posting frenzy! ok...not really
Feb. 28th, 2005 12:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archetThis fic has been languishing in my pending folder for a long, long time, and seeing as I am in the midst of a posting frenzy...well ok, three posts in three days isn't a frenzy for most but for me lately, yeah, it is. *g* The reason this got written is a bit convoluted, and not nearly interesting enough to go into. It's schmoopy and boring needs a sequel, though one has yet to materialize but I'm posting anyway. Better that than sitting in my 'current' folder that already has way too many unfinished Viggo/Sean smutfests ideas. And so after that fabulous build up....
Title: Good Luck Charm
Rating: PG
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Summary: You’re watching the rushes from the previous day and wondering where you’ve left your camera when Orlando skids to a stop by your side with word that Sean will not be appearing on set. Their Boromir isn’t feeling well.
Disclaimer: This is fiction (and schmoopy fiction at that) and is in no way meant to imply anything regarding the real lives of the men of who are the inspirations for these characters.
Feedback: is welcomed and appreciated
~*~
You’re watching the morning rushes and wondering where you’ve left your camera when Orlando skids to a stop by your side, sloshing diet Pepsi from the can in his hand. You glare at him as soda dribbles onto Aragorn’s sword and you’re reaching for the blade as Orlando offers profuse, rambling apologies and dares to dab at the sword metal with the sleeve of Legolas’ costume. You decide not to maim him when, along with the rather amusing apology, he mentions that Sean will not be appearing on set. Their Boromir isn’t feeling well, he says.
The news surprises you as aside from a bit of tiredness Sean had seemed fine the day before. Orlando apparently decides that your silence is a stay of execution and heads off with his diet Pepsi and damp sleeve. You watch him go and you think that he’s in for a reaming if costuming discovers he’s been mopping up spilled soda with Legolas’ very expensive sleeve, you wonder if you should ask if he knows what’s ailing Sean. You open your mouth to call Orlando back, but you don’t call out. Instead, you turn back to the rushes and pretend to watch.
On and off all day, in-between your scenes and during makeup sessions, you wonder about Sean and how he’s feeling. You consider questioning someone, but you don’t, and finally the cast and crew are excused for a late lunch. Standing in the catering tent you consider skipping the meal and heading to Sean’s trailer. Instead, you fill your plate with mixed fruit and a helping of pasta salad, sit one seat removed from the hobbit- elf riot with your sheathed sword balanced on the chair between you as a tangible warning not to send any projectiles made of meatloaf your way.
You pick up your fork and spearing a chunk of cantaloupe begin your meal but are distracted when Peter enters the tent in his oversized t-shirt, shorts and sandals, apologizes for the interruption and makes everyone present happy by announcing that the day’s filming is concluded until morning. Your plans for the pasta salad suddenly seem expendable.
Balancing your plate in one hand, Aragorn’s sword in the other, you head out of the tent, dropping your food laden plate in the trash bin near the exit with the tiniest twinge of guilt. You’re on your way to makeup when Peter intercepts you, informing you that your scenes for tomorrow have been rescheduled. You talk with him a moment, listen with half an ear about the latest problems he’s run into and the reason for the delays but your mind is already in makeup ridding yourself of Aragorn, or at least as much as you’re able to part with. You smile as Peter winds up and you wish him good luck and hope that the man gets at least a wink of sleep somewhere in his insane schedule.
Less than an hour later makeup is behind you; Sean’s trailer is just ahead. Quietly you let yourself in and stare at the darkened interior that is empty of one ailing Bean. You frown, realizing that though the word was that Sean was staying close to the set in case he felt better, he must’ve decided to pack it in and head back to his rented house. You wish now that you’d asked someone about him all those hours ago.
Another half-hour passes before you pull onto to the gravel drive beside the two story blue shuttered house Sean is staying in during filming. Barely out of the car, you’re already digging in your jeans pocket for the key that you carry everywhere but the shower. You’ve told yourself it’s a good luck charm of sorts as it was given to you in the spirit of a newly formed friendship, though Orlando has given you a spare key too and it graces the bottom of your kitchen catch-all drawer, not your pocket. You don’t even carry a spare key to your own house, but in your mind it makes sense that you carry Sean’s around.
Unlocking the front door you enter the quiet house and pause long enough to close and relock it before treading lightly up the carpeted stairs and down the hall, and for the first time all day you have Sean within eyesight. You suddenly realize that this is the first time in days you’ve gone without seeing him for more than twelve hours at a time. He’s sleeping and completely unaware of you standing in his bedroom doorway in the middle of the afternoon. The key he’d given you two weeks ago suddenly feels foreign and odd in your sweaty palm and you feel foolish, embarrassed even, though Sean isn’t awake to see it.
You pocket the key and think you’ll just stand and watch a minute and then leave, but you don’t. Instead, after less than a minute of standing and watching you cross to the bed where Sean lies beneath rumpled sheets and a plush gray comforter. All you can actually see of him is the tip of his nose to the top of his blond, tousled head. The rest of his long body is a vague shape hidden away beneath the warm wrap of bedding that he’s pulled all the way up over his chin. The gauzy drapes drawn over the western facing windows opposite the bed do little to shut out the declining afternoon sun, they glow bright and yellow with sunlight. The glow leaves the shadows of the bedroom bare and muted, and you can see well without help from either the brass lamp on the night table or the overhead light.
You ease yourself down onto the bed, and leaning over Sean’s shoulder, press the back of your hand against his forehead. You think that he feels a tad feverish as your eye wanders to the plastic cough syrup bottle on the nightstand an arm’s length away, half filled with cherry red liquid. A red lettered plastic bag rests next to it, split down its middle, spilling lozenges wrapped in plain white wrappers across the varnished wood grain swirls of the night table. You note that the bag is half empty and that there are two crumpled wrappers, empty now, lying next to Sean’s pillow.
A glass of water sits precariously near the edge of the table along with a silver card with three rows of clear plastic blisters, each holding a little white pill, except for two which are empty. Your impulse is to nudge the water glass back a bit but that would mean leaning right over Sean and perhaps disturbing him, and at the moment you’re unsure of how you might handle an awake and moderately alert Bean.
Wadded up kleenex dot the bedspread like dandelions, leading to the opposite edge of the bed, and you suspect there is a trash can over there somewhere.
Tense, you toe off your worn boots and swing your legs onto the bed, silently cursing every minute roll and dip of the mattress as you stretch out next to Sean. You tell yourself you’re doing this because you’re a concerned friend yet, you’re not sure what lying down with him has to do with being a concerned friend except that it just seems like the thing to do, just being near him. It doesn’t seem right that he’s alone and not feeling well.
It also means that this is all about something more than bare bones attraction, but you chose not to dwell on that thought.
You look down at Sean where he’s lying a bit curled in on himself, blanket pulled in snug around his neck and shoulders. In your daydreams he’s a sprawler in sleep, and you wish you knew if he’s this way because he’s not feeling well, or if this is simply the way his sleeps, all balled up in a nest of blankets. You allow yourself to wonder at your chances of finding out.
You ghost your fingertips across his hair, damp from a breaking fever, and shiver. You aren’t cold. You touch his hair again, just barely, just to feel the blush of whisper fine hair against your fingertips. You do it again…and again. You are suddenly struck with a pang of longing so sharp it actually steals your breath. A few moments later when you remember to breath the pang is still there, but manageable.
Without warning Sean twitches and you freeze, acutely aware that you aren’t supposed to be in Sean’s bed, at least uninvited, but it feels right to you and you can’t imagine being anywhere else at this particular moment. Hampered a bit by the thick swath of bedding Sean turns toward you. Without waking he’s trying to get resettled and without meaning to you reach out and help his sleep slow fingers tug the comforter back in place, right up to the tip of his nose.
You smile and are glad you came. Sean’s not feeling well, and you wonder what he’d do if he woke and found you there. Would he smile, swear, laugh? Would he shrug and chalk it up to your Viggo-ness, as
he does the rugbytackles? Would he simply go back to sleep and allow you to watch over him? Would he figure out that you want to make love to him in the worst way?
You think you’d like to know. You think that you’d like to know if all those fleeting touches and seemingly invitational smiles he’s given you over drinks at the pub are real, or just the fiction of wishful thinking. You think that you’d love to know, but for now he’s sleeping and you’re content to just be beside him. You’re not needed on the set until late tomorrow. You actually have time to work out whether to stay or to go, to decide how brave you are today. You slip your fingers inside your pocket and fish out your good luck charm. Holding it in your palm you listen to the soft, regular sound of Sean’s breathing and begin to relax. He sleeps on; you rest beside him and wonder what you’ll decide.
Title: Good Luck Charm
Rating: PG
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Summary: You’re watching the rushes from the previous day and wondering where you’ve left your camera when Orlando skids to a stop by your side with word that Sean will not be appearing on set. Their Boromir isn’t feeling well.
Disclaimer: This is fiction (and schmoopy fiction at that) and is in no way meant to imply anything regarding the real lives of the men of who are the inspirations for these characters.
Feedback: is welcomed and appreciated
~*~
You’re watching the morning rushes and wondering where you’ve left your camera when Orlando skids to a stop by your side, sloshing diet Pepsi from the can in his hand. You glare at him as soda dribbles onto Aragorn’s sword and you’re reaching for the blade as Orlando offers profuse, rambling apologies and dares to dab at the sword metal with the sleeve of Legolas’ costume. You decide not to maim him when, along with the rather amusing apology, he mentions that Sean will not be appearing on set. Their Boromir isn’t feeling well, he says.
The news surprises you as aside from a bit of tiredness Sean had seemed fine the day before. Orlando apparently decides that your silence is a stay of execution and heads off with his diet Pepsi and damp sleeve. You watch him go and you think that he’s in for a reaming if costuming discovers he’s been mopping up spilled soda with Legolas’ very expensive sleeve, you wonder if you should ask if he knows what’s ailing Sean. You open your mouth to call Orlando back, but you don’t call out. Instead, you turn back to the rushes and pretend to watch.
On and off all day, in-between your scenes and during makeup sessions, you wonder about Sean and how he’s feeling. You consider questioning someone, but you don’t, and finally the cast and crew are excused for a late lunch. Standing in the catering tent you consider skipping the meal and heading to Sean’s trailer. Instead, you fill your plate with mixed fruit and a helping of pasta salad, sit one seat removed from the hobbit- elf riot with your sheathed sword balanced on the chair between you as a tangible warning not to send any projectiles made of meatloaf your way.
You pick up your fork and spearing a chunk of cantaloupe begin your meal but are distracted when Peter enters the tent in his oversized t-shirt, shorts and sandals, apologizes for the interruption and makes everyone present happy by announcing that the day’s filming is concluded until morning. Your plans for the pasta salad suddenly seem expendable.
Balancing your plate in one hand, Aragorn’s sword in the other, you head out of the tent, dropping your food laden plate in the trash bin near the exit with the tiniest twinge of guilt. You’re on your way to makeup when Peter intercepts you, informing you that your scenes for tomorrow have been rescheduled. You talk with him a moment, listen with half an ear about the latest problems he’s run into and the reason for the delays but your mind is already in makeup ridding yourself of Aragorn, or at least as much as you’re able to part with. You smile as Peter winds up and you wish him good luck and hope that the man gets at least a wink of sleep somewhere in his insane schedule.
Less than an hour later makeup is behind you; Sean’s trailer is just ahead. Quietly you let yourself in and stare at the darkened interior that is empty of one ailing Bean. You frown, realizing that though the word was that Sean was staying close to the set in case he felt better, he must’ve decided to pack it in and head back to his rented house. You wish now that you’d asked someone about him all those hours ago.
Another half-hour passes before you pull onto to the gravel drive beside the two story blue shuttered house Sean is staying in during filming. Barely out of the car, you’re already digging in your jeans pocket for the key that you carry everywhere but the shower. You’ve told yourself it’s a good luck charm of sorts as it was given to you in the spirit of a newly formed friendship, though Orlando has given you a spare key too and it graces the bottom of your kitchen catch-all drawer, not your pocket. You don’t even carry a spare key to your own house, but in your mind it makes sense that you carry Sean’s around.
Unlocking the front door you enter the quiet house and pause long enough to close and relock it before treading lightly up the carpeted stairs and down the hall, and for the first time all day you have Sean within eyesight. You suddenly realize that this is the first time in days you’ve gone without seeing him for more than twelve hours at a time. He’s sleeping and completely unaware of you standing in his bedroom doorway in the middle of the afternoon. The key he’d given you two weeks ago suddenly feels foreign and odd in your sweaty palm and you feel foolish, embarrassed even, though Sean isn’t awake to see it.
You pocket the key and think you’ll just stand and watch a minute and then leave, but you don’t. Instead, after less than a minute of standing and watching you cross to the bed where Sean lies beneath rumpled sheets and a plush gray comforter. All you can actually see of him is the tip of his nose to the top of his blond, tousled head. The rest of his long body is a vague shape hidden away beneath the warm wrap of bedding that he’s pulled all the way up over his chin. The gauzy drapes drawn over the western facing windows opposite the bed do little to shut out the declining afternoon sun, they glow bright and yellow with sunlight. The glow leaves the shadows of the bedroom bare and muted, and you can see well without help from either the brass lamp on the night table or the overhead light.
You ease yourself down onto the bed, and leaning over Sean’s shoulder, press the back of your hand against his forehead. You think that he feels a tad feverish as your eye wanders to the plastic cough syrup bottle on the nightstand an arm’s length away, half filled with cherry red liquid. A red lettered plastic bag rests next to it, split down its middle, spilling lozenges wrapped in plain white wrappers across the varnished wood grain swirls of the night table. You note that the bag is half empty and that there are two crumpled wrappers, empty now, lying next to Sean’s pillow.
A glass of water sits precariously near the edge of the table along with a silver card with three rows of clear plastic blisters, each holding a little white pill, except for two which are empty. Your impulse is to nudge the water glass back a bit but that would mean leaning right over Sean and perhaps disturbing him, and at the moment you’re unsure of how you might handle an awake and moderately alert Bean.
Wadded up kleenex dot the bedspread like dandelions, leading to the opposite edge of the bed, and you suspect there is a trash can over there somewhere.
Tense, you toe off your worn boots and swing your legs onto the bed, silently cursing every minute roll and dip of the mattress as you stretch out next to Sean. You tell yourself you’re doing this because you’re a concerned friend yet, you’re not sure what lying down with him has to do with being a concerned friend except that it just seems like the thing to do, just being near him. It doesn’t seem right that he’s alone and not feeling well.
It also means that this is all about something more than bare bones attraction, but you chose not to dwell on that thought.
You look down at Sean where he’s lying a bit curled in on himself, blanket pulled in snug around his neck and shoulders. In your daydreams he’s a sprawler in sleep, and you wish you knew if he’s this way because he’s not feeling well, or if this is simply the way his sleeps, all balled up in a nest of blankets. You allow yourself to wonder at your chances of finding out.
You ghost your fingertips across his hair, damp from a breaking fever, and shiver. You aren’t cold. You touch his hair again, just barely, just to feel the blush of whisper fine hair against your fingertips. You do it again…and again. You are suddenly struck with a pang of longing so sharp it actually steals your breath. A few moments later when you remember to breath the pang is still there, but manageable.
Without warning Sean twitches and you freeze, acutely aware that you aren’t supposed to be in Sean’s bed, at least uninvited, but it feels right to you and you can’t imagine being anywhere else at this particular moment. Hampered a bit by the thick swath of bedding Sean turns toward you. Without waking he’s trying to get resettled and without meaning to you reach out and help his sleep slow fingers tug the comforter back in place, right up to the tip of his nose.
You smile and are glad you came. Sean’s not feeling well, and you wonder what he’d do if he woke and found you there. Would he smile, swear, laugh? Would he shrug and chalk it up to your Viggo-ness, as
he does the rugbytackles? Would he simply go back to sleep and allow you to watch over him? Would he figure out that you want to make love to him in the worst way?
You think you’d like to know. You think that you’d like to know if all those fleeting touches and seemingly invitational smiles he’s given you over drinks at the pub are real, or just the fiction of wishful thinking. You think that you’d love to know, but for now he’s sleeping and you’re content to just be beside him. You’re not needed on the set until late tomorrow. You actually have time to work out whether to stay or to go, to decide how brave you are today. You slip your fingers inside your pocket and fish out your good luck charm. Holding it in your palm you listen to the soft, regular sound of Sean’s breathing and begin to relax. He sleeps on; you rest beside him and wonder what you’ll decide.
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no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 07:31 am (UTC)I LOVED that line for some reason. Just seemed to cut right to the core with it.
Overall, I really liked this. Second person fics are something that are rare and at least 80% of the time tend to give me an uneasy feeling when I read them, but this was one of the ones that just WORKED. Wonderful, wonderful job.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:36 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked it, and I think you're right, it does seem to sum things up, ;)
Overall, I really liked this. Second person fics are something that are rare and at least 80% of the time tend to give me an uneasy feeling when I read them, but this was one of the ones that just WORKED. Wonderful, wonderful job.
Thanks so much! I'm happy that you enjoyed this, there's no rhyme or reason why this had to be second person, Viggo just wanted it that way, I'm glad it worked for you...I think I'd like to try it again sometime. Thanks for reading, ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 07:38 am (UTC)The sequel could be Seanie waking up to find Viggo there, both loving and so cute, and then Bam!Viggo comes down with what Sean has and now Sean has to take care of him...Then they become boyfriends and live happily ever after!!!
Anyway, somesuch thing. **grin**
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 07:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 08:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 08:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 08:30 am (UTC)P.S. I like your "The Theband Band icon." ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 06:40 pm (UTC)I was looking for an actual photo of Viggo and Sean not in costume but I don't think such a think exists :(
Hope you feel better after your sleep :)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 11:51 pm (UTC)nakedin reg. clothes together! No, your're gonna have to splice them like the rest if us. On my LJ user page is the link for Son of Spy freeware, you can download a graphics program for icons if you need one. `;-b~no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:38 am (UTC)Sweet idea! I may have to take it into consideration. ;) Thanks for reading, I'm glad you liked!
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 07:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 08:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 09:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:46 am (UTC)Part of me wants more (of course..lol) and part of me doesn't
You know, I feel the same way! *g* Thanks for reading, ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 02:48 pm (UTC)You are suddenly struck with a pang of longing so sharp it actually steals your breath.
The story stole my breath away as well. I'll join those who hope you write a follow-up to this.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:52 am (UTC)I have always had a hot button for h/c fics...odd that I haven't written many, but I'm sure that there's at least one other viggo-looks-after-sean-while-he's-sick fic in my pending folder...maybe more than one....I think I tend to write in themes..*g*
The story stole my breath away as well. I'll join those who hope you write a follow-up to this.
I'm so glad you liked this. I'm still on the fence as to whether there'll be a sequel. I guess it's up to Vig, ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 02:50 pm (UTC)I'm with
~Kris
no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:55 am (UTC)part of me wants mre, but most of me is happy and content. *grin*
oh, you're easy to then, *g* Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 09:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 04:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-01 12:29 pm (UTC)So nice. I love all the little clues and details about Sean's illness as well: the trail of kleenex, the blister pack, the precarious glass of water.
Not boring in the least! Just quiet and peaceful and it made me happy.
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2005-03-02 05:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-02 10:12 pm (UTC)Again; great work! *blows kisses*
no subject
Date: 2005-03-03 05:18 am (UTC)Thanks for reading! *hugs*
no subject
Date: 2005-03-03 08:29 am (UTC)Welcome and I look forth to the sequel! *hugs and kisses*
no subject
Date: 2005-03-04 04:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-07 06:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-24 12:35 am (UTC)