, he realized as he listened to the phone ring so many thousands of miles away. Always insisting on reunions and parties and remembering birthdays. He was surprisingly thoughtful. Maybe because he had moved so much as a kid.

"Monaghan's Port-a-loo. Your deposit is our profit. Leave a message; we always return."

Sean started to laugh into the phone. "You bloody idjit. Where did you get that one from? And did you send me a fuckin' nest? Call me, arsehole." He pressed "end" before he realized that he'd never identified himself. Well, hell. After all these years, Dom better be able to recognize his voice.

He was trying to avoid the housekeeper when Dom called him back; he stood in the kitchen surreptitiously making himself a cuppa when his mobile rang. "Shite," he muttered. "Yeah?"

"Who's a fuckin' arsehole?"

"Monaghan! How's my little one?"

"Fuck off."

Sean felt his smile crease his face in two at Dom's voice. "Hang on a sec." He switched off the cooker and poured hot water into the teapot. "I'm back. Just letting the tea steep a bit. Fancy a cup?"

"Do I. Sounds lovely. I'm glad you're back on tea, though; obviously been hittin' the hard stuff."

"Did you send me that nest?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did Billy tell you? Someone sent me a nest. The package was damaged and I can't tell where it's from. Figured it was from you."

"Why the fuck would I send you a nest?"

Sean peeked into the teapot, trying to gauge if it had steeped long enough. "Dunno. That's why I reckoned it was from you. Daft sort of nature thing. Guess I'm lucky you didn't send me a gecko or a scorpion."

"I'll send you a bloody weta. But no, I'm sorry to admit that I didn't send you a nest. Wish I had, though. Brilliant idea. What're ya gonna do with it?"

"Dunno, actually. It's a bit squashed. Rough transit from somewhere. You sure you didn't send it?"

"Sean." Dom sounded a bit exasperated, but he was still laughing. "I swear by all I hold holy that I did not send you a nest. But now I know what to get you for your birthday. A matched set."

"Ta very much." He poured himself a cup, sugared it heavily, and sat at the kitchen table. "How are you?"

"Fantastic. I love this island life."

"England's an island."

"Not like Hawaii, it isn't. I thought I'd buy a place in New Zealand, but now I dunno. I love it here so much, and it's not so far from home."

"Where's home these days? Where're yer folks?"

"Jesus, everywhere. Their pilgrim souls keep them traveling. Winters in Portugal, summers everywhere. They just left, actually. Stayed with me for a few weeks before heading off to Hong Kong."

"Can't get mine outta Sheffield, not even to London for a visit."

They talked for a long time; Sean had another cup of tea, then carried the phone into his study before he finally rang off. He stared at the warm plastic in his hand. Bloody hell, but he missed Dom's nonsense. He missed all the hobbits, that bloody elf, and even their king. Whom he should call next.

"Try Vig," Dom had advised just before ringing off. "Though why he'd send you a nest, I can't imagine. Guess that's reason enough to suspect him."

Good advice, Sean thought, and found Vig's number and pressed "call." Bringing the phone back to his ear, he let it ring a long time until at last he heard Viggo's soft, "Hey."

"Hey," he smiled into the phone. "When you comin' out for a visit?"

"When are you? Got a new horse; just your size."

"Tempting." Sean settled into the chair at his desk. "But I'm just starting a run. New play, and you'll come to opening night, yeah?"

"Yeah. Heard from Dom about it. Billy and David, right?"

Sean shook his head in wonder at the Fellowship telegraph system. "Yeah, right. Billy and David. So you must know what I'm callin' about then."

"Hm? No, actually, I don't."

Sean explained about the nest in the box. "My first thought was Dom, but he thought you, maybe. Was it? You who sent it me?"

"I'm sorry, but I didn't. I wish I had. Lovely idea, that." There was a long pause whilst Sean pondered Viggo's regrets that he hadn't sent the nest. "What kind of nest?"

"Sorry?"

"What kind of nest? A sparrow's? Robin's?"

"Shit, I haven't a clue. How would I tell?" He stood up and peered into the box. "Do you know nests? Are there nestologists?"

"I know a little, and it's ornithologists. What's the diameter? What's it made of? Is there bird shit? What's it look like?"

Sean bent lower. "Um, it's maybe nine inches across, and deep. A mess. It got a bit battered." He paused. "You saying you can recognize bird nests?"

"No."

"Well, what the fuck --" Sean started to laugh. "Idiot. Just tell me you didn't send it."

"Unfortunately, I didn't send it."

"Unfortunately?"

"Cool idea."

"Yeah, cool. So cool it's driving me barmy."

"Barmier, Sean. Barmier. When's your play open?

"March third. You comin'?"

"You want me to?"

"You kiddin'?" Sean felt his face crease into an enormous smile. "You get your arse over here, Vig. Stay with me. Girls'd love to see you, and bring Henry."

"I'll be there, Sean. Count on it."

"My king," Sean said fondly, and they rang off shortly.

Well, that was enough research for today. He dropped the phone, fit the lid onto the nest's box, and stood up. Then he leaned over to jot a note: ornithologist. RSPB?

"Dom said ya called," Billy told him one night over whisky in the theatre bar. "He sounds good these days, yeah?"

"Yeah, he does. So's Vig. Called him, too," he added at Billy's look. "He didn't send the nest, either."

Billy shrugged and took another sip. "Maybe it wasn't one of us. You do have other friends, yeah?"

"Course I do." Sean stared at the sticky tabletop. "None o' them'd send me a fucking nest, though."

"Maybe I sent it."

Sean looked up at Billy, who was wearing his Pippin face. "Did you?" Billy just smiled. "You piece o' shite. Did you?"

Billy started to laugh. "For me to know and you to find out, Beanie."

"Fuck you." He peered more closely at Billy's laughing face. "You did not." Billy just laughed harder; his high-pitched howl sending Sean into gales of laughter as well. "I'm drunk," Sean gasped, wiping his eyes. "No, you're drunk, ya little fucker."

But Billy only laughed.

Sitting in his dentist's office, Sean found himself reading a tattered copy of Empire. He'd picked it up because Orlando's name was on the cover. The pages were sticky, but Sean thumbed through until he found Orlando looking pensively out at him. Back when he was with Kate, he saw; a small photo of the two of them graced a lower corner of the article. He'd barely started reading when he was called into the office, but he'd read enough to learn Orli had been praising Viggo again. Tossing the magazine back onto the overflowing table, Sean shook his head. What was it with Orli and Vig anyway?

He thought about that whilst his teeth were being cleaned. Maybe he should call Orlando? The odds were, in Sean's opinion, slight to none that Orli had sent the nest, but you never knew. Besides, it had been a while. Be nice to chat with the boy, see what he was up to.

A few days passed before Sean finally had a moment to sit at his desk, cup of tea steaming in front of him, and click through the list of numbers in his mobile. He pressed "call" at Orlando's name and listened to the incomprehensible distance collapse between them. Unless Orlando was in London, in which case the distance was still incomprehensible.

"Lo"? someone said, and Sean instantly recognized it as Orlando.

"Poncy elf," he growled, a big smile splitting his face, and then had to pull the phone away from his ear. "Jesus," he said when the noise died down. "Good to hear your voice."

"Bean! I can't believe it. Man, that's brilliant, that you'd call, I just -- how are you? Where are you? Man, I saw you in, uh, your last movie, with, uh, that guy --"

"Yeah, yeah. Did ya even see it?"

"Course I did! What was it?"

Sean laughed harder. "Saw yours. Always the hero. You ever gonna play a bad un?"

"Seriously? Sean, no, cos my fans wouldn't like it, you know, and what, do you, like, have an idea? But I could, couldn't I, d'ya think?"

"Orlando, take a breath, 'kay? Jesus." Sean took a deep one and heard Orlando do the same. "Good to hear your voice."

"You, too. Where are you? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm in London, rehearsing a new play. Billy's in it."

"Billy! That's brilliant, Sean, man, Billy. A play, wow. That's so cool."

"Where are you?"

"Canterbury. My mum's here, so I came down to see her and my sister."

"Come up, then," Sean said impulsively. "We'll shoot some pool, throw back a few." The sudden silence made Sean sit forward. "Orlando? Hello?"

"Yeah, m'here." Sean heard Orlando swallow. "That's really nice of you."

"Well, not that nice. Be fun to see you again."

"Maybe. Maybe I will." Orlando sounded unusually unenthusiastic to Sean.

"Don't you fancy it?" Sean asked, genuinely curious. "Ian's in town; I've been meaning to call him. Four of the Fellowship?"

After a long pause, Orlando said slowly, "Yeah. Yeah, man, I, yeah. Cool." He took a deep breath and then said, "Yeah, totally, like, when? Now? I wish I could fuckin' leave right now, Sean, just, like, tell me when and I'll be there."

"Totally," Sean said, smiling at the word, and Orlando burst forth again.

"Cool, man, wow, I'd really like that, I'll come up, and see Billy, yeah, take him surfing --"

"Where the fuck will you take him surfing, ya idjit?"

"Cornwall has brilliant surfing, like, Bude? You gotta come with, Sean, you'll love it."

"Oh, get a black eye, like Vig did."

"Well, maybe, or just watch. Supervise, like."

"That's it; I'll supervise you two. Yeah, we'll go surfing in Cornwall in January; that's brilliant, all right. Just get up here, boy, and I'll get things going."

It wasn't until Sean had rung off that he realized he'd never asked Orlando about the bird's nest. But really, what were the odds? If he had sent it, he'd have been gabbing on about it, not about surfing in January. But it would be fun to see him again, and with Billy, they'd paint the town red, all right.

"Bloody hell," Billy said admiringly when Sean told him of Orlando's impending visit. "You gonna put that boy up? He'll drive you mad, Sean, you know that. Remember the rain and landslides?"

"Crikey, yeah." Sean put his head in his hands, but really, he was delighted. He'd had a brilliant time with Orlando when they were stranded.

God, what memories he had. He hadn't been in New Zealand that long, back and forth like a crazy football bouncing between England and NZ; his character hadn't even made it to the end of the first movie. Yet somehow the time he'd spent there remained vivid in his memories, more so than most other shoots. Certainly the people he'd come to know and, yes, he admitted to himself, the people he'd come to love remained vivid as well.

"Sean?" Billy asked, and he looked up.

"Did you ask Elijah and Sean?"

"Ask 'em what?"

"Did one of them send ye the fuckin' bird's nest?"

"Astin hardly seems the type to send a fuckin' bird's nest," Sean pointed out, irritated to be distracted from their planning. "What's yer idea?"

"Astin's exactly the type to send a fuckin' bird's nest," Billy countered, crossing his arms. "Read his book? The most anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, consciously impulsive fucker in the kingdom. Ask him. Ask him."

So Sean asked him. Not then, though; he was busy rehearsing. The play was coming along at last; David had got his head round something that had been blocking him and suddenly Sean was handed sheaves of paper to replace the original script, and spending long hours blocking new scenes.

Billy had even written a song for him, which both flattered and freaked Sean. He was no singer, far from it, but he had to admit it worked surprisingly well. Ridiculously well, he thought, and he sang it continually: in the shower, of course, but also whilst making tea, driving to the theatre, at the theatre bar after rehearsal, with Billy accompanying him on piano. "Lovely thing," he gruffly admitted to Bill one night after more beer than was good for him. Billy nodded wisely, raising his glass in acknowledgment.

That David liked it, well, that was just icing on the cake as far as Sean was concerned. No one had ever written him a song before, at least, not as far as he knew. And it fit the show -- course it did. Billy and David had worked together for a long time, and had an uncanny sensitivity to each other's work.

In short, Billy had Sean's character bang to rights, more than Sean did, and he buckled down to the task. Time was running out.

Thus, several weeks had passed before he thought again of the battered white box still sitting on his desk. He dashed into his study, rearranged yet again by his housekeeper. Shuffling through a pile of envelopes waiting for him, he saw it again, neatly squared on the corner of his desk. He paused, then slid the lid off and peered inside again. Who the fuck would send such a thing?

On a sudden impulse, he pulled out his mobile and scrolled through the numbers to Sean Astin's. "Yeah," he heard almost instantly.

"What, you waitin' fer a call?"

"Bean? Jesus, Sean, hey, man, that is you, right?"

"Right, you paranoid fucker. Who else would it be?"

"Um, yeah, actually. Nobody else talks to me like that. Well, Dom. And Billy, sometimes. And once --"

"Hi, Sean."

"Hi, Sean." They both laughed. "Good to hear from you, man! Where are you? Come for dinner; Chris and the girls would love to see you."

"Well, I'll take you up on that one day, but at the moment I'm at home in London. Sounds like you're in LA."

"Yeah, home for a bit, gotta leave on Tuesday, I'll be speaking in, uh, someplace in the midwest, I think, I could look it up --"

"Sean, Sean. I don't care much where you're speaking. Frankly."

"Yeah, sorry, got that. Well. Hey! How are you?"

"Fine. Busy as hell -- working on a play right now."

"Yeah, I heard from Dom. With Billy and David. Billy wrote you a song, too, right?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, I can't believe --"

"Can't believe what? The Fellowship telegraph? Also known as Dom."

"Shoulda guessed, that little fucker. So you talk a lot?"

"A fair bit, yeah. I miss them all so much, you know."

"Yeah, it." Sean stopped, trying to marshal his thoughts. What was it? Why was he calling this American wanker? Oh, yeah. "It was a good time out there," he finally said, stroking the top of the box that held the bird's nest. "Listen, Sean, I'm actually calling you for a reason. This'll sound a bit dodgy, but did you send me a bird's nest?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A bird's nest. You know, sticks and twigs massed together?"

"Why would you think I'd send you a bird's nest?"

"Well, you're a crazy little guy. Seemed possible." Although as he said the words, nothing seemed less possible. Billy had been taking the piss; no one was less likely to send a bird's nest than Sean Astin, super responsible Super Dad.

"Uh, no. I didn't. Are you okay, Sean?"

"Yeah, it's just this bird's nest arrived and I can't tell who sent it and it's driving me barmy."

"A bird's nest, really? That's so cool. They're a symbol of hope and renewal, you know." He took a breath but before Sean could interrupt, he went on. "Birds are traditionally seen as God's messengers to earth, bringing love and hope to us. And nests, because they're round, see, an unbroken circle, well, that's a symbol of life and death and life again, and of the resurrection --"

"Sean. Thank you. I get it, that you didn't send the bird's nest."

"No." Sean sighed deeply, so far away. "No, I didn't. But I wish I had."

"Why do people keep saying that?"

"People do? Who?"

"Dom. Vig. Even Billy. Now you."

"Viggo said that?" Sean sounded less embarrassed and more curious. "Why'd Vig say that?"

"Said it was a cool thing to do. Why do you wish you'd sent it?"

There was a long pause; Sean could hear Sean's breathing, heavy and distant, like the sea through the sounds of long distance. At last he said, "Viggo's right. It is cool. It's. It's an excellent gift. It has meaning, and conveys something. Something important, I think."

Sean stared at the nest, packaged in the white box. Both looked hard used, by Royal Mail and who knows what else. "It conveys something. What?"

"Jesus, Sean, I dunno. It just feels significant." Sean heard him sigh again. "Look, I'm sorry. I know I'm a blowhard; Dom tells me that twice a month. I'm flattered that you thought of me."

Sean was instantly ashamed that he hadn't, in fact, thought of Astin; Billy had told him to call. "Course I thought of you," he lied jovially. "And you're not a blowhard, whatever that is; Dom's just takin' the piss with ya."

"No, actually, he's right," Sean said. "I am a big blowhard. It's okay," he added. "I'm working on it."

Sean was at a loss. Working on what? Fuckin' Americans with therapists and Prozac and God knows what. "Significant of what?" he said again, hoping to get Sean onto another topic.

"The bird's nest? Gosh, Sean. Let me think." Sean could practically hear his mind working all the way from LA. After nearly a minute, Sean asked, "You can't tell where it's from?"

"No, like I said, I think I said that the box was damaged. Royal Mail wrapped some kinda tape around it and when I ripped it off, it shredded the stamps. The return address got wet or something; it's all blurred."

"What kind of nest is it?"

"Vig asked that. I meant to call the RSPB, but forgot. I'll call them next."

"Call the who?"

"Royal Society for Protection of Birds. Very British."

"I guess so," Sean said. "Let me know, would you? It might have meaning. Anyway, I dunno, honest, Sean, but if I were gonna send a nest? I'd send one because I wanted to remind someone that life goes on, that things don't really end or die. To say something like love is not love which alters when it alteration finds."

Sean was astounded. "That's fuckin' brilliant, Astin. Jesus. I can't -- yeah. I would, too, except I'd never think of it. Are you sure you didn't send it?"

Sean laughed, and sounded pleased. "I'm sure. Wish I had. I'll send you one for your birthday, though."

"Christ, not you, too. I'm gonna end up with a dozen bird's nests."

"Not a dozen. Only eight."

Sean smiled. "Eight's good," he said softly. "Thanks, Sean. Really. Listen, come out, okay? Bring the whole crew. I'd love to see you. Take a holiday and visit."

"Sean, I. Yeah. I'd really." He sniffed, and Sean rolled his eyes. Big wally. "Yeah, we will. I'd love that."

Sean rang off then, chuckling at Astin's emotionalism. But he liked the idea that the nest had been sent to convey something. Astin had quoted Shakespeare, one of the sonnets. A restatement of the marriage service, Sean remembered from fourth form. He straightened his back, smiling at himself, and even clasped his hands behind his back, feeling like Sam reciting poetry in Fellowship of the Ring.

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments," he murmured, lifting his chin. He'd had to recite this in drama school, and once in an audition. "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken."

He was quite proud to have remembered so much, but gave up on the last bit. Then he had to laugh at himself. What a foolish arse he was being over a fuckin' bird's nest. Probably delivered to the wrong address anyway.

But he was curious now, so he'd call the RSPB, see if they could point him in the direction of a nestologist or whatever the fuck Vig had called it.

Then he remembered the errand he'd been on when the nest had sidetracked him, and he dashed out, swearing. Late, late, he was going to be so bloody late.

A week passed before he had a moment to himself again and called the RSPB. It took forever to find someone to talk to, and all they did was refer him to a museum with an impossible name. "Say it again," he demanded, writing as fast as he could. "Walter Rothschild Zoo? Zoological Museum? Where is this? Thetford? What's the number?"

It took two attempts, but he finally got the name of someone at the museum who knew about nests. "Spell that again?" he said, restraining the urge to shout, and then he had to run to yet another appointment, so he couldn't call until the next day.

"This is Ludovic Prys-Jones," a soft voice said eventually. "Can I help you?"

"Well, I'm not sure," Sean said, feeling daft. "It's odd, see, a bit, and well." He took a deep breath and started again. "Someone sent me a bird's nest."

"I see."

"Well, yes, anyway, and I'm trying to find out what kind of bird's nest. Maybe that would tell me why. It was sent."

"I see. Do you have a digital camera?"

"Digi -- no, why?"

"I was going to suggest you email me a photo of it."

"How 'bout I drive it out? Me, and maybe a mate could bring it out?"

"Certainly. Our collection is not open to the public, but we could schedule an appointment. Is there a day that works better for you? I'm here Monday through Friday, from nine to six."

"Um, yeah, let's see, I'm actually in rehearsal during the week. But in the mornings, you know, if I don't drink too much the night before," and he laughed, feeling like a complete idiot. "I'll get time off," he said quickly. "Just tell me when."

"Tuesdays are often rather quiet," Prys-Jones said. "Perhaps at ten? We could have coffee."

"That would be great," Sean agreed. "Tuesday at ten. I'll be there."

He rang off with relief and wiped his face. Tuesday. Jesus. He'd have to talk to David, and maybe drag Billy along with him. He knew it was irrational, but he blamed Bill for all this.

"No fuckin' way I'm getting up that early," Billy told him firmly. "Daft bugger even to suggest it."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"Thetford?"

"Well, the drive out. Like old times, yeah? Driving to location?"

"Give it up, Beanie. Not in this life. Not unless you're payin' me."

"I still think you sent the damn thing."

"Have I ever sent you anything? Ever? Why would I start now?"

"To drive me mad, you wee manky bastard! Oh, shut up; you'll piss yerself laughin' like that."

In the end, Sean drove out to Thetford by himself, leaving at an ungodly hour and getting caught in traffic. He figured it should have taken ninety minutes, but it took nearer two hours, so he sprinted across the car park of the museum and was panting when he opened the large front doors.

"Mister Bean?" the cool voice he remembered from the phone. "I thought perhaps you had other responsibilities."

"You mean you thought I stood ya up," Sean said, squinting.

A thin young man stepped forward from a hallway leading into the lobby. "I'm Prys-Jones. We spoke on the phone. You have the bird's nest?"

"Oh, shit. It's in the car --"

"I'll come with you."

Sean nodded vigorously and took a deep breath. "Sorry. Traffic was hell, and I hate being late." Prys-Jones led the way back into the brilliant morning sunshine and stood quietly, waiting for Sean to lead him to the car. "S'over here. Look, Mister Prys-Jones --"

"Please call me Ludo."

"Ludo. Now that's a name you don't hear too often."

"It's a family name. I believe I'm the fourteenth Ludo." Sean really looked at him. "My family's been in Thetford a long time."

"I guess. Well, here it is." He unlocked the BMW and took out the box. Feeling ridiculous, he lifted the lid and showed it to Ludo, who stared at it, nodding his head slightly. "Um, I do know it's illegal to take a bird's nest. It just turned up in the post."

Ludo just nodded. "Can I look at it in my lab?" he asked.

"Yeah, please."

Ludo took the box carefully and carried it before him looking, Sean thought, like one of the Magi carrying a gift. He silently followed Ludo back into the museum, up several hallways and a short flight of stairs into a cluttered room the size of his wardrobe at home. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and as Sean looked around, he realized there were bird's nests everywhere. "Jesus fucking Christ," he murmured, and then, "Sorry. Just."

"Yes, it often takes visitors that way." Ludo, Sean thought, looked proud of the mess. "I should warn you that if you have allergies you may need to take something. My colleague tells me the quantity and variety of pollen in this room is quite unnatural."

"I believe that. Do you mind --"

"No, please look around whilst I study this nest of yours."

Sean couldn't wander far; the room was simply too small and too crammed with things: framed photos of nests and birds sitting on nests; light-weight metal shelves filled with small boxes, each box containing a different nest neatly labeled. An entire shelf of stuffed hummingbirds, some no larger than Sean's thumb; he peered closely at them and their labels. They were from Arizona and the Amazon, he saw, with one from Cuba, a tiny thing called Mellisuga. Beside each bird was a tiny nest, some bound with spiderwebs, like Frodo in Shelob's lair.

"There are four kinds of bird's nests," Ludo said suddenly, peering at Sean's nest with a jeweler's loupe. "Platform, ground, cavity, and cupped. This is cupped. And at first glance, I believe it to be a chaffinch's nest. You've noticed how spherical the shape, with the lovely cup. It would easily fit five eggs -- have you seen a chaffinch egg? Very pale blue spotted with brown. There are some blown, on, dear me, where did I put them?" Sean smiled as Ludo turned in a slow circle. "Yes, there they are -- the second shelf up."

Sean looked where Ludo was pointing at an entire bookcase lined with eggs. "Looks like the shop from Alice through the Looking-Glass."

"That's what my grandfather says. He's another Ludovic. He's also the Bishop of Thetford and quite a birder. I do believe I inherited my love of nests from him." Ludo straightened up and looked at Sean. "Actually, I should confess that he and I are both enormous fans of Lord of the Rings. My grandfather actually heard a lecture by Tolkien when he was younger than I am. On Beowulf, of course."

"Of course," Sean said. "You're a fan? Of the books or the movies?"

"Well, both." Ludo smiled. "I own all three extended editions. Grandfather and I have watched them many times." He stopped smiling and frowned a little. "Is that acceptable? Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything?"

"No, no, it's brilliant." Sean beamed at him, genuinely pleased although a little embarrassed and certainly surprised. "I just never -- well, it was good luck that brought me here, I guess."

"My good luck," Ludo said firmly, and turned back to study the nest. "Did you know that chaffinches were introduced in New Zealand? In 1862, I believe. Near Nelson. On the North Island?"

"Been to Nelson. Stayed in a bach there one weekend." Sean turned away to smile in memory, not willing to share that with Ludo the fan. "Lovely weekend that was," he murmured, nodding to himself.

"I sometimes wonder if they sing about England," Ludo continued, and Sean turned back to pay attention. "Oh, to be in England now that April's there. Or if their song has changed during the hundred years apart from their English cousins. Baby chaffinches have to be taught how to sing by their parents, you know."

"You haven't been out? You should research it."

"I would like that. Someday perhaps. But there's always been a Ludovic in Thetford. I should find it hard to leave."

Sean wasn't sure what to say at that. Always a Ludovic in Thetford; what a thought. He wasn't sure how long Beans had been in Sheffield, and it didn't have the same ring, anyway. He remained silent, watching as Ludo carefully lifted the nest from the box and studied the underside.

After nearly thirty minutes, Ludo returned the nest to the box. "Definitely a chaffinch," he said. "She used a variety of plants for the construction of the nest: twigs from several kinds of oak trees, a holly bush, spider webs, lined with her own feathers."

"Is it from New Zealand?"

"Well, no. Sorry. That would be lovely, but these are definitely English plants. Although -- well, that's a bit premature. Lots of English flora has been transplanted to New Zealand. But without any native New Zealand plants, like twigs from a rata, I can't be sure." Sean felt surprisingly disappointed. From the moment Ludo had told him there were chaffinches in New Zealand, he had wanted his nest to have been sent from there. Something must have shown on his face, though, because Ludo quickly added, "But there's nothing in here to say the nest did not come from New Zealand, Mister Bean. It's quite possible."

Sean shrugged. "Still no idea who sent it, or why."

Ludo shook his head. "I can't help you with that. But there is a lovely poem by John Clare -- have you heard this?" He cleared his throat and recited,
"Tis spring, warm glows the south,
Chaffinch carries the moss in his mouth
To filbert hedges all day long,
And charms the poet with his beautiful song.

"He does have a beautiful song," Ludo added, smiling shyly at Sean, who knew he was staring open-mouthed.

"That's -- that's. Well, that's brilliant, Ludo." He hesitated and then said quickly, "Listen, I'm going to have a little get-together, probably in late February. I'm opening in a new play in March and I've invited most of the Fellowship out. Would you and your grandfather like to come? Meet the others?"

Ludo's eyes opened as wide as Elijah's. "I -- we -- oh. Oh, Mister Bean, that is just -- oh." He took a deep breath. "Yes, thank you. I'm certain my grandfather would be as delighted as I am to accept."

"For God's sake, don't call me 'Mister Bean,' okay? Just Sean. And that's brilliant, too, Ludo. I'll send you the day once it's firmed up."

"Thank you." He shook Sean's hand with both of his. "Thank you so much. What a lovely thing to do. I can't wait to call Grandfather."

"I've got to rush back to London; my director's gonna kick me arse for being late as it is. But I'll call ya here when I know something more."

"Thank you, yes, of course. Here's your nest. I'll see you out. It's quite a maze back to the entrance."

Sean smiled nearly all the way back to London, pleased with himself, even though he was dismayed at the amount of work he had to do. He never threw parties, and now what was this? He'd have to turn to the books for help -- a long expected party, innit? He nodded to himself.

"So ya gotta help me plan this fucker," he told Billy that afternoon. "Can't let the two Ludos down, can I?"

"I -- why me?"

"Pure proximity," Sean told him, but then they were called to order, David looking crossly at him.

Sean got to work that weekend. He started a list and realized he hadn't called Elijah, either of the Ians, or John. He wondered where Brett was; he thought Craig might be in London, and Karl was everywhere these days. Prague? Or had that been Elijah? Too bloody difficult to keep track of them all. He rubbed the top of his head and penciled in "Fran & Pete? Philippa?"

His mobile rang and to his relief it was Billy. "So how's it goin', then?" Billy asked him. "Did you hear that Barrie's in Dublin makin' a film? Invite him."

"Ah, Christ, I'm gonna hafta rent a fuckin' hall," he groaned, but obediently jotted down Barrie's name. "Who's his wife? I forget."

"And Andy and Lorraine, too; don't they live near ya?"

"Fuck."

"Look, I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Have tea ready and I'll help a bit."

"You're a good mate," Sean said and rang off. He really did need help.

Between the two of them, the list grew exponentially, Sean grumbling nearly continuously whilst Billy laughed and told him to stop whingeing. "Time to hire someone," he suggested, but Sean said no.

"It's for us. Just for us."

"Well, caterers, then. We can do the planning, but I'm not cooking for a hundred people."

"Caterers, yeah, brilliant. My ex-wife knows one, I'll call her, and booze, shite, we need a bloody vat of booze."

"The caterer will know," Billy told him calmly. "Let's focus on who right now."

The caterer, Deirdre, did indeed know how to procure that much booze for that many people, and what to get. "Champers, mostly," Sean requested, and she nodded, writing rapidly. He had the notes he and Billy had put together so he felt a bit more confident. "What about Guinness on tap? Is that do-able?"

"Of course, Mister Bean; quite do-able. And a fully-stocked bar, with this number of guests."

"Yeah, course. And soft drinks and juice. Got kids comin' as well."

"And coffee. What about an espresso machine? We could rent one for the evening and a barista as well as a bartender?"

He scrubbed at his head again, wondering if he was going to pull out all his hair before this was over. "Sounds good. Yeah, let's do it."

All his exes found his panic amusing. His girls were more help and suggested a florist, something neither he nor Billy would ever have thought of, so a pale young man was invited over. He and Deirdre spent a happy morning wandering through the ground floor of Sean's house discussing flow and blockage until he wondered if they were secretly plumbers.

Meanwhile, the play was coming along to his satisfaction. The work David had done on his character made Sean happy. He was less happy that David had renamed the character "Sean," and wondered what he should read into it, but Billy pointed out that he'd once included a "David Grieg" in a play, which made it seem less weird. At least his character's last name wasn't Bean. "Could be Legume," Billy suggested, and dodged a blow from Sean's hand. "Still got the moves," he said happily, and tossed Sean an apple.

He bumped into Ian at a wine bar in the West End one night after rehearsal. He was there with another man, younger and quite good looking, Sean thought, but whom he didn't introduce. He and Ian hugged and then, to Sean's surprise, kissed. "So good to see you," Ian said in his beautiful voice that always made Sean feel such a lout.

"Good to see you, too," Sean told him sincerely. "I've been meaning to call you for months."

"I would have been delighted to receive a call from you." Ian raised his eyebrows curiously. "Do you have time? Let's have a drink." He turned to the young man. "Darling, would you mind? And send Gerald over with the list, please."

"Of course," the young man murmured and slipped away, leaving Sean alone with Ian. They sat, and Ian looked expectantly at Sean.

"Well, it's that. Bit embarrassing, actually. But I was wondering -- any chance you sent me a nest?"

After a pause, Ian said, "I beg your pardon?"

"A nest. A chaffinch nest. In a white box." Ian continued to study him. "Got it in the post a couple of months ago, and can't figure out who'd send such a thing."

"So you thought of me?"

"Well, not right away. Figured Dom, you know, nests and nature and crazy Mancunian. But he swears not. So then Vig, but he said no, and I don't know if there are chaffinches in the States, anyway. So now I'm asking everybody. But I guess not you."

"No, alas. I would love to receive such a gift, though. A chaffinch's nest."

"Yeah. You know, 'chaffinch carries moss in his mouth.'"

"John Clare. My dear Sean, that's remarkable. I admit to being deeply curious as to who would send you such a thing."

Sean shrugged, but then the server arrived with a massive wine list and he and Ian put their heads together to decide what to try. He secured Ian's promise to attend his party, though, and another hug and kiss at the end of their evening.

"Lovely to see you, Sean."

And Sean agreed. They'd gossiped about theatre and actors and of course New Zealand, and Sean left feeling warm toward his old friend. Good blokes. Pete had done a brilliant job of casting; they were all good blokes, and he was going to see them again, all in the same place, for the first time in donkey's years.

Brilliant, he thought again, smiling as he hailed a cab.

They started arriving more than a week before the party. Sean Astin brought his entire family, including his mum and step-dad; they were busy touring London's museums, which Astin never could get enough of. Dom had flown in with them, still Ali's favourite uncle, and spent the afternoons with the girls before spending his evenings at the clubs, dancing wildly with anyone, including both Seans one memorable night.

Elijah flew in next. He stood small and fragile looking at Sean's door one morning, apologetic at the surprise until Sean hugged him tightly. "My flight was delayed," he kept repeating, nearly swaying with exhaustion. Sean took him along to a guest room and tucked him into bed himself.

"We'll talk when you're not so jet-lagged," Sean promised him, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Elijah still looked ridiculously young, and he brought out the paternal in Sean as only his daughters had until he'd met Elijah. "Sleep now."

Elijah nodded, his eyes fluttering closed, and Sean shut the door softly behind him.

He had confided in the caterer about the bird's nest, who had been quite taken with it and had decided to use it as a motif in her cooking. Deirdre had fixed tiny bird's nests of shredded vegetables, and had made an enormous cake decorated with an icing bird's nest. She also shared the idea with the florist, and now there were bouquets with tiny bird's nest in them and wreaths with papier mache eggs nestled in the centre decorating the rooms they'd set aside for the party.

Elijah slept nearly twenty-four hours, and by the time he had risen and showered and staggered into Sean's kitchen hoping for coffee, the house was almost ready for the onslaught of its guests. "Fuck, but you're doing this up right," he said in his cigarette-husky voice as he looked around.

"It's okay?" Sean asked.

Elijah nodded. "Fuckin' brilliant," he said, and smiled that beautiful gap-toothed smile at him. "Now be a good host and feed me, please. Look how frail I am." He held out his arms and made his round eyes even rounder and more pathetic. Sean rolled his own eyes, but fried up eggs and tomatoes and bacon for them both whilst Elijah toasted slices of bread and buttered them sloppily. Sean told him who was in town, and they called Astin whilst they ate so Elijah could chat happily with him and make plans to get together.

Sean watched Elijah's face as he spoke with the other Sean, with Elijah's Sean. He had often puzzled about their relationship. That Sean was in love with Elijah was easy to see, and that Elijah loved Sean was also obvious. But they both loved Chris and the girls as well. Sean took another bite of toast and wondered yet again how people managed in this world. The jealous chaffinch -- where had he read that? That the chaffinch was a jealous bird? Was there a chaffinch amongst the Fellowship?

The day before the party, Elijah slept in; he and Dom had gone partying the night before and Sean had no idea what time he'd returned, or even if he had. That was another relationship he'd mused over, watching the boys play ridiculous games to pass the time on set in New Zealand. Sean knew how much Dom and Billy loved each other; they seemed just as aware of each other now that they were separated by two oceans as they had standing side by side on a soundstage. That kind of love could never be hidden. But Dom loved many people; he had a big heart for such a slight man.

Enough. You're gettin' maudlin, Sean told himself, wondering if he should make another pot of tea, when he heard the front doorbell. He heard the housekeeper answer it, and soft voices. He turned, still holding his empty cup, to find Orlando in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Bloom," he said, genuinely startled. He set the cup down with a clatter, and then Orlando wrapped his arms around Sean, and they held on tight. "What the bloody hell? Party can't come soon enough, yeah? So fuckin' glad to see you."

Orlando's arms were fierce around Sean. "Sorry I couldn't get away sooner," he said. "Mum wasn't well, and I didn't want to leave her with Samantha whilst I partied with a bad boy like you."

"How is Sonia?" Sean stared at Orlando's face. Surely nothing had happened to her. "Why didn't you tell me when we talked?"

"She's better now. She had pneumonia, well, a cold that went into pneumonia, and she was really sick, Sean, man, I was scared. She was in hospital for three days with oxygen and Sam and I were just terrified, utterly. But she got better; she's amazing, my mum, and said I should come up to see you. Cos, you know, I did miss you and wanted to come up."

"God, I'm glad she's all right. Poor bugger, ya must've been so worried." Orlando looked exhausted. "Did ya drive up this morning?"

He nodded. "She told me to leave. Said I was underfoot."

He did look miserable. "Yer mum was just thinkin' what was best fer you, ya know." Sean whispered into Orlando's ear, "She loves you, Orli."

Orlando rested his head on Sean's shoulder and sighed, his breath warm against Sean's neck. "Yeah, I know. I was just scared, and got, you know --" His shoulders tensed.

"It's okay." Sean hugged him again, squashing Orlando against his chest, and then patted his back. "She's okay, and you're here now, yeah? Ready to party?"

Orlando smiled at him, a bit shyly, Sean thought. "Yeah. Ready to party."

"Tea," Sean said, and set Orlando at the kitchen table whilst he filled the kettle and emptied the sodden leaves from the pot. "Have ya eaten? You can ask Elijah; I can fry up a good brekkie for ya."

"Elijah's here?"

"Dunno if he's here at the moment, but he's stayin' here. Dom's stayin' with Billy, of course, and Astin's at Claridge's. There's room for you here, too, so stay a bit."

"I've got a flat --" Orlando began, but Sean interrupted him.

"Nonsense. Stay here with your friends. More fun, yeah?"

"Yeah." Orlando beamed at him, and then the kettle started to rattle. He ended up making breakfast, which drew Elijah from his room. Sean watched as the two men greeted each other ecstatically. Elijah threw himself into Orlando's arms, climbing him like a sapling.

"God, I missed you," Orlando whispered into Elijah's ear. Sean smiled at the sight, and put more bacon on to fry.

He was a wreck by the time he reached rehearsal, but managed to pull himself together after a hurried whispered conference with Billy about Orlando's arrival. "Bring Dom, and spend the night," Sean told him, aware of David's gimlet eye, and then they turned themselves into David's characters. Sean was happy to release himself into the role; he was coming to love the part, and the lines, at last, had begun to feel natural in his mouth.

They spent the afternoon at the final fitting for their costumes, David working with the costumer and his assistant director whilst Sean and his castmates stood around like mannequins. Sean had always enjoyed watching his characters come together physically, and a costume usually gave him ideas for posture, voice, and gestures, and he was pleased to see the results.

Sean remembered a play Billy had done in which he'd worn a tee-shirt with the words "David Grieg" printed on it, so he'd been hoping for something a bit more elaborate. Happily, David had gone another route entirely, and as the afternoon and evening wore on, Sean caught a glimpse of another self in the many mirrors around him. Someone older and darker, both in colouring and outlook. It was as though the character were inside Sean, peeking out, hoping to climb out and reveal himself.

He was exhilarated by the time they finished, but rather than go drinking at the theatre bar, he took Billy home with him. The house was brilliantly lit, cars parked everywhere, and music seeping through the doors and windows. "Elijah," he and Billy said in unison.

"The party's not on till tomorrow, ya sorry bastards!" he bellowed as he flung open the door. The astonished faces stared back at him and he was roundly booed.

"This isn't a party," Dom said into his ear before kissing him. "This is your family. We're fuckin' giving the party tomorrow."

He kissed Dom back, patting his shoulder, and then hugged Elijah, nearly lifting him off the ground. "I see you've recovered enough to start again."

"It's your cooking," Elijah said, lightly slapping Sean's face in greeting. "Sorry about all these wankers, but they just showed up."

Orlando stood shyly next to Elijah. "Hey, elf!" Sean shouted, and Orlando's smile nearly blinded him. They hugged. "I'm so glad you came up. Woulda broken me poor old heart not to have you here for this."

"I would have come for the party," Orlando protested, but Sean kissed him. "You know I would have. You're such a northern bastard, even now."

He stood with his arm around Orlando and surveyed the front room. Dom and Elijah hovered around the CD, flipping through what looked like hundreds of plastic cases. Billy was at the bar, pouring drinks and talking to Ian, who raised a hand in Sean's direction. A clattering up the hallway drew his attention, and he saw Viggo carrying two enormous platters of pizza. It looked homemade, which meant his kitchen would be a mess. Viggo smiled at him and held out a steaming platter.

"My king," Sean said, and took a slice of pizza, strings of cheese threading back to the platter. "You fix this yourself?"

"Well, John helped."

Sean looked up to see John leaning heavily on a cane, drink in the other hand. "Your king means that John supervised."

"Shit, I haven't seen you in years," Sean said, leaving Orlando to help Viggo pass around the pizza to cautiously hug John. "How are you, you old fart?"

"Not the same, I'm afraid, but much much better. Very happy to be here. I came down with my son and his family for your opening night, but Elijah and Dom insisted I come by early. Hope that's all right."

"Course it is! It's bloody brilliant." He hugged John again, shocked at how frail he felt in his arms. "Come, sit down. Eat the pizza you supervised. Tell amazing stories."

"And send everyone to sleep," John said, but it was false modesty, Sean knew.

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," he said softly, squeezing John's arm holding his glass. "Now come sit down. Get pie-eyed with the rest of us." He whispered into John's ear. "I have some very good whisky saved for moments like this."

"As long as you don't share it with the hobbits or that elf."

Sean looked as affronted as he could. He slowly maneuvered John into the large front room, full of music and laughter and old friends. Once John was seated, he looked around. Just the Fellowship, he saw. No wives or girlfriends or boyfriends, just the nine. Maybe the last time they'd ever be alone together, here for him, to start off his new play right, to enjoy each other's company.

"Sean," he heard, and looked down at Sean Astin. Much smaller than he had been as Sam, he looked both shy and happy. "Thank you. This is -- well, as Elijah would say, this is brilliant."

Sean slung an arm around him, then kissed the top of his head. "Aww," he heard Elijah say, who hugged Astin from the other side and kissed his cheek. "You're surrounded by love," Elijah said, and Astin blushed.

Billy and Dom looked up from the iPod they were examining, and Viggo from where he knelt at John's feet, untying his shoes for some reason. Ian held a bottle of champagne in each hand and looked quizzically at Sean, who smiled and squeezed Astin even tighter.

"Okay, okay," Astin said, blushing even harder. "Hey, Sean, did you ever find out who sent the bird's nest?"

"Yeah," Dom said. Sean noticed he had a hand in Billy's back pocket, as Billy leaned against Dom's side, both smiling at him. "Sherlock Bean figure it out?"

"Bird's nest?" Orlando said from the door. The hall light behind him shone through his thick curly hair, an aureole of health and youth around him even though he still looked, to Sean, a bit sad.

"Yeah, dint ya hear?" Dom asked him. "Some cunt sent Bean a fuckin' bird's nest. He's spent the last, what, three months? trying to figure out who. Illegal as hell," he added for Elijah and Sean Astin.

"Never did find out," Sean admitted, releasing Astin into Elijah's care. They all watched him. He shrugged. "I found out it's a chaffinch nest. That they symbolize love, and the resurrection." He glanced at Sean, still pink as he rested against Elijah. "A circle of love," he said, and then blushed himself.

"I did," Orlando said. Sean watched the faces in the room turn toward him, like sunflowers. "I sent the nest."

"Thought you asked him," Billy said.

"I did -- no, wait. I called but got sidetracked. You did?"

"Orli, why?" Viggo asked.

Orlando shrugged, his eyes dropping to the carpet. "Dunno, really. Me mum was so sick, and I missed everyone. Sean was really nice to me on Troy, specially, well. Anyway. It was pretty. It's from New Zealand, yeah? I wanted to send Sean something special. To thank him. But it had a card, and a label, Sean. It wasn't meant to be a mystery."

"Aw, Royal Mail buggered it up, so the package didn't have a return address. But there wasn't a card, Orli. Not in the box."

They stared at each other across the room, both flushed with the heat of the room and the excitement of the evening. "It, I'm sorry," Orlando stammered.

"No, hell, no." Sean strode across the room and embraced Orlando, holding him close. He kissed the curls, embarrassed by the tears rising to his eyes. "It was a bloody great gift, Orli, the best ever. I had a brilliant time trying to figure it out, and really, it brought us all here." He stepped back, still holding onto Orlando, and repeated, "It brought us all here, because it made me call. And I realized that, I." He swallowed, and then gestured toward Astin. "Sean had it right all the time." Sean looked shocked, and glanced at Elijah, who shrugged. "The sonnet, arsehole."

Elijah giggled. "Seanie," he said, and kissed Sean, who was redder than Orlando by now.

"What? What sonnet?" Billy asked. Ian sat in the armchair across from John and looked up expectantly.

Elijah gently shook him. "You're on, Sam."

Clutching Elijah's hands, Sean looked at the others, then back at Orlando and Sean. "It's the ending, I think," he finally said. "The part about love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come: love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom."

"The edge of doom," Elijah murmured, and hugged Sean, who buried his face in Elijah's neck.

"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds," Ian said, and John nodded.

"O no!" John continued. "It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken. Never shaken," he repeated softly.

They all looked to Sean again, eight pairs of familiar eyes watching him. He hugged Orlando again, and swallowed fiercely, not wanting to cry in front of them, but it was impossible not to tear up a bit. He shrugged. "Yeah," he finally whispered. "It is the star to every wandering bark. Even those bloody canoes."

Ian swiftly popped first one and then the second bottle of champagne. "Drinks, I think, are needed by all," he said, holding the fizzing bottles up, and they gathered around him, holding out glasses and laughing. Sean watched as Billy and Dom toasted each other, and Elijah and Sean, and then the four youngsters turned to their elders, clinking glasses and kissing cheeks. Only he and Orlando stood still.

"I am sorry, Sean," Orlando said in a low voice.

"It's fine, Orli. It was a lovely gift." He smiled at Orlando. "It was the best gift I've ever had."

~ ~ ~

Additional author's notes: I was born and raised in the western United States, so trying to write British English is really really hard for me. I couldn't do it without the help of the empress_wu, and she surely did a yeoman's job this time. Thank you, my Empress; you are a treasure.

She also pointed out that the real Bishop of Thetford is the Venerable David Atkinson, the Archdeacon of Lewisham. Apologies, Your Grace! I mean no disrespect by making Ludovic Prys-Jones the bishop instead. As Dorothy Sayers put it, "the novelist's only native country is Cloud-Cuckooland, where they do but jest, poison in jest: no offense in the world."

There really is a Walter Rothschild Zoological Museum; you can read about it here. I was impressed that they have a million eggs and two thousand nests to study there. Also, everything in my story about nests and chaffinches is as accurate as research on the internet can make it. And people do actually surf at Bude, in Cornwall!