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fellowshippers2004-11-30 12:32 pm
sileya.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-11-30 12:32 pm
Bittersweet Symphony (5/17)
Yep - you read it right. 5 of 17. I finished the sucker last night, so no worries :) Many, many, many, many thanks to all the incredible feedback. It's made this worth it.
Title: Bittersweet Symphony (5/17)
Author: Sileya, sileya@yahoo.com, www.sileya.net,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sileya at LiveJournal
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating, Warnings: overall NC-17, AU
Summary: Viggo watches a plane crash and helps the survivors – one of whom will change the direction of his life.
Disclaimer: This is a work of celebrity fan FICTION. I make no claims as to the veracity of this material, it is for entertainment purposes only.
Author’s Note: Beta by the graciousrazzleslash. This plotline is very loosely based on a rather obscure 1980s movie. I’ll reveal the movie after the last chapter, cause I don’t want to risk giving major plot points away.
Feedback: PLEASE.
Previous Chapters
==
==
Viggo woke slowly, wincing when his first movements reminded him of his aching muscles. He laid an arm over his eyes, mind stuck in sleep like cotton candy. He groaned as memories came flooding back.
He hurt because Christine was divorcing him.
He hurt because he could lose Minas Tirith and the stables.
He hurt because Brego had thrown him.
He hurt because he’d hallucinated helping a very handsome young man get out of the woods and driving him to the hospital, only to see said young man’s dead body laid out on a table.
He hurt because he’d passed out cold from the shock and hit the linoleum floor hard.
He hurt because he’d slept three days straight.
Viggo groaned. He was so messed up.
He dragged himself out of bed, wandering across the hall to his office, where he found some ibuprofen and chased it with whiskey. Upon reflection, a second glass seemed like a fine idea.
Viggo snagged the decanter and carried it with him over to the leather lounge, sprawling over it. I think it would be just lovely to get good and drunk, Viggo decided. Lord knows I deserve it. He chuckled a little oddly.
He shifted on the couch, frowning at the crumpling noises. He reached down and pulled the paperwork from the hospital out from under his ass. He groaned again. After passing out, he’d been treated in the emergency room for a minor concussion, including a CAT scan.
He tossed the papers to the floor, noticing an envelope that fell apart from the other pieces. He leaned over to snag it, seeing his name handwritten on the front. Frowning, he pried open the seal and opened the crinkling paper inside.
*~*
Dear Mr. Mortensen,
I wish you had been awake when I had to leave, but I had to fly to the London hospital.
I hope this letter finds you awake and healed soon.
You deserve all the thanks I can give you. Please come and see me when you can, the address is below.
I want to thank you in person.
Sincerely,
Sean Bean
*~*
Viggo raised his eyebrows. Sean Bean, Orlando’s friend. He shook his head, muttering aloud. “There isn’t an Orlando.”
“There most certainly is.”
Viggo’s head shot up and his eyes bulged at the slim, dark-haired man who leaned against the door jamb. “What the hell?” Viggo scrambled up off the couch, looking around wildly for … he had no idea what. He calmed a bit when Orlando didn’t make any sudden moves.
Orlando frowned as Viggo almost freaked out, then admitted he wasn’t sure he’d react much better if he were talking to a ghost. He shivered. Yes. A ghost. His eyes flicked back to Viggo, who had moved behind the couch and was watching him warily, albeit unsteadily.
“You all right?” Orlando asked. “You look a bit wobbly.”
“All right?” Viggo exclaimed. “I’m hallucinating, and you ask if I’m all right?”
“You’re not hallucinating.”
“But you’re DEAD.”
“Well, yes.”
Viggo had no reply, so he just stood with his mouth gaping. He glanced down and saw the open decanter. “I need another drink.”
Orlando watched Viggo settle back on the couch, pouring the whiskey into his glass. “Looks like you’ve had a few already.”
Viggo turned a glare on him and Orlando raised both hands to ward it off.
Viggo watched Orlando over the rim of his glass. A question occurred to him. “Where have you been?”
Orlando looked away from the bookshelf. “With my family, mostly. They’re not taking it well. I went to my funeral.” The young man wrapped his arms about himself.
Viggo froze again. “You went to your own funeral?”
Orlando shrugged and nodded.
Viggo blinked. “Was it nice?”
Orlando shrugged again. “As funerals are, I guess. Just, very odd to hear people talking about me.”
“So how did you get here?”
Orlando walked into the room slowly, looking around. “I just thought of you, and I was here. This is where you brought me that night.”
Viggo nodded and filled up his glass again. If I’m going to hallucinate, Viggo told himself, I’m going to hallucinate in style.
“I’m really here, you know.”
Viggo looked up at Orlando, narrowing his eyes. “Right.”
Orlando sat across from him with a frustrated groan. “You’re drunk.”
Viggo grinned and looked at his glass. “Yep. And well on my way to getting pissed.”
After a short pause, Orlando asked quietly, “What for?”
Viggo looked at him, his eyes glazing. “Well, let’s see. I witnessed a plane crash, fell off my horse, got a concussion and saw a dead man walking. An idiot in my office blew in five minutes a big overseas deal I’d worked on for almost a year. My wife is divorcing me and taking my money, my assets, my son and my home away from me. She’s even claiming a percentage of my not insignificant business profits.” Viggo waved the glass around in the air, not caring as whiskey slopped over the sides. “She’ll wrest my home away from me and sell off the breeding stock for a pittance, because she knows it will kill me. Then she’ll rape the house of anything of value and donate the manor to the Crown so it will sit empty and rot.” He looked into the glass, stopping as his voice started cracking.
Orlando looked at him sadly, leaning his elbows on his knees. He shook his head, the brown curls bobbing. “That’s shitty, man.”
Viggo nodded.
“I got you one better.”
Viggo looked up, incredulous.
Orlando held his arms out. “Hello! Dead here!”
Viggo blinked, then blew a raspberry in dismissal.
Orlando fell back into the chair with a groan. “Christ.”
Viggo poured himself some more whiskey, then, in a peace gesture, offered the decanter to Orlando.
Orlando shook his head. “Look, you’re the only one who can see me. I don’t know why. So you’re the only one who can help me.”
“Help you?” Viggo snorted. “I can’t help myself.”
Orlando studied the man who sat dejectedly in front of him. Solid figure, stylishly cut sandy hair, dead eyes. That bothered him. He pondered this situation for several minutes while Viggo continued on his quest to demolish the bottle of whiskey. Finally, a thought crystalized, and Orlando spoke.
“That’s probably why I’m here.”
Title: Bittersweet Symphony (5/17)
Author: Sileya, sileya@yahoo.com, www.sileya.net,
sileya at LiveJournalPairing: VM/OB
Rating, Warnings: overall NC-17, AU
Summary: Viggo watches a plane crash and helps the survivors – one of whom will change the direction of his life.
Disclaimer: This is a work of celebrity fan FICTION. I make no claims as to the veracity of this material, it is for entertainment purposes only.
Author’s Note: Beta by the gracious
razzleslash. This plotline is very loosely based on a rather obscure 1980s movie. I’ll reveal the movie after the last chapter, cause I don’t want to risk giving major plot points away.Feedback: PLEASE.
Previous Chapters
==
==
Viggo woke slowly, wincing when his first movements reminded him of his aching muscles. He laid an arm over his eyes, mind stuck in sleep like cotton candy. He groaned as memories came flooding back.
He hurt because Christine was divorcing him.
He hurt because he could lose Minas Tirith and the stables.
He hurt because Brego had thrown him.
He hurt because he’d hallucinated helping a very handsome young man get out of the woods and driving him to the hospital, only to see said young man’s dead body laid out on a table.
He hurt because he’d passed out cold from the shock and hit the linoleum floor hard.
He hurt because he’d slept three days straight.
Viggo groaned. He was so messed up.
He dragged himself out of bed, wandering across the hall to his office, where he found some ibuprofen and chased it with whiskey. Upon reflection, a second glass seemed like a fine idea.
Viggo snagged the decanter and carried it with him over to the leather lounge, sprawling over it. I think it would be just lovely to get good and drunk, Viggo decided. Lord knows I deserve it. He chuckled a little oddly.
He shifted on the couch, frowning at the crumpling noises. He reached down and pulled the paperwork from the hospital out from under his ass. He groaned again. After passing out, he’d been treated in the emergency room for a minor concussion, including a CAT scan.
He tossed the papers to the floor, noticing an envelope that fell apart from the other pieces. He leaned over to snag it, seeing his name handwritten on the front. Frowning, he pried open the seal and opened the crinkling paper inside.
*~*
Dear Mr. Mortensen,
I wish you had been awake when I had to leave, but I had to fly to the London hospital.
I hope this letter finds you awake and healed soon.
You deserve all the thanks I can give you. Please come and see me when you can, the address is below.
I want to thank you in person.
Sincerely,
Sean Bean
*~*
Viggo raised his eyebrows. Sean Bean, Orlando’s friend. He shook his head, muttering aloud. “There isn’t an Orlando.”
“There most certainly is.”
Viggo’s head shot up and his eyes bulged at the slim, dark-haired man who leaned against the door jamb. “What the hell?” Viggo scrambled up off the couch, looking around wildly for … he had no idea what. He calmed a bit when Orlando didn’t make any sudden moves.
Orlando frowned as Viggo almost freaked out, then admitted he wasn’t sure he’d react much better if he were talking to a ghost. He shivered. Yes. A ghost. His eyes flicked back to Viggo, who had moved behind the couch and was watching him warily, albeit unsteadily.
“You all right?” Orlando asked. “You look a bit wobbly.”
“All right?” Viggo exclaimed. “I’m hallucinating, and you ask if I’m all right?”
“You’re not hallucinating.”
“But you’re DEAD.”
“Well, yes.”
Viggo had no reply, so he just stood with his mouth gaping. He glanced down and saw the open decanter. “I need another drink.”
Orlando watched Viggo settle back on the couch, pouring the whiskey into his glass. “Looks like you’ve had a few already.”
Viggo turned a glare on him and Orlando raised both hands to ward it off.
Viggo watched Orlando over the rim of his glass. A question occurred to him. “Where have you been?”
Orlando looked away from the bookshelf. “With my family, mostly. They’re not taking it well. I went to my funeral.” The young man wrapped his arms about himself.
Viggo froze again. “You went to your own funeral?”
Orlando shrugged and nodded.
Viggo blinked. “Was it nice?”
Orlando shrugged again. “As funerals are, I guess. Just, very odd to hear people talking about me.”
“So how did you get here?”
Orlando walked into the room slowly, looking around. “I just thought of you, and I was here. This is where you brought me that night.”
Viggo nodded and filled up his glass again. If I’m going to hallucinate, Viggo told himself, I’m going to hallucinate in style.
“I’m really here, you know.”
Viggo looked up at Orlando, narrowing his eyes. “Right.”
Orlando sat across from him with a frustrated groan. “You’re drunk.”
Viggo grinned and looked at his glass. “Yep. And well on my way to getting pissed.”
After a short pause, Orlando asked quietly, “What for?”
Viggo looked at him, his eyes glazing. “Well, let’s see. I witnessed a plane crash, fell off my horse, got a concussion and saw a dead man walking. An idiot in my office blew in five minutes a big overseas deal I’d worked on for almost a year. My wife is divorcing me and taking my money, my assets, my son and my home away from me. She’s even claiming a percentage of my not insignificant business profits.” Viggo waved the glass around in the air, not caring as whiskey slopped over the sides. “She’ll wrest my home away from me and sell off the breeding stock for a pittance, because she knows it will kill me. Then she’ll rape the house of anything of value and donate the manor to the Crown so it will sit empty and rot.” He looked into the glass, stopping as his voice started cracking.
Orlando looked at him sadly, leaning his elbows on his knees. He shook his head, the brown curls bobbing. “That’s shitty, man.”
Viggo nodded.
“I got you one better.”
Viggo looked up, incredulous.
Orlando held his arms out. “Hello! Dead here!”
Viggo blinked, then blew a raspberry in dismissal.
Orlando fell back into the chair with a groan. “Christ.”
Viggo poured himself some more whiskey, then, in a peace gesture, offered the decanter to Orlando.
Orlando shook his head. “Look, you’re the only one who can see me. I don’t know why. So you’re the only one who can help me.”
“Help you?” Viggo snorted. “I can’t help myself.”
Orlando studied the man who sat dejectedly in front of him. Solid figure, stylishly cut sandy hair, dead eyes. That bothered him. He pondered this situation for several minutes while Viggo continued on his quest to demolish the bottle of whiskey. Finally, a thought crystalized, and Orlando spoke.
“That’s probably why I’m here.”
no subject
Yeah, I think he pretty much wins. Definitely.
Stragne thought, I've always wanted to be able to go to my own funeral. Just to see who would come and what they would say. Guess that's not gonna happen though. Oh well.
Anyhow, off to read the next chapter. Loved this one!
no subject