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Feb. 9th, 2004 12:16 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleTitle: Better late than never.
Series: Proverbial
Chapter: 7/7
Rated: R
Pairing: SB/VM
Disclaimer: RPS: Real Person Slash. Read it/Don’t read it. Make an adult decision.
Warning:
Feedback: Nice, but not required.
Archive: No.
Overall Summary: A series, based on proverbs and featuring Sean as he goes about getting what he wants and possibly more than he bargained for.
Chapter Summary:
Author: Arden Elear
Email: rishalin@lycos.com
Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/arden_elear/
Website: http://www.angelfire.com/folk/rishalin/
I saw him at the premiere, of course. But there were people everywhere, flashbulbs popping, demands, pleas, hobbits, interviews, acknowledgments etc. etc as well as the screening itself, so my view was limited to a couple of quick glimpses through the crowd.
But it didn’t matter. I knew. I fucking knew! The way my palms got moist, my heart began tripping in my chest and the breath just whooshed out of my lungs the second I laid eyes on that slender frame, the soft fall of hair, those amazing, intense eyes that pinned me for a second from right across the foyer before swinging away again. I knew.
I am screwed. Stuffed, gutted and mounted. No more denial, no more deluding myself. Hook, line and sinker and he don’t even know it. Never cast a line in. Might not even want his catch.
I could run. Not turn up at the after party and take the next flight. But what’s the point in that? What do I do then, eh? Go home, stick a gun up my arse and blow my brains out? I don’t think so. I’m miserable at home, I’m miserable here, I’m miserable every-fucking-where that he’s not!
My choices are limited. I either give it a miss, act the coward and stay all wretched and gloomy or I sodding-well do something about it.
Sean Bean’s a player. Has always been a player. So, I play. Go to the damned party, check out the lie of the land and decide my next move. If it turns out to be useless, at least I tried. Salvage some pride out of it, if nothing else.
Decision made. I feel better now.
*
‘Course every man and his dog is here. Celebrities, wanna-be’s, hangers-on. You name it; this little bash has got ‘em. They can smell a hit and they’re circling like sharks, wanting in, wanting some of the gilt to rub off on them. Fortunately some bright spark at New Line has booked an adjoining room just for us. Fellowship cast and crew only; no giggling, gushing Hollywood types allowed.
It’s kind of amusing to watch, actually. Sala has parked himself at the table by the door and is helping hotel security decide who’s in and who’s out with a nod or a shake of his head. Wielding power like he wields his beer glass and just as nonchalantly. Careless of whom he might be offending, immune to any bribery; Sala is the most powerful man in L.A. tonight!
Our room is big enough to hold us comfortably. There’s a bar and a dance floor, covered with various hobbits and their relatives, the odd elf and quite a few very large New Zealand Maoris swinging their tailbones to the beat with natural grace.
But my attention is elsewhere, of course.
I’ve found myself a nice spot against the wall in the semi-gloom behind the dance floor. I’ve got a drink, a comfy seat and various friends and acquaintances have been coming and going from my table ever since I sat down. But what I have here that I really appreciate, is a clear view across the room of the couches on the other side.
Viggo is talking to Mark. He’s sitting facing me but I’m pretty sure he can’t see me from there. The bright lights are directly in above him and, like I said, I chose the murky side.
I’m waiting and watching. When Mark gets up and leaves, Viggo picks up his drink and puts his head down again, the rim of the glass resting against his lip, while he taps the bottom of the glass abstractedly. He’s miles away, I can tell. So can everyone else as they respectfully leave him alone. No one disturbs the King of Men when he’s thinking, it’s a given. No-one but me that is.
I’m weaving my way across the dance floor intent on my destination when a hand comes out and stops me. In fact, I’m so intent that I almost shove the hand aside, but instead I control the urge and turn.
It’s Ian and his eyes lock with mine for a second. But he doesn’t say anything; he just gives me this little smile of acknowledgement and an encouraging nod. He knows. Why am I not surprised? Ian very rarely misses anything and I’d be more surprised if he hadn’t noticed. Old sod knew about this before I did.
I give him a smile in return and continue on my way. Sit down beside Vig who doesn’t even notice I’m there.
“Viggo.”
He looks up, startled. Something vanishes out of his eyes when they see it’s me and is gone before I can catch it and then there’s just Viggo, my friend who is pleased to see me.
“Sean! Hey!” He leans over for a quick embrace.
“Having fun?” I ask him.
He pulls a face. “No.”
“Didn’t think so. You were miles away. Everything all right?”
“Mmm.” He drops his head again; something again flickers across his face and disappears before he meets my eyes. “Yeah.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Just trying to think of a polite way of getting out of here.” He admits with a rueful smile.
Not big on the ole promotional duties, is Viggo. Well, I can fix that.
I take his glass from slack fingers and abandon it on the table, grasp his hand and pull him to his feet.
“Come on.”
“What?” He stands up easily enough, but he’s confused. I don’t release his hand.
“I said, come on. I’m breaking you out of here Mortensen.” I tell him with a wicked grin and a lousy Cagney.
Out through the bar and into the empty kitchen. Down the corridor and through the fire exit into the service lane behind the hotel. Where I parked.
He’s not said a word, just followed me obediently. When I open the passenger door, he slides past me and gets in but I notice he’s careful to avoid body contact. Interesting.
“Where to?” I click shut my seat belt and start the car.
He waves a hand in the air, undecided, and then says, “Home.”
Silence again, except for directions. No one could ever accuse Viggo of making inane conversation. If he’s got nothing to say, he says nothing. But I know something’s bothering him. And I’m madly hoping that I know what it is.
His place and he’s none too pleased when I follow him to the door, but he’s also too polite to say anything about it, which is to my advantage right now.
But inside, once the door shuts, it seems like the room is too small for him all of a sudden, seeing as I’m in it with him. He slips off his jacket, throws it over the back of a chair and heads for the kitchen.
“Drink?” He asks, filling the kettle from the tap.
I throw my jacket over the top of his and stay in the living room, arms crossed over my chest, being all patient but remorseless.
“Vig. What’s wrong?”
Now he’s really unhappy. He purses his lips and abandons the kettle, returning to the living room because I’m silently demanding that he does.
“Nothing.” He insists. But he’s unwilling to lie further. He won’t look at me either.
“Bullshit.” If he’s going to be obstinate, then I’m going to have to push.
“It’s me.”
There. Said. Flat statement of fact.
The eyes shoot up; slide away again, defeated.
“I’m just . . . Just a bit . . . uncomfortable.” He admits.
I let my arms drop to my sides. He’s really biting that lip now, a bit angry that I forced him into saying something.
“I make you uncomfortable.”
Now he’s folding his arms defensively.
“Because of us.” I go on. He nods.
“I thought we were friends.”
He looks pained and I’m almost sorry enough to stop. But I’m playing here, gambling for high stakes and I need to see so that I know what I’m dealing with.
“We are! It’s just . . .” He shrugs.
“It’s just that it’s not over.” I finish it for him and he looks up at me, astonished.
“Not? But . . .”
Okay. Enough talking.
I pin him against the kitchen counter and put my palms to his temples and my mouth against his, insisting on entrance. He’s so surprised now that he doesn’t resist me at all; parting his lips and pressing back against me, hands at my waist.
And I know I’m being rough and passionate and brutal but there’s such an overwhelming need throbbing through my veins and I’m not talking about sex. For a minute, he’s with me. Then he wrenches himself away, panting harshly, and one hand between us, raised in denial.
“No!” His voice is rough, grating and he slips from my grasp and takes a couple of staggering steps away, putting distance between us.
“No.” He says again. “I am not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
I’m trying to sound calm and unthreatening but it’s fucking hard when he’s so close and so much is at stake. I could lose so much and I sound a bit harsh because of it.
“Doing . . . this.” His back is turned and his shoulders are slumped forward like he’s weary. “I can’t. I can’t do the. . . blasé thing, Sean. I’m sorry. It’s just not me.”
Silence then and we’re both waiting. Him for me to speak, me for the words that are embossed on my brain but which I can’t say. Instead, all I can do is repeat his words and hope that he can perceive the rest.
“It’s not me, either.” I confess.
He turns and looks directly at me for the first time tonight and I can see the confusion slowly clearing as he reads my face.
“Sean?” He steps closer, hesitant.
My smile is wobbly and my eyes are wet and I’m silently begging. Please. Hear me.
And he does. Of course he does.
And he wraps around me and presses against me and holds me tight while I plant kisses to his throat, his hair, anywhere I can reach without breaking free of his arms.
“You bastard.” I mumble. “What have you done to me?”
I can feel his smile against my neck and he squeezes just that little bit harder.
“Same thing you did to me, I guess.” He says. “Cunt.”
I kiss him then. Slowly, indolently heading for where we both want to be. Tasting what I’ve missed all these months, the curve of his teeth, the slick heat of his tongue as it dances against mine. Feeling the leisurely pull of arousal in my groin, his hands curling up, clutching at my shirt and his hips rocking, sliding backward and forward in a tango of promises.
This turned out to be more of a challenge than I ever expected and it came from within, not outside. I ended up challenging myself. This tired old heart has been kick-started and, who knows, maybe one day I can say the words.
Fin.
Note: I deliberately tried to write this entire story without once using the word ‘love’. In my experience, men don’t say it unless they have to, or if you have a ruthless grip on their balls when you demand they declare themselves, so I wanted to see if I could do it.
Series: Proverbial
Chapter: 7/7
Rated: R
Pairing: SB/VM
Disclaimer: RPS: Real Person Slash. Read it/Don’t read it. Make an adult decision.
Warning:
Feedback: Nice, but not required.
Archive: No.
Overall Summary: A series, based on proverbs and featuring Sean as he goes about getting what he wants and possibly more than he bargained for.
Chapter Summary:
Author: Arden Elear
Email: rishalin@lycos.com
Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/arden_elear/
Website: http://www.angelfire.com/folk/rishalin/
I saw him at the premiere, of course. But there were people everywhere, flashbulbs popping, demands, pleas, hobbits, interviews, acknowledgments etc. etc as well as the screening itself, so my view was limited to a couple of quick glimpses through the crowd.
But it didn’t matter. I knew. I fucking knew! The way my palms got moist, my heart began tripping in my chest and the breath just whooshed out of my lungs the second I laid eyes on that slender frame, the soft fall of hair, those amazing, intense eyes that pinned me for a second from right across the foyer before swinging away again. I knew.
I am screwed. Stuffed, gutted and mounted. No more denial, no more deluding myself. Hook, line and sinker and he don’t even know it. Never cast a line in. Might not even want his catch.
I could run. Not turn up at the after party and take the next flight. But what’s the point in that? What do I do then, eh? Go home, stick a gun up my arse and blow my brains out? I don’t think so. I’m miserable at home, I’m miserable here, I’m miserable every-fucking-where that he’s not!
My choices are limited. I either give it a miss, act the coward and stay all wretched and gloomy or I sodding-well do something about it.
Sean Bean’s a player. Has always been a player. So, I play. Go to the damned party, check out the lie of the land and decide my next move. If it turns out to be useless, at least I tried. Salvage some pride out of it, if nothing else.
Decision made. I feel better now.
*
‘Course every man and his dog is here. Celebrities, wanna-be’s, hangers-on. You name it; this little bash has got ‘em. They can smell a hit and they’re circling like sharks, wanting in, wanting some of the gilt to rub off on them. Fortunately some bright spark at New Line has booked an adjoining room just for us. Fellowship cast and crew only; no giggling, gushing Hollywood types allowed.
It’s kind of amusing to watch, actually. Sala has parked himself at the table by the door and is helping hotel security decide who’s in and who’s out with a nod or a shake of his head. Wielding power like he wields his beer glass and just as nonchalantly. Careless of whom he might be offending, immune to any bribery; Sala is the most powerful man in L.A. tonight!
Our room is big enough to hold us comfortably. There’s a bar and a dance floor, covered with various hobbits and their relatives, the odd elf and quite a few very large New Zealand Maoris swinging their tailbones to the beat with natural grace.
But my attention is elsewhere, of course.
I’ve found myself a nice spot against the wall in the semi-gloom behind the dance floor. I’ve got a drink, a comfy seat and various friends and acquaintances have been coming and going from my table ever since I sat down. But what I have here that I really appreciate, is a clear view across the room of the couches on the other side.
Viggo is talking to Mark. He’s sitting facing me but I’m pretty sure he can’t see me from there. The bright lights are directly in above him and, like I said, I chose the murky side.
I’m waiting and watching. When Mark gets up and leaves, Viggo picks up his drink and puts his head down again, the rim of the glass resting against his lip, while he taps the bottom of the glass abstractedly. He’s miles away, I can tell. So can everyone else as they respectfully leave him alone. No one disturbs the King of Men when he’s thinking, it’s a given. No-one but me that is.
I’m weaving my way across the dance floor intent on my destination when a hand comes out and stops me. In fact, I’m so intent that I almost shove the hand aside, but instead I control the urge and turn.
It’s Ian and his eyes lock with mine for a second. But he doesn’t say anything; he just gives me this little smile of acknowledgement and an encouraging nod. He knows. Why am I not surprised? Ian very rarely misses anything and I’d be more surprised if he hadn’t noticed. Old sod knew about this before I did.
I give him a smile in return and continue on my way. Sit down beside Vig who doesn’t even notice I’m there.
“Viggo.”
He looks up, startled. Something vanishes out of his eyes when they see it’s me and is gone before I can catch it and then there’s just Viggo, my friend who is pleased to see me.
“Sean! Hey!” He leans over for a quick embrace.
“Having fun?” I ask him.
He pulls a face. “No.”
“Didn’t think so. You were miles away. Everything all right?”
“Mmm.” He drops his head again; something again flickers across his face and disappears before he meets my eyes. “Yeah.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Just trying to think of a polite way of getting out of here.” He admits with a rueful smile.
Not big on the ole promotional duties, is Viggo. Well, I can fix that.
I take his glass from slack fingers and abandon it on the table, grasp his hand and pull him to his feet.
“Come on.”
“What?” He stands up easily enough, but he’s confused. I don’t release his hand.
“I said, come on. I’m breaking you out of here Mortensen.” I tell him with a wicked grin and a lousy Cagney.
Out through the bar and into the empty kitchen. Down the corridor and through the fire exit into the service lane behind the hotel. Where I parked.
He’s not said a word, just followed me obediently. When I open the passenger door, he slides past me and gets in but I notice he’s careful to avoid body contact. Interesting.
“Where to?” I click shut my seat belt and start the car.
He waves a hand in the air, undecided, and then says, “Home.”
Silence again, except for directions. No one could ever accuse Viggo of making inane conversation. If he’s got nothing to say, he says nothing. But I know something’s bothering him. And I’m madly hoping that I know what it is.
His place and he’s none too pleased when I follow him to the door, but he’s also too polite to say anything about it, which is to my advantage right now.
But inside, once the door shuts, it seems like the room is too small for him all of a sudden, seeing as I’m in it with him. He slips off his jacket, throws it over the back of a chair and heads for the kitchen.
“Drink?” He asks, filling the kettle from the tap.
I throw my jacket over the top of his and stay in the living room, arms crossed over my chest, being all patient but remorseless.
“Vig. What’s wrong?”
Now he’s really unhappy. He purses his lips and abandons the kettle, returning to the living room because I’m silently demanding that he does.
“Nothing.” He insists. But he’s unwilling to lie further. He won’t look at me either.
“Bullshit.” If he’s going to be obstinate, then I’m going to have to push.
“It’s me.”
There. Said. Flat statement of fact.
The eyes shoot up; slide away again, defeated.
“I’m just . . . Just a bit . . . uncomfortable.” He admits.
I let my arms drop to my sides. He’s really biting that lip now, a bit angry that I forced him into saying something.
“I make you uncomfortable.”
Now he’s folding his arms defensively.
“Because of us.” I go on. He nods.
“I thought we were friends.”
He looks pained and I’m almost sorry enough to stop. But I’m playing here, gambling for high stakes and I need to see so that I know what I’m dealing with.
“We are! It’s just . . .” He shrugs.
“It’s just that it’s not over.” I finish it for him and he looks up at me, astonished.
“Not? But . . .”
Okay. Enough talking.
I pin him against the kitchen counter and put my palms to his temples and my mouth against his, insisting on entrance. He’s so surprised now that he doesn’t resist me at all; parting his lips and pressing back against me, hands at my waist.
And I know I’m being rough and passionate and brutal but there’s such an overwhelming need throbbing through my veins and I’m not talking about sex. For a minute, he’s with me. Then he wrenches himself away, panting harshly, and one hand between us, raised in denial.
“No!” His voice is rough, grating and he slips from my grasp and takes a couple of staggering steps away, putting distance between us.
“No.” He says again. “I am not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
I’m trying to sound calm and unthreatening but it’s fucking hard when he’s so close and so much is at stake. I could lose so much and I sound a bit harsh because of it.
“Doing . . . this.” His back is turned and his shoulders are slumped forward like he’s weary. “I can’t. I can’t do the. . . blasé thing, Sean. I’m sorry. It’s just not me.”
Silence then and we’re both waiting. Him for me to speak, me for the words that are embossed on my brain but which I can’t say. Instead, all I can do is repeat his words and hope that he can perceive the rest.
“It’s not me, either.” I confess.
He turns and looks directly at me for the first time tonight and I can see the confusion slowly clearing as he reads my face.
“Sean?” He steps closer, hesitant.
My smile is wobbly and my eyes are wet and I’m silently begging. Please. Hear me.
And he does. Of course he does.
And he wraps around me and presses against me and holds me tight while I plant kisses to his throat, his hair, anywhere I can reach without breaking free of his arms.
“You bastard.” I mumble. “What have you done to me?”
I can feel his smile against my neck and he squeezes just that little bit harder.
“Same thing you did to me, I guess.” He says. “Cunt.”
I kiss him then. Slowly, indolently heading for where we both want to be. Tasting what I’ve missed all these months, the curve of his teeth, the slick heat of his tongue as it dances against mine. Feeling the leisurely pull of arousal in my groin, his hands curling up, clutching at my shirt and his hips rocking, sliding backward and forward in a tango of promises.
This turned out to be more of a challenge than I ever expected and it came from within, not outside. I ended up challenging myself. This tired old heart has been kick-started and, who knows, maybe one day I can say the words.
Fin.
Note: I deliberately tried to write this entire story without once using the word ‘love’. In my experience, men don’t say it unless they have to, or if you have a ruthless grip on their balls when you demand they declare themselves, so I wanted to see if I could do it.
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Date: 2004-02-08 02:02 pm (UTC)Awww...jeez I loved that line...you can see so much of this scene based on just that line.
So glad Sean got his happy ending here! :)
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Date: 2004-02-08 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-08 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-08 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-08 08:12 pm (UTC)