FIC: Still Life SB/VM hard R- Deathfic
Aug. 18th, 2003 02:31 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
ravenscathedral.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackleTitle: Still Life
Author: Leti (grantiare@aol.com)![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ravenscathedral
Summary: Anything for a quiet life.
Pairing SB/VM
Notes: this is a deathfic. If you are upset by this type of fic, please stop here. This is just to get it out of my system. The Bean bites if I don't write.
Sean Bean always thought he was a man who knew himself. A bloke's bloke who could keep his emotions in check. He could do this at will, without losing that "sensitive edge" his agent kept going on about.
He didn't really care if people liked him or not. He had his girls, his work, his lovers. He had his "perfect life" to keep him company. If only his thoughts didn't stray so.
He relished and indulged his demon when it first came to visit. A rush of youthful recklessness, alive with the urgency of experiences never had. Then came the stillness of his mind. Oh, how he loved that.
Swallowing the rainbow-hued lot of them, easily obtained by handing an assistant a few quid, became as routine as brushing his teeth.
He had learned long ago how to quiet this part of his life, sending it back to the dark recesses of his mind. Sometimes though, more often now, the Guiness, always his friend, couldn't do the trick alone.
When the invited silence started to abide in his home, his body, the ribbons of his soul were no longer the satin ones adorning his daughters' plaits.
No these were torn strips of ACE bandage on scars from "accidental" burns Sean had no recollection of receiving. "Fuckin' kettle," Sean would laugh when the inevitable questions would come.
His mind still screaming, a few quid here and there was no longer enough. It became late nights and the smell of sex with a makeup girl that gained him handfuls of little blue peace. The quiet, slippery with a chaser of Scotch down his throat, only cost a little more to his wallet and soul.
Included in that transaction was the girl's silence and assistance in masking the deep gashes on his forearms that Sean couldn't explain.
Better times became a fleeting memory. No, with his offering-- an envelope filled with 50 pound notes-- and two shots of Jameson, his quest for silence brought ties that bound. His mind suffocated his thoughts until he felt he couldn't breathe.
The white noise that now possessed him brought a suitcase full of torment long since forgotten. His only respite, the tears that washed away the accompanying pain.
Hanging up the cellphone, Viggo sadly reached for the car keys and his wallet. In front of many a castmember, Sean had proclaimed Vig "my one man cleaning crew" after Viggo had rescued him from falling on his face in a Wellington pub's gutter. That had only been one of many particularly bad nights.
Viggo knows he will picking up Sean's tab at the bar and the bookies. Viggo also knows that some nights there would be outstretched palms awaiting payment for services rendered. Viggo hopes the pretty young stud hanging off of Sean's waist had given him some peace this evening.
What Viggo doesn't know is, that this night, the only prick Sean has felt was in the thick vein above his left wrist.
Viggo will lead Sean into the shower, overlooking the scars and bruises of the past weeks. He will allow Sean to sob violently against him, covering the man's face in small kisses until he knows Sean has stilled.
Sean knows Viggo will be there in the morning. He always is. He will be cleaning up the dishes in the sink, bottles off the floor. Sean smiles in his stupor. He thinks he may feel better.
Sean knows that this second, he is more alive than he has ever been. It is all clear now. He is breathing, gasping in the sweet air. He can hear Viggo singing off key in the bathroom.
Sean is alive enough to kick and thrash against the darkness that has gone beyond just threatening to take over his body.
Alive enough to know he has been unsuccessful and that this, his stillness, so long desired, has killed him.
Author: Leti (grantiare@aol.com)
ravenscathedralSummary: Anything for a quiet life.
Pairing SB/VM
Notes: this is a deathfic. If you are upset by this type of fic, please stop here. This is just to get it out of my system. The Bean bites if I don't write.
Sean Bean always thought he was a man who knew himself. A bloke's bloke who could keep his emotions in check. He could do this at will, without losing that "sensitive edge" his agent kept going on about.
He didn't really care if people liked him or not. He had his girls, his work, his lovers. He had his "perfect life" to keep him company. If only his thoughts didn't stray so.
He relished and indulged his demon when it first came to visit. A rush of youthful recklessness, alive with the urgency of experiences never had. Then came the stillness of his mind. Oh, how he loved that.
Swallowing the rainbow-hued lot of them, easily obtained by handing an assistant a few quid, became as routine as brushing his teeth.
He had learned long ago how to quiet this part of his life, sending it back to the dark recesses of his mind. Sometimes though, more often now, the Guiness, always his friend, couldn't do the trick alone.
When the invited silence started to abide in his home, his body, the ribbons of his soul were no longer the satin ones adorning his daughters' plaits.
No these were torn strips of ACE bandage on scars from "accidental" burns Sean had no recollection of receiving. "Fuckin' kettle," Sean would laugh when the inevitable questions would come.
His mind still screaming, a few quid here and there was no longer enough. It became late nights and the smell of sex with a makeup girl that gained him handfuls of little blue peace. The quiet, slippery with a chaser of Scotch down his throat, only cost a little more to his wallet and soul.
Included in that transaction was the girl's silence and assistance in masking the deep gashes on his forearms that Sean couldn't explain.
Better times became a fleeting memory. No, with his offering-- an envelope filled with 50 pound notes-- and two shots of Jameson, his quest for silence brought ties that bound. His mind suffocated his thoughts until he felt he couldn't breathe.
The white noise that now possessed him brought a suitcase full of torment long since forgotten. His only respite, the tears that washed away the accompanying pain.
Hanging up the cellphone, Viggo sadly reached for the car keys and his wallet. In front of many a castmember, Sean had proclaimed Vig "my one man cleaning crew" after Viggo had rescued him from falling on his face in a Wellington pub's gutter. That had only been one of many particularly bad nights.
Viggo knows he will picking up Sean's tab at the bar and the bookies. Viggo also knows that some nights there would be outstretched palms awaiting payment for services rendered. Viggo hopes the pretty young stud hanging off of Sean's waist had given him some peace this evening.
What Viggo doesn't know is, that this night, the only prick Sean has felt was in the thick vein above his left wrist.
Viggo will lead Sean into the shower, overlooking the scars and bruises of the past weeks. He will allow Sean to sob violently against him, covering the man's face in small kisses until he knows Sean has stilled.
Sean knows Viggo will be there in the morning. He always is. He will be cleaning up the dishes in the sink, bottles off the floor. Sean smiles in his stupor. He thinks he may feel better.
Sean knows that this second, he is more alive than he has ever been. It is all clear now. He is breathing, gasping in the sweet air. He can hear Viggo singing off key in the bathroom.
Sean is alive enough to kick and thrash against the darkness that has gone beyond just threatening to take over his body.
Alive enough to know he has been unsuccessful and that this, his stillness, so long desired, has killed him.
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