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fellowshippers2005-06-19 11:28 am
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-06-19 11:28 am
BDL 8: Broken Charms
I won’t faff about with my usual twaddle, because you kind and generous souls have waited long enough for this story. Thank you for your patience!
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Eight – Broken Charms
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is PG13
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
WHAT IS IT?: RPS / AU
Sequel to ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
WHO’S IN IT?: Sean Bean, Orlando Bloom,
Johnny Depp, Viggo Mortensen and other
actors from ‘The Lord of the Rings’, ‘Pirates
of the Caribbean’, ‘Hidalgo’ and others
FEEDBACK: remember the golden rule, (please!)
ARCHIVE: I’d be honored, just tell me where
PAST CHAPTERS: ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
can be found on my website, Chimerafic.com
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history
NOTE 2: Story takes place in early 2002
NOTE 3: I do not recommend that you fool around
with US Customs. They really do NOT have
a sense of humor. Trust me on this one...
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Eight: Broken Charms
Sean
Clearing the last few little bits and bobs off his makeup table, Sean rocked back in his seat and looked around the rather tatty dressing room. How many other actors had sat in this same spot, doing the exact same thing? How many had left the Albery at the end of a successful run, striding down St. Martin’s Lane with a light heart, renewed hopes and revitalized careers, perhaps going on to an even greater triumph on a different West End stage? How many had slunk away with crushed ideals and bitter memories of plays that could have been, parts that were wasted, and aching bitterness toward other actors and indifferent crowds?
All said, Sean Bean had gotten off pretty damn easy. The Scottish Play had run for months, and the reviewers had been mostly kind. The tickets had gone every night and for nearly every seat. He was proud of the production, and proud of himself. Not half bad for a rough lad from Sheffield.
He stared at the photos and tokens tucked into the frame of the worn old mirror, where no doubt at least a few thousand other photos had been tucked before. Molly and Lorna grinned out at their daddy, gap-toothed and coltish, mischief lurking behind those innocent eyes. A picture of Sir Ian McKellen in drag, as his alter ego Serena, autographed with the comment ‘From one old Queen to a young King, break a leg!’ There was a picture of something that sort of looked like a tree dipped in acid, with scratches on the negative and one corner so over-exposed that it blurred to a sickly white. This one was signed, ‘Kia Ora, make me proud, Steward. I love you, Viggo.’ There was a train ticket from Paddington to Sheffield, stapled next to a five pound note on a sheet of paper on which was written ‘In case you need to make a quick get-away home! Have a beer on the train. Love, Dom and ‘Lijah.’
Also tucked into the edge of the mirror was a card that had come with a huge bouquet of flowers. It held a wonderful encouragement from Billy Boyd, written in tiny, precise letters, and ending with the thought ‘you’ll always know that you could have taken the easy road, but you didn’t.’ There was a label peeled from the really excellent bottle of champagne John Rhys-Davies had sent from the Isle, next to the label off a bottle of single-malt scotch that Peter and Fran Jackson had delivered in person. They’d been in London to work on ‘The Return of the King,’ and after the show Fran had asked Sean to come back to New Zealand for a new insert scene. He’d agreed, even though he knew what the flights would mean. His agent had called the next day to say that open-ended plane tickets were waiting for him to book.
Many other actors and sundry show business friends had sent congratulations, as well as personal friends from up north and here in London. A couple of particularly sweet fan letters had been included, mostly to remind him who actually bought the tickets. He knew that each night the house was probably full of ‘Lord of the Rings’ fans, but there were others there as well. He didn’t try to fool himself that he had a full career ahead of Shakespearean roles, but he knew that he’d held his own. He’d done it his way, and he hadn’t fallen flat on his ass. Sean carefully removed each of these varied tokens, tucking them into a leather book made from the production script. Everyone on the cast and crew had signed the book, scribbling notes and remembrances in the margins and on blank pages.
When he’d almost finished there was one small note left. It had come in an envelope from Orlando’s agent in Los Angeles. It was a sheet of stationery from a posh hotel, covered with scribbled writing. Orlando was sending his best wishes and apologizing that he couldn’t make it in person. It read like he’d been copying dictation. He probably had. It was signed ‘Lots of love, Orlando’. But his dyslexia had tripped him up, and he’d actually written ‘Lost of love.’
That note had made Sean cry. Tears welled in his eyes again as he pulled it loose from the ancient mirror and tucked in against the binding at the very back of his book.
Dominic
Rolling over, he squinted toward the clock, only to find himself looking at a blank wall. Bloody hell, someone had stolen his clock! Dom struggled to sit up, his head already pounding from what was going to be a pretty good hangover, and rubbed his crusty eyes to look around. Oh, no wonder the clock was gone...this wasn’t his apartment. He blinked at the tasteful hotel room, then down at his own lap, where a soft blanket was now wadded. A quick peek – pants in place, thankfully – and then he looked around for any of his luggage. Nothing. Not a single familiar object.
He shifted to the edge of the bed, and found that it was actually one of those sofa things, the kind that folded out. So this probably wasn’t his hotel room either. Dom’s brain grudgingly engaged like the worn-out transmission on a junker car, and he remembered Craig Parker’s warm laugh and supportive arm around his shoulders. Well, at least he knew who’d seen him home. Uh, to someone’s home. Yawning, Dom stretched and scratched like the lad he was, wondering which of the closed doors led to a toilet. Probably not the one with a peep hole in it, unless Craig’s taste in hotels had deteriorated significantly. Getting to unsteady feet, he headed for the most likely contender, hearing Craig’s voice softly droning behind the other. Must be on the phone.
Dom successfully located and utilized the facilities, congratulating himself on a job well-done, and then emerged to find Craig dressed and groomed, looking like a million pounds and talking to room service from the sitting room extension. “Omelet and sausages for you, Dommie?” Craig asked cheerfully.
“Toast,” Dom croaked, surprised at how rough he sounded.
“And toast, please, whole wheat,” Craig added. “Thank you.” He hung up and started making up the foldout bed.
“They’ve got maids who do that sorta thing,” Dom said dryly.
“And I tip them too. But I don’t think my agent meant for me to be entertaining guests, so we’ll just be discreet. I want you to get an eyeful of the concierge here. He’s sex on legs.”
“Most people’s sex is actually located at the juncture of their legs.”
“And then we can go by your apartment and get you dressed and cleaned up. You have a lunch appointment this afternoon.”
“Sex therapist? I’m pretty sure I’m still gay, though Angelina Jolie makes me feel all funny inside.”
“Casting agent.”
Dominic glared at his friend. “I hate you.”
“I know...I love you too. Oh, and Bernard sends his regards. I forgot to mention that last night. He said you can still serve at his command any time you’re up for it.”
“I’ll go grab a shower now.”
“Good idea.”
Orlando
Johnny had been a man of his word, taking care of getting him to the airstrip in time for their quick flight to Guadeloupe. From there they’d gotten on a small jet, which had stopped for fuel in Houston, and ultimately delivered the tired actors to Los Angeles just after 1am. Orlando had slept on the plane, still feeling sick and beyond exhausted. Johnny mentioned that he didn’t think getting drunk would be their best option after all, and Orlando knew he was thinking about those drugs he’d caught the actor with. It was true, you should never mix anti-depressants with alcohol, but it wasn’t like he’d been taking them very regularly lately. Besides, what difference would a few drinks make in the long run? It was just another way to dull the ache in Orlando’s head and heart.
He fell asleep before he could get his clothes off, collapsed across the spread on the king-sized hotel room bed. Aleen woke him the next morning, arriving at the suite with Robin and a couple of men from the studio. The girls were very disappointed at how thin he looked, and they supervised a breakfast that made him feel ill all over again. It was going to be another long day.
They filmed pickups on the LA soundstage where they’d built the interior of the Isla de Muerta treasure cave. The stage had developed something nasty in the water in the last few weeks, and it now stank something fierce. Orlando prided himself on not complaining about the appalling odor, but Johnny stood atop the cursed chest and pissed gloriously into the pooled water, announcing that perhaps that would encourage them to drain it and refill. The only one who told him off was the monkey’s trainer, who then went on to gripe about the grapes and the size of her trailer.
Geoffrey moved his chair over next to Orlando’s and held a private recitation on the benefits of actor’s equity and a full slate of opinions about aboriginal reconciliation issues. A package arrived in the studio mail containing Orli’s cell phone, which had been found under a seat on the Jadent. It came along with a Polaroid of someone’s naked ass, which Orli suspected was Gore’s. He smiled, thinking of Hobbits, and then went to see if anyone had a recharger that would fit it. In one of the alleys between soundstages Orlando came across a couple of golden retrievers who were starring in a movie about a dog that plays basketball, and their trainer let him play with them for a while.
He missed the lunch break, but Robin showed up with a tray from the restaurant and watched him eat it between takes as the afternoon slowly progressed. She made threats about getting him a doctor’s appointment before he returned to St. Vincent. Yeah, just what he needed, another doctor visit. He would have stuck a fork in his eye at the mere thought if he didn’t know that would mean yet more medical intervention.
They were doing about the tenth take on a complicated sword fight when one of the Pirate actors slashed a little low and caught Orlando’s inner arm with the tip of his blade. The blade wasn’t sharp, but had gotten some rough spots on it from repeated use, and it managed to rip through his costume and skin. Orlando conspired to hide the damage from his contrite fighting partner, so he bound it up roughly in the toilet and changed into a different shirt. He felt slightly dizzy again and very tired, but managed to perk up for the cameras take after take. Johnny was watching him closely, despite being the focus of these scenes. Keira arrived late in the day and they did a couple of shots that involved her too. She flirted outrageously with the LA crewmen and swanned around like a miniature diva. That behavior ended the moment her mother arrived on set again, and then Keira was the consummate professional.
“Share a car tonight, Orli?” Johnny asked as they were heading to the dressing room an hour later.
“Car?” Orlando was wondering how he would dispose of the once-bloody bandage under his shirtsleeve. The wound would be nearly healed with any luck.
“Party. Club. Required attendance,” Johnny explained cryptically.
“Oh, party, yeah.”
“Mind like a steel colander. You really need a vacation, Bloom. How about you and me fly to some tropical paradise? Tomorrow night all right?”
“Yeah, that sounds good. Can I just lie out on the sand?”
“You can if you’re dressed as Mister Turner, my cabin boy slash pirate-in-training slash bitch.”
“You wish. I’m nobody’s bitch.”
“Not yet. But remember, we signed for three movies.”
“You’re my bitch, baby!” called a feminine voice. Keira was already in the dressing room, pulling on her tee shirt, oblivious to the assistants and dressers fussing with her discarded gown.
“You, I don’t mind,” Orlando teased, looking for his street clothes, and hoping he could change in the toilet again.
Viggo
He squinted through the blowing sand, looking for any place of refuge. There, the honey wagon, the ever-present on-set toilet facilities. Viggo quickly clumped up the rickety stairs and ducked through one of the doors, closing it firmly on the swirling dust. Thin light filtered down through the opaque panels of the roof. He shut the toilet lid and sat down on it, unwrapping the cloth he’d had around his face. Static crackled in the air.
Viggo fumbled for a moment with the cell phone he’d borrowed from one of the producers. It was a global satellite phone, which he’d leaned meant that charges incurred on it would be astronomical if he should take to one of his rambling poetry sessions with some distant answering machine. Viggo had snorted at the accusation and assured the producer that he could afford a phone call. “Take it out of my per diem, if you want. I’m just eating sand today.” The producer had sheepishly remembered who the star of the movie was, and left him alone.
He dialed Orlando’s number one more time, listening as the mailbox came on immediately, informing him that it was full. Viggo then checked a little card he’d tucked in his pocket that morning, dialing a number in England. That one was picked up almost immediately. “Hullo, do I know you?” the actor answered.
“Beanie, it’s Viggo.”
“My Captain! My King! Hey, flake. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk about Orli.”
“The colt? He in trouble?”
Bean’s voice seemed to be holding a secret of his own. That might bear looking into. But first, Viggo had to voice his concerns about Lambda. “I’ve been hearing stuff from his set. And he’s not talking to me.”
“Me either. I thought maybe he was mad about something.”
“Orli-bear? Mad?”
“Yeah, you got a point. Maybe he’s just avoiding us geezers. He’s got Johnny Depp to pal around with now, you know.”
“Maybe. You have a minute to talk, Sean?”
“For you? Don’t even ask. You have all the minutes of my day, flake....”
Mickey
It was with a sense of unreality that Kostmayer shuffled through the glacially slow line at the US Immigration desk of Miami’s International airport. He had his forms and passport in hand, eager to keep moving, but the Virgin Atlantic 747 that had landed moments before his had utterly clogged the system with people eager to get to beaches and theme parks. Cranky children cried and ran amuck in the stifling room and everyone was tired and grouchy. Mickey amused himself by checking out the breasts on the trophy wives, categorizing them as real, fake, or surreal. There was an alarming preponderance of the latter. He tried to imagine a world where men were getting testicle implants in bigger, and bigger sizes, until the truly fashionable couldn’t even walk straight anymore.
He scratched at his own pair, not caring if anyone saw him doing it. His were just fine like they were, thanks.
Mickey had every intention of getting back to Thailand as soon as possible. He wanted to spend more time with Phi at the monastery in Hua Hin. That had been a really unique experience in a life filled with unique experiences. He had finally reached the front of the line, and scanned the working agents as they slogged through their boring jobs, scanning and stamping and asking the required questions mechanically. A black woman with gorgeously elaborate hair finally gestured at him, and he sauntered over. This left him only a few dozen feet from the exit now. Unlike the tourists, he didn’t have any bags checked, so he could be through the Customs area and out the door in moments. But first....
“Welcome back to the United States,” she said flatly, taking his passport and running it under the scanner. She glanced up at his face, mentally comparing it with the photo, and looked at his declarations form without any real interest. There had been times when he’d messed around with the form out of sheer boredom, putting down his occupation as everything from ‘plague carrier’, ‘underwater performance artist - nude’, ‘corrupter of youth’ and ‘drain on the welfare system’ to ‘professional hired assassin’. Not once had it raised an eyebrow. But in the current political climate he found it wiser to stick to ‘consultant’. He counted the seconds until the subtle beep from the computer caught the woman in mid-question about fruits and meat products.
She stiffened, trying to look casual as she read the screen without turning her head. He could see the muscles flex as she hit the hidden button with her knee, stammering a bit as she repeated the question about fruit. “It’s okay,” he told her, smiling. “I can step aside and wait if you’d like. The line is so long.”
“Please stay right where you are, Mister...Kostmayer...” she said, now looking at him with a lot more interest. Miami clearly had their act together when it came to security alerts. Armed agents were there in under 15 seconds, smiles frozen on their faces for the sake of the tourists.
“Please come with us, Sir,” one told him, though of course Mickey already had his bag over his shoulder and moved into line with a military step. Old habits died hard. It only took a few moments to reach the secure area, where a locked door clicked shut behind him.
“Just getting out my I.D.” he told them, pulling the document case from his shirt pocket. Things were checked, and re-checked, and then the smiles became real.
“Welcome back, Sir,” one of the agents said sincerely. “Work or pleasure?”
“If I told you that I’d have to kill you,” Mickey joked. The guys laughed appreciatively, though the one he’d said it to had blanched for just a moment.
“Did you check any weapons, Agent Kostmayer?” someone asked him.
“Nope, nothing but the one bag here. You want to look through it?”
“No, sir,” another said quickly, then seemed to reconsider. “You’re not carrying anything dangerous, are you?”
“My dirty underwear, toothbrush, and about a quarter million dollars worth of uncut rubies from the black market in Myanmar. You want to see them? They’re Hanes tightie-whities...though not so tight anymore, and nowhere near white.”
“They didn’t catch the gems in Bangkok?” someone asked, laughing at the in-joke. “Those guys are brutal.”
“Got them stuffed in a tube of hemorrhoid cream. You just un-crimp the bottom. Nobody wants to touch a guy’s ass medicine.”
“Good one!” another agent snorted. “But they would have seen them on x-ray!”
Mickey paused to think about that. “Uh, I broke a really heavy bottle of aftershave in the shaving kit? The uneven pieces hide the symmetry of the stones?”
Everyone had another good laugh, and then he was out that door and on the street. “Chumps,” Mickey snorted to himself, wondering if he could afford to sleep a few hours in a hotel. He’d see about flights first, and then grab the nap if there was time. Had to call Sean Bean too. Oh yeah, and he should probably stash the rubies somewhere. No need to take those with him to Antigua.
Johnny
The pounding music and lively, if vapid, conversation always seemed so much the same here. Maybe that was one of the reasons he liked his club. He could count on it to be there, a solid, if sordid rock in the shifting Los Angeles scene. And since he was part owner, the door would always be open to him. He wished that Vanessa were there tonight. He could use some female company, and he missed her. But she was busy with her own concerns. There’d be other nights at the Viper Room; other chances to dance with his girl.
A lot of the ‘Pirates’ crew were there, mostly lost in the crowd. Johnny kept running into familiar faces, and prided himself on remembering most of their names. He made his way through the packed bodies to the bar, catching Brenda’s eye and signaling that he’d like a shot of his private reserve. She winked at him and ducked down to reach the special bottle.
“Depp! Hey, Depp!” He turned to find Charlie Sheen and Fred Durst waving to him from a table filled with celebrities. He touched the rim of his fedora in recognition and felt Brenda slide a cool glass into his fingers. He blew her a quick kiss and started over to say ‘hi’ to his friends, squeezing Ben Affleck’s shoulder in passing, leaning over to comment on Brendan’s shirt. It would have been un-cool to mention Fraser’s latest movie – and the Viper Room was all about cool.
“You want something?” one of the guys offered, making a motion towards his shirt pocket, bulging slightly with a decorative pill case.
“No, thank you. I don’t ever do drugs here,” he said, trying not to sound preachy. He would go to his grave remembering River Phoenix lying on the sidewalk out front, dying. “I would appreciate it if you would keep those to yourselves, as well.”
“Oh, yeah, we forgot. I’m sorry,” Tori said, glaring at her companion.
“No problem,” he said, smiling and taking a little sip of his exquisite liquor. He slipped off through the crowd again, heading to the back room, where he’d left a couple of the ‘Pirates’ actors and stunties playing cards and telling lies. He was bumped aside by a mound of bodies. Apparently a photographer had been identified and was being escorted out by the bouncers, a part-time leather fetishist and a Sumo wrestler named Io. The paparazzo would be lucky to escape a trip to the emergency room, especially if he had the poor sense to open his mouth in complaint.
Johnny sought out Orlando Bloom, spotting the young man in a group sitting on bar stools at a table in the back corner, engaged in some sort of card game that apparently involved a lot of shouting. Slipping across the intervening space, Depp could see that Orli was being propped up in his seat by one of the pirate fighters, a burly guy who was well known for his bad jokes and curious accent. Orli swiveled deeply stoned eyes in Johnny’s direction and blurted “Schenectady!”
“Come again?” he asked, squeezing into the space between two seats, finding that Orli immediately left the security of the pirate’s chest to lean against him instead. Sweaty fingers explored his neck, burrowing under the collar of his shirt.
“Blades forevuh, mate. N’est pas ma lessive!” Orli giggled.
Johnny frowned while he tried to figure that one out. “No, this isn’t your laundry,” he finally decoded. “Just how much has our Will Turner had to drink?” he asked the table in general.
“Not much,” someone said.
“My four-year old can hold liquor better than Bloom,” someone else added.
“I’m deeply disturbed that you’d know that,” another said.
Orlando burst into hysterical laughter, and then threw a handful of rice crackers at Geoffrey Rush’s table. The card game noisily progressed a round or two. Orli bet his shoe and the whole of Iceland, then handed all but one of his cards to the guy across the table and let his fingers waltz up and down Johnny’s back, ending up in his hair.
“That’d go nicely with the submarine he lost on the last round,” the pirate offered.
“I saw snow falling one time,” Orlando told Johnny in what he probably thought was a whisper, but would actually carry pretty well in a baseball stadium. He burped grandly, and then he actually did drop his voice to a breathy sotto voce. “I’ve seen Peter Jackson naked.”
Johnny visibly shuddered, gathering up all the partially full drink glasses within range. “No more for the blacksmith, and I mean it. Not a drop of anything but coffee or water. Or tea.”
“Tea is for pussies,” Orli declared huffily, and then slid grandly off his stool, headed for the floor. The stuntie caught him under the arms and hauled him back up, not for the first time that night, apparently.
“I’m thinking the poppers were a bad idea. He’s like jell-o in clothes.”
“Poppers?” Johnny blurted, indignantly. “Goddamit, guys! I asked you to keep a fucking eye on him!”
“Hey, he asked to try one!” someone defended. “How was I to know that he’s such a lightweight? Jesus, everybody here does poppers! But he went down like a ten dollar whore!”
“Thirsty,” Orli complained, draping himself over Johnny’s shoulder while his legs scrabbled for purchase on the stool’s footrest.
There was a refill station across the room, where the waitresses dropped off dirty glasses and busboys collected trays. Orlando reached out like a little kid, indicating that he wanted something, hands flexing. Depp heard a mighty crash and spun in time to see every glass, pitcher and bottle go smashing onto the floor. A couple of people darted away from the carnage, but everyone else fell utterly silent as soon as the cacophony had ended.
“Fuck!” someone at the table gasped. A few people laughed, and heads popped in from the front of the club, wondering what the commotion was.
“Earthquake?” a stuntie asked, looking around for an exit.
“Someone’s idea of a joke, maybe.”
Johnny was the only one who heard Orli mumble, “Oops.”
The one remaining glass wobbled at the edge of a counter, then fell and shattered. Three waitresses came storming in, angrily looking for the culprit.
“Thirsty,” Orlando sighed, looking around.
“That’s it for our Mister Turner,” Depp determined. “He has to be filmable tomorrow. Gore’s likely going to chew my ass as it is.” He dug out his cell phone to contact their car.
“Quite a mess,” Geoffrey Rush said, appearing suddenly – just in time to help keep Orli from sliding off his seat yet again. One of the waitresses was now yelling at a Goth couple angrily.
Orlando blinked at Rush owlishly, then narrowed his eyes and announced, “You’re the bad guy.”
“Type casting, my boy.”
“Ned didn’t steal that horse!”
“Of course he didn’t!” Geoffrey was trying to sound sympathetic. “He just found it, right?”
“Damn right.”
“Okay,” Johnny interrupted, having reached their driver. “Sorry to put a kink in your entertainment, gentlemen, but I think the Black Pearl Gang need to call it a night.” He gestured to Io, who had come in to survey the destroyed glassware. The Sumo scooped Bloom under one arm, and carried him like he would have a misbehaving first- grader. Orlando giggled all the way to the front door, waving happily at the cheering crowd as he was bundled outside. Deposited neatly on the limo’s leather seat, Orlando scooted over to make room as Johnny ducked inside and the car accelerated smoothly from the club.
“That was fun!” Orli bubbled, kneeling up on the seat to watch the club recede in the distance.
“It always is,” Depp said, thinking about calling Vanessa, but realizing that the time zones were working against him. Orlando flopped onto his back, letting his head fall into Johnny’s lap. His unfocused eyes drifted shut, and his clever hands wandered over every surface he could reach, including Depp. “Hey,” Johnny warned, as a warm palm snuck beneath the edge of his shirt, short nails raising goosebumps as they gently scratched his belly.
“I’d like to see you naked again.”
Depp’s brow shot up. “You would, would you?”
“You’re circumscribed. It’s interesting.”
“Okay, yeah, uh....” Johnny reached for the button that raised the privacy partition behind the driver.
“Doesn’t that rub too much on the end of your penis?” Orli inquired blandly. “Mine’s so sensitive there...I don’t think I could stand it.”
“I would have thought you’d be circumcised too. Don’t they do that in England?”
“Maybe. They didn’t bother with me. Dunno. Maybe it grew back.”
“Well, thanks for sharing that, Mister Turner. You’re totally trashed, aren’t you?”
“Not so much. It’s just nice not to think about important stuff.”
“You seem to be pretty good at that.”
Orlando didn’t say anything after that.
Orlando
But he really wasn’t any good at not thinking about the important stuff. That was pretty much ALL he thought about. Important stuff, like what he was supposed to be doing, and whom he could trust, and if anyone was likely to actually notice how fucked up he was. Orlando kept his mouth shut as Johnny led the way into their hotel. A few fans had staked them out, and the pair paused to sign autographs in the lobby, waiting for hotel security to wake up and make sure the fans left afterwards. Everyone behaved, for a change, and then they were in the penthouse floor elevator, climbing toward the sky, silence hanging heavily between the co-stars.
“Your club is very nice,” Orlando finally said just before the doors opened. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Studio arranged it all,” Johnny dismissed. “Let me see you to your room, Orli. If they found us downstairs they could be up here too.”
“I doubt it,” he mumbled, letting Johnny accompany him to the door of his suite. Depp came inside, just like he’d done at the hotel on St. Vincent, and checked out the mini-bar before making himself comfortable on a sofa, bottle of Evian to his lips.
“Get yourself a good long drink of water and put the aspirin by your bed,” Depp advised, flicking on the television and wandering disinterestedly through the channels.
“I’ll do that.” Orlando slid out of the room and went to undress. He left his boxers on because he’d apparently left his pajama bottoms on the island somewhere. He wished he could sleep nude like Viggo and Sean did, but wasn’t secure enough to do it in a strange room in a city where fans and photographers had telephoto lenses. Coming back into the sitting area, Orlando found Depp shirtless, pants hugging his nicely rounded ass as he stood in the open balcony door, admiring the city lights.
Johnny blew a cloud of smoke into the night air, sighing deeply. “I can’t figure you out, Orli,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
Oh God, and now it starts. Depp had realized that his costar was a freak. Wanting to flee, Orlando forced himself to step up to Johnny’s side. He didn’t trust himself to speak, though, so he stood mute while his costar smoked and admired the view.
“Everybody always think I’m some kind of weirdo,” Johnny said. “Probably because of the roles I’ve played, and the way I’ve always done things my own way. I knew what I wanted from Hollywood, and I did only what I had to in order to get it. The strange parts, the eclectic directors, I’ve made my own choices, and that puzzles everyone. Then there’s you...” he turned to meet Orlando’s frightened eyes. “You’ve done every single thing that would be expected. You’ve gotten parts that older, more cynical actors would gladly kill someone for. You trained for it, and then literally fell into a dream career. You seem to just glide through life.”
Orlando swallowed hard, hands clenched behind his back.
“So, why is it that I suspect, deep in my heart of hearts, that you’re hiding a whole lot more than I ever even could?”
He knew it. He’d known it was going to happen eventually. Trust Johnny Depp to see through his lies and façade.
“I’m...I’m sorry, Johnny.”
“Sorry? Sorry about what? Because you’ve befuddled me?” He snorted, clearly amused. “Nothing wrong with being strange, Orli. Seriously. I admire strange. Why do you think I hang out with John Waters and Tim Burton? I’m just really impressed that you’ve got everybody fooled into thinking that you’re an affable, maybe somewhat dim kid who’s tripped his way into the most amazing career in the history of movies. You’re maybe the smartest guy I’ve met in front of the lens.”
Smart? Orlando? This was such a novel thought that he couldn’t even process it. Smart? No fucking way. He couldn’t even read most scripts without a dictionary and a bit of help. He’d faxed his copy of ‘Ned Kelly’ to Sean Bean, who’d read it to him over the phone, line by line, over the space of one entire night, patiently letting him repeat bits back until he knew the thing backward and forward. Smart? What kind of smart guy got so depressed that he could only barely drag himself out of bed some mornings. Smart? He was at an utter loss how to refute the outrageous claim.
“I’m not what you think,” he finally whispered, knowing that Johnny would wait however long it took.
“I know,” Johnny replied, smiling slowly. “Thing is, I’d like to find out what you really are.”
“No,” Orlando said huskily. “No, you wouldn’t.”
Johnny moved closer, reaching to flick his cigarette off the balcony edge. “Yeah, I think I would.” He held his lips only a breath away from Orli’s and his words ghosted over sensitive flesh. “You want to let me in?”
“I...I don’t know...I....”
Then Orlando leaned forward, sealing those warm lips against his own. His hands unclenched, and he took Johnny’s slight frame into a tight embrace.
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Eight – Broken Charms
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is PG13
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
WHAT IS IT?: RPS / AU
Sequel to ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
WHO’S IN IT?: Sean Bean, Orlando Bloom,
Johnny Depp, Viggo Mortensen and other
actors from ‘The Lord of the Rings’, ‘Pirates
of the Caribbean’, ‘Hidalgo’ and others
FEEDBACK: remember the golden rule, (please!)
ARCHIVE: I’d be honored, just tell me where
PAST CHAPTERS: ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
can be found on my website, Chimerafic.com
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history
NOTE 2: Story takes place in early 2002
NOTE 3: I do not recommend that you fool around
with US Customs. They really do NOT have
a sense of humor. Trust me on this one...
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Eight: Broken Charms
Sean
Clearing the last few little bits and bobs off his makeup table, Sean rocked back in his seat and looked around the rather tatty dressing room. How many other actors had sat in this same spot, doing the exact same thing? How many had left the Albery at the end of a successful run, striding down St. Martin’s Lane with a light heart, renewed hopes and revitalized careers, perhaps going on to an even greater triumph on a different West End stage? How many had slunk away with crushed ideals and bitter memories of plays that could have been, parts that were wasted, and aching bitterness toward other actors and indifferent crowds?
All said, Sean Bean had gotten off pretty damn easy. The Scottish Play had run for months, and the reviewers had been mostly kind. The tickets had gone every night and for nearly every seat. He was proud of the production, and proud of himself. Not half bad for a rough lad from Sheffield.
He stared at the photos and tokens tucked into the frame of the worn old mirror, where no doubt at least a few thousand other photos had been tucked before. Molly and Lorna grinned out at their daddy, gap-toothed and coltish, mischief lurking behind those innocent eyes. A picture of Sir Ian McKellen in drag, as his alter ego Serena, autographed with the comment ‘From one old Queen to a young King, break a leg!’ There was a picture of something that sort of looked like a tree dipped in acid, with scratches on the negative and one corner so over-exposed that it blurred to a sickly white. This one was signed, ‘Kia Ora, make me proud, Steward. I love you, Viggo.’ There was a train ticket from Paddington to Sheffield, stapled next to a five pound note on a sheet of paper on which was written ‘In case you need to make a quick get-away home! Have a beer on the train. Love, Dom and ‘Lijah.’
Also tucked into the edge of the mirror was a card that had come with a huge bouquet of flowers. It held a wonderful encouragement from Billy Boyd, written in tiny, precise letters, and ending with the thought ‘you’ll always know that you could have taken the easy road, but you didn’t.’ There was a label peeled from the really excellent bottle of champagne John Rhys-Davies had sent from the Isle, next to the label off a bottle of single-malt scotch that Peter and Fran Jackson had delivered in person. They’d been in London to work on ‘The Return of the King,’ and after the show Fran had asked Sean to come back to New Zealand for a new insert scene. He’d agreed, even though he knew what the flights would mean. His agent had called the next day to say that open-ended plane tickets were waiting for him to book.
Many other actors and sundry show business friends had sent congratulations, as well as personal friends from up north and here in London. A couple of particularly sweet fan letters had been included, mostly to remind him who actually bought the tickets. He knew that each night the house was probably full of ‘Lord of the Rings’ fans, but there were others there as well. He didn’t try to fool himself that he had a full career ahead of Shakespearean roles, but he knew that he’d held his own. He’d done it his way, and he hadn’t fallen flat on his ass. Sean carefully removed each of these varied tokens, tucking them into a leather book made from the production script. Everyone on the cast and crew had signed the book, scribbling notes and remembrances in the margins and on blank pages.
When he’d almost finished there was one small note left. It had come in an envelope from Orlando’s agent in Los Angeles. It was a sheet of stationery from a posh hotel, covered with scribbled writing. Orlando was sending his best wishes and apologizing that he couldn’t make it in person. It read like he’d been copying dictation. He probably had. It was signed ‘Lots of love, Orlando’. But his dyslexia had tripped him up, and he’d actually written ‘Lost of love.’
That note had made Sean cry. Tears welled in his eyes again as he pulled it loose from the ancient mirror and tucked in against the binding at the very back of his book.
Dominic
Rolling over, he squinted toward the clock, only to find himself looking at a blank wall. Bloody hell, someone had stolen his clock! Dom struggled to sit up, his head already pounding from what was going to be a pretty good hangover, and rubbed his crusty eyes to look around. Oh, no wonder the clock was gone...this wasn’t his apartment. He blinked at the tasteful hotel room, then down at his own lap, where a soft blanket was now wadded. A quick peek – pants in place, thankfully – and then he looked around for any of his luggage. Nothing. Not a single familiar object.
He shifted to the edge of the bed, and found that it was actually one of those sofa things, the kind that folded out. So this probably wasn’t his hotel room either. Dom’s brain grudgingly engaged like the worn-out transmission on a junker car, and he remembered Craig Parker’s warm laugh and supportive arm around his shoulders. Well, at least he knew who’d seen him home. Uh, to someone’s home. Yawning, Dom stretched and scratched like the lad he was, wondering which of the closed doors led to a toilet. Probably not the one with a peep hole in it, unless Craig’s taste in hotels had deteriorated significantly. Getting to unsteady feet, he headed for the most likely contender, hearing Craig’s voice softly droning behind the other. Must be on the phone.
Dom successfully located and utilized the facilities, congratulating himself on a job well-done, and then emerged to find Craig dressed and groomed, looking like a million pounds and talking to room service from the sitting room extension. “Omelet and sausages for you, Dommie?” Craig asked cheerfully.
“Toast,” Dom croaked, surprised at how rough he sounded.
“And toast, please, whole wheat,” Craig added. “Thank you.” He hung up and started making up the foldout bed.
“They’ve got maids who do that sorta thing,” Dom said dryly.
“And I tip them too. But I don’t think my agent meant for me to be entertaining guests, so we’ll just be discreet. I want you to get an eyeful of the concierge here. He’s sex on legs.”
“Most people’s sex is actually located at the juncture of their legs.”
“And then we can go by your apartment and get you dressed and cleaned up. You have a lunch appointment this afternoon.”
“Sex therapist? I’m pretty sure I’m still gay, though Angelina Jolie makes me feel all funny inside.”
“Casting agent.”
Dominic glared at his friend. “I hate you.”
“I know...I love you too. Oh, and Bernard sends his regards. I forgot to mention that last night. He said you can still serve at his command any time you’re up for it.”
“I’ll go grab a shower now.”
“Good idea.”
Orlando
Johnny had been a man of his word, taking care of getting him to the airstrip in time for their quick flight to Guadeloupe. From there they’d gotten on a small jet, which had stopped for fuel in Houston, and ultimately delivered the tired actors to Los Angeles just after 1am. Orlando had slept on the plane, still feeling sick and beyond exhausted. Johnny mentioned that he didn’t think getting drunk would be their best option after all, and Orlando knew he was thinking about those drugs he’d caught the actor with. It was true, you should never mix anti-depressants with alcohol, but it wasn’t like he’d been taking them very regularly lately. Besides, what difference would a few drinks make in the long run? It was just another way to dull the ache in Orlando’s head and heart.
He fell asleep before he could get his clothes off, collapsed across the spread on the king-sized hotel room bed. Aleen woke him the next morning, arriving at the suite with Robin and a couple of men from the studio. The girls were very disappointed at how thin he looked, and they supervised a breakfast that made him feel ill all over again. It was going to be another long day.
They filmed pickups on the LA soundstage where they’d built the interior of the Isla de Muerta treasure cave. The stage had developed something nasty in the water in the last few weeks, and it now stank something fierce. Orlando prided himself on not complaining about the appalling odor, but Johnny stood atop the cursed chest and pissed gloriously into the pooled water, announcing that perhaps that would encourage them to drain it and refill. The only one who told him off was the monkey’s trainer, who then went on to gripe about the grapes and the size of her trailer.
Geoffrey moved his chair over next to Orlando’s and held a private recitation on the benefits of actor’s equity and a full slate of opinions about aboriginal reconciliation issues. A package arrived in the studio mail containing Orli’s cell phone, which had been found under a seat on the Jadent. It came along with a Polaroid of someone’s naked ass, which Orli suspected was Gore’s. He smiled, thinking of Hobbits, and then went to see if anyone had a recharger that would fit it. In one of the alleys between soundstages Orlando came across a couple of golden retrievers who were starring in a movie about a dog that plays basketball, and their trainer let him play with them for a while.
He missed the lunch break, but Robin showed up with a tray from the restaurant and watched him eat it between takes as the afternoon slowly progressed. She made threats about getting him a doctor’s appointment before he returned to St. Vincent. Yeah, just what he needed, another doctor visit. He would have stuck a fork in his eye at the mere thought if he didn’t know that would mean yet more medical intervention.
They were doing about the tenth take on a complicated sword fight when one of the Pirate actors slashed a little low and caught Orlando’s inner arm with the tip of his blade. The blade wasn’t sharp, but had gotten some rough spots on it from repeated use, and it managed to rip through his costume and skin. Orlando conspired to hide the damage from his contrite fighting partner, so he bound it up roughly in the toilet and changed into a different shirt. He felt slightly dizzy again and very tired, but managed to perk up for the cameras take after take. Johnny was watching him closely, despite being the focus of these scenes. Keira arrived late in the day and they did a couple of shots that involved her too. She flirted outrageously with the LA crewmen and swanned around like a miniature diva. That behavior ended the moment her mother arrived on set again, and then Keira was the consummate professional.
“Share a car tonight, Orli?” Johnny asked as they were heading to the dressing room an hour later.
“Car?” Orlando was wondering how he would dispose of the once-bloody bandage under his shirtsleeve. The wound would be nearly healed with any luck.
“Party. Club. Required attendance,” Johnny explained cryptically.
“Oh, party, yeah.”
“Mind like a steel colander. You really need a vacation, Bloom. How about you and me fly to some tropical paradise? Tomorrow night all right?”
“Yeah, that sounds good. Can I just lie out on the sand?”
“You can if you’re dressed as Mister Turner, my cabin boy slash pirate-in-training slash bitch.”
“You wish. I’m nobody’s bitch.”
“Not yet. But remember, we signed for three movies.”
“You’re my bitch, baby!” called a feminine voice. Keira was already in the dressing room, pulling on her tee shirt, oblivious to the assistants and dressers fussing with her discarded gown.
“You, I don’t mind,” Orlando teased, looking for his street clothes, and hoping he could change in the toilet again.
Viggo
He squinted through the blowing sand, looking for any place of refuge. There, the honey wagon, the ever-present on-set toilet facilities. Viggo quickly clumped up the rickety stairs and ducked through one of the doors, closing it firmly on the swirling dust. Thin light filtered down through the opaque panels of the roof. He shut the toilet lid and sat down on it, unwrapping the cloth he’d had around his face. Static crackled in the air.
Viggo fumbled for a moment with the cell phone he’d borrowed from one of the producers. It was a global satellite phone, which he’d leaned meant that charges incurred on it would be astronomical if he should take to one of his rambling poetry sessions with some distant answering machine. Viggo had snorted at the accusation and assured the producer that he could afford a phone call. “Take it out of my per diem, if you want. I’m just eating sand today.” The producer had sheepishly remembered who the star of the movie was, and left him alone.
He dialed Orlando’s number one more time, listening as the mailbox came on immediately, informing him that it was full. Viggo then checked a little card he’d tucked in his pocket that morning, dialing a number in England. That one was picked up almost immediately. “Hullo, do I know you?” the actor answered.
“Beanie, it’s Viggo.”
“My Captain! My King! Hey, flake. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk about Orli.”
“The colt? He in trouble?”
Bean’s voice seemed to be holding a secret of his own. That might bear looking into. But first, Viggo had to voice his concerns about Lambda. “I’ve been hearing stuff from his set. And he’s not talking to me.”
“Me either. I thought maybe he was mad about something.”
“Orli-bear? Mad?”
“Yeah, you got a point. Maybe he’s just avoiding us geezers. He’s got Johnny Depp to pal around with now, you know.”
“Maybe. You have a minute to talk, Sean?”
“For you? Don’t even ask. You have all the minutes of my day, flake....”
Mickey
It was with a sense of unreality that Kostmayer shuffled through the glacially slow line at the US Immigration desk of Miami’s International airport. He had his forms and passport in hand, eager to keep moving, but the Virgin Atlantic 747 that had landed moments before his had utterly clogged the system with people eager to get to beaches and theme parks. Cranky children cried and ran amuck in the stifling room and everyone was tired and grouchy. Mickey amused himself by checking out the breasts on the trophy wives, categorizing them as real, fake, or surreal. There was an alarming preponderance of the latter. He tried to imagine a world where men were getting testicle implants in bigger, and bigger sizes, until the truly fashionable couldn’t even walk straight anymore.
He scratched at his own pair, not caring if anyone saw him doing it. His were just fine like they were, thanks.
Mickey had every intention of getting back to Thailand as soon as possible. He wanted to spend more time with Phi at the monastery in Hua Hin. That had been a really unique experience in a life filled with unique experiences. He had finally reached the front of the line, and scanned the working agents as they slogged through their boring jobs, scanning and stamping and asking the required questions mechanically. A black woman with gorgeously elaborate hair finally gestured at him, and he sauntered over. This left him only a few dozen feet from the exit now. Unlike the tourists, he didn’t have any bags checked, so he could be through the Customs area and out the door in moments. But first....
“Welcome back to the United States,” she said flatly, taking his passport and running it under the scanner. She glanced up at his face, mentally comparing it with the photo, and looked at his declarations form without any real interest. There had been times when he’d messed around with the form out of sheer boredom, putting down his occupation as everything from ‘plague carrier’, ‘underwater performance artist - nude’, ‘corrupter of youth’ and ‘drain on the welfare system’ to ‘professional hired assassin’. Not once had it raised an eyebrow. But in the current political climate he found it wiser to stick to ‘consultant’. He counted the seconds until the subtle beep from the computer caught the woman in mid-question about fruits and meat products.
She stiffened, trying to look casual as she read the screen without turning her head. He could see the muscles flex as she hit the hidden button with her knee, stammering a bit as she repeated the question about fruit. “It’s okay,” he told her, smiling. “I can step aside and wait if you’d like. The line is so long.”
“Please stay right where you are, Mister...Kostmayer...” she said, now looking at him with a lot more interest. Miami clearly had their act together when it came to security alerts. Armed agents were there in under 15 seconds, smiles frozen on their faces for the sake of the tourists.
“Please come with us, Sir,” one told him, though of course Mickey already had his bag over his shoulder and moved into line with a military step. Old habits died hard. It only took a few moments to reach the secure area, where a locked door clicked shut behind him.
“Just getting out my I.D.” he told them, pulling the document case from his shirt pocket. Things were checked, and re-checked, and then the smiles became real.
“Welcome back, Sir,” one of the agents said sincerely. “Work or pleasure?”
“If I told you that I’d have to kill you,” Mickey joked. The guys laughed appreciatively, though the one he’d said it to had blanched for just a moment.
“Did you check any weapons, Agent Kostmayer?” someone asked him.
“Nope, nothing but the one bag here. You want to look through it?”
“No, sir,” another said quickly, then seemed to reconsider. “You’re not carrying anything dangerous, are you?”
“My dirty underwear, toothbrush, and about a quarter million dollars worth of uncut rubies from the black market in Myanmar. You want to see them? They’re Hanes tightie-whities...though not so tight anymore, and nowhere near white.”
“They didn’t catch the gems in Bangkok?” someone asked, laughing at the in-joke. “Those guys are brutal.”
“Got them stuffed in a tube of hemorrhoid cream. You just un-crimp the bottom. Nobody wants to touch a guy’s ass medicine.”
“Good one!” another agent snorted. “But they would have seen them on x-ray!”
Mickey paused to think about that. “Uh, I broke a really heavy bottle of aftershave in the shaving kit? The uneven pieces hide the symmetry of the stones?”
Everyone had another good laugh, and then he was out that door and on the street. “Chumps,” Mickey snorted to himself, wondering if he could afford to sleep a few hours in a hotel. He’d see about flights first, and then grab the nap if there was time. Had to call Sean Bean too. Oh yeah, and he should probably stash the rubies somewhere. No need to take those with him to Antigua.
Johnny
The pounding music and lively, if vapid, conversation always seemed so much the same here. Maybe that was one of the reasons he liked his club. He could count on it to be there, a solid, if sordid rock in the shifting Los Angeles scene. And since he was part owner, the door would always be open to him. He wished that Vanessa were there tonight. He could use some female company, and he missed her. But she was busy with her own concerns. There’d be other nights at the Viper Room; other chances to dance with his girl.
A lot of the ‘Pirates’ crew were there, mostly lost in the crowd. Johnny kept running into familiar faces, and prided himself on remembering most of their names. He made his way through the packed bodies to the bar, catching Brenda’s eye and signaling that he’d like a shot of his private reserve. She winked at him and ducked down to reach the special bottle.
“Depp! Hey, Depp!” He turned to find Charlie Sheen and Fred Durst waving to him from a table filled with celebrities. He touched the rim of his fedora in recognition and felt Brenda slide a cool glass into his fingers. He blew her a quick kiss and started over to say ‘hi’ to his friends, squeezing Ben Affleck’s shoulder in passing, leaning over to comment on Brendan’s shirt. It would have been un-cool to mention Fraser’s latest movie – and the Viper Room was all about cool.
“You want something?” one of the guys offered, making a motion towards his shirt pocket, bulging slightly with a decorative pill case.
“No, thank you. I don’t ever do drugs here,” he said, trying not to sound preachy. He would go to his grave remembering River Phoenix lying on the sidewalk out front, dying. “I would appreciate it if you would keep those to yourselves, as well.”
“Oh, yeah, we forgot. I’m sorry,” Tori said, glaring at her companion.
“No problem,” he said, smiling and taking a little sip of his exquisite liquor. He slipped off through the crowd again, heading to the back room, where he’d left a couple of the ‘Pirates’ actors and stunties playing cards and telling lies. He was bumped aside by a mound of bodies. Apparently a photographer had been identified and was being escorted out by the bouncers, a part-time leather fetishist and a Sumo wrestler named Io. The paparazzo would be lucky to escape a trip to the emergency room, especially if he had the poor sense to open his mouth in complaint.
Johnny sought out Orlando Bloom, spotting the young man in a group sitting on bar stools at a table in the back corner, engaged in some sort of card game that apparently involved a lot of shouting. Slipping across the intervening space, Depp could see that Orli was being propped up in his seat by one of the pirate fighters, a burly guy who was well known for his bad jokes and curious accent. Orli swiveled deeply stoned eyes in Johnny’s direction and blurted “Schenectady!”
“Come again?” he asked, squeezing into the space between two seats, finding that Orli immediately left the security of the pirate’s chest to lean against him instead. Sweaty fingers explored his neck, burrowing under the collar of his shirt.
“Blades forevuh, mate. N’est pas ma lessive!” Orli giggled.
Johnny frowned while he tried to figure that one out. “No, this isn’t your laundry,” he finally decoded. “Just how much has our Will Turner had to drink?” he asked the table in general.
“Not much,” someone said.
“My four-year old can hold liquor better than Bloom,” someone else added.
“I’m deeply disturbed that you’d know that,” another said.
Orlando burst into hysterical laughter, and then threw a handful of rice crackers at Geoffrey Rush’s table. The card game noisily progressed a round or two. Orli bet his shoe and the whole of Iceland, then handed all but one of his cards to the guy across the table and let his fingers waltz up and down Johnny’s back, ending up in his hair.
“That’d go nicely with the submarine he lost on the last round,” the pirate offered.
“I saw snow falling one time,” Orlando told Johnny in what he probably thought was a whisper, but would actually carry pretty well in a baseball stadium. He burped grandly, and then he actually did drop his voice to a breathy sotto voce. “I’ve seen Peter Jackson naked.”
Johnny visibly shuddered, gathering up all the partially full drink glasses within range. “No more for the blacksmith, and I mean it. Not a drop of anything but coffee or water. Or tea.”
“Tea is for pussies,” Orli declared huffily, and then slid grandly off his stool, headed for the floor. The stuntie caught him under the arms and hauled him back up, not for the first time that night, apparently.
“I’m thinking the poppers were a bad idea. He’s like jell-o in clothes.”
“Poppers?” Johnny blurted, indignantly. “Goddamit, guys! I asked you to keep a fucking eye on him!”
“Hey, he asked to try one!” someone defended. “How was I to know that he’s such a lightweight? Jesus, everybody here does poppers! But he went down like a ten dollar whore!”
“Thirsty,” Orli complained, draping himself over Johnny’s shoulder while his legs scrabbled for purchase on the stool’s footrest.
There was a refill station across the room, where the waitresses dropped off dirty glasses and busboys collected trays. Orlando reached out like a little kid, indicating that he wanted something, hands flexing. Depp heard a mighty crash and spun in time to see every glass, pitcher and bottle go smashing onto the floor. A couple of people darted away from the carnage, but everyone else fell utterly silent as soon as the cacophony had ended.
“Fuck!” someone at the table gasped. A few people laughed, and heads popped in from the front of the club, wondering what the commotion was.
“Earthquake?” a stuntie asked, looking around for an exit.
“Someone’s idea of a joke, maybe.”
Johnny was the only one who heard Orli mumble, “Oops.”
The one remaining glass wobbled at the edge of a counter, then fell and shattered. Three waitresses came storming in, angrily looking for the culprit.
“Thirsty,” Orlando sighed, looking around.
“That’s it for our Mister Turner,” Depp determined. “He has to be filmable tomorrow. Gore’s likely going to chew my ass as it is.” He dug out his cell phone to contact their car.
“Quite a mess,” Geoffrey Rush said, appearing suddenly – just in time to help keep Orli from sliding off his seat yet again. One of the waitresses was now yelling at a Goth couple angrily.
Orlando blinked at Rush owlishly, then narrowed his eyes and announced, “You’re the bad guy.”
“Type casting, my boy.”
“Ned didn’t steal that horse!”
“Of course he didn’t!” Geoffrey was trying to sound sympathetic. “He just found it, right?”
“Damn right.”
“Okay,” Johnny interrupted, having reached their driver. “Sorry to put a kink in your entertainment, gentlemen, but I think the Black Pearl Gang need to call it a night.” He gestured to Io, who had come in to survey the destroyed glassware. The Sumo scooped Bloom under one arm, and carried him like he would have a misbehaving first- grader. Orlando giggled all the way to the front door, waving happily at the cheering crowd as he was bundled outside. Deposited neatly on the limo’s leather seat, Orlando scooted over to make room as Johnny ducked inside and the car accelerated smoothly from the club.
“That was fun!” Orli bubbled, kneeling up on the seat to watch the club recede in the distance.
“It always is,” Depp said, thinking about calling Vanessa, but realizing that the time zones were working against him. Orlando flopped onto his back, letting his head fall into Johnny’s lap. His unfocused eyes drifted shut, and his clever hands wandered over every surface he could reach, including Depp. “Hey,” Johnny warned, as a warm palm snuck beneath the edge of his shirt, short nails raising goosebumps as they gently scratched his belly.
“I’d like to see you naked again.”
Depp’s brow shot up. “You would, would you?”
“You’re circumscribed. It’s interesting.”
“Okay, yeah, uh....” Johnny reached for the button that raised the privacy partition behind the driver.
“Doesn’t that rub too much on the end of your penis?” Orli inquired blandly. “Mine’s so sensitive there...I don’t think I could stand it.”
“I would have thought you’d be circumcised too. Don’t they do that in England?”
“Maybe. They didn’t bother with me. Dunno. Maybe it grew back.”
“Well, thanks for sharing that, Mister Turner. You’re totally trashed, aren’t you?”
“Not so much. It’s just nice not to think about important stuff.”
“You seem to be pretty good at that.”
Orlando didn’t say anything after that.
Orlando
But he really wasn’t any good at not thinking about the important stuff. That was pretty much ALL he thought about. Important stuff, like what he was supposed to be doing, and whom he could trust, and if anyone was likely to actually notice how fucked up he was. Orlando kept his mouth shut as Johnny led the way into their hotel. A few fans had staked them out, and the pair paused to sign autographs in the lobby, waiting for hotel security to wake up and make sure the fans left afterwards. Everyone behaved, for a change, and then they were in the penthouse floor elevator, climbing toward the sky, silence hanging heavily between the co-stars.
“Your club is very nice,” Orlando finally said just before the doors opened. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Studio arranged it all,” Johnny dismissed. “Let me see you to your room, Orli. If they found us downstairs they could be up here too.”
“I doubt it,” he mumbled, letting Johnny accompany him to the door of his suite. Depp came inside, just like he’d done at the hotel on St. Vincent, and checked out the mini-bar before making himself comfortable on a sofa, bottle of Evian to his lips.
“Get yourself a good long drink of water and put the aspirin by your bed,” Depp advised, flicking on the television and wandering disinterestedly through the channels.
“I’ll do that.” Orlando slid out of the room and went to undress. He left his boxers on because he’d apparently left his pajama bottoms on the island somewhere. He wished he could sleep nude like Viggo and Sean did, but wasn’t secure enough to do it in a strange room in a city where fans and photographers had telephoto lenses. Coming back into the sitting area, Orlando found Depp shirtless, pants hugging his nicely rounded ass as he stood in the open balcony door, admiring the city lights.
Johnny blew a cloud of smoke into the night air, sighing deeply. “I can’t figure you out, Orli,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
Oh God, and now it starts. Depp had realized that his costar was a freak. Wanting to flee, Orlando forced himself to step up to Johnny’s side. He didn’t trust himself to speak, though, so he stood mute while his costar smoked and admired the view.
“Everybody always think I’m some kind of weirdo,” Johnny said. “Probably because of the roles I’ve played, and the way I’ve always done things my own way. I knew what I wanted from Hollywood, and I did only what I had to in order to get it. The strange parts, the eclectic directors, I’ve made my own choices, and that puzzles everyone. Then there’s you...” he turned to meet Orlando’s frightened eyes. “You’ve done every single thing that would be expected. You’ve gotten parts that older, more cynical actors would gladly kill someone for. You trained for it, and then literally fell into a dream career. You seem to just glide through life.”
Orlando swallowed hard, hands clenched behind his back.
“So, why is it that I suspect, deep in my heart of hearts, that you’re hiding a whole lot more than I ever even could?”
He knew it. He’d known it was going to happen eventually. Trust Johnny Depp to see through his lies and façade.
“I’m...I’m sorry, Johnny.”
“Sorry? Sorry about what? Because you’ve befuddled me?” He snorted, clearly amused. “Nothing wrong with being strange, Orli. Seriously. I admire strange. Why do you think I hang out with John Waters and Tim Burton? I’m just really impressed that you’ve got everybody fooled into thinking that you’re an affable, maybe somewhat dim kid who’s tripped his way into the most amazing career in the history of movies. You’re maybe the smartest guy I’ve met in front of the lens.”
Smart? Orlando? This was such a novel thought that he couldn’t even process it. Smart? No fucking way. He couldn’t even read most scripts without a dictionary and a bit of help. He’d faxed his copy of ‘Ned Kelly’ to Sean Bean, who’d read it to him over the phone, line by line, over the space of one entire night, patiently letting him repeat bits back until he knew the thing backward and forward. Smart? What kind of smart guy got so depressed that he could only barely drag himself out of bed some mornings. Smart? He was at an utter loss how to refute the outrageous claim.
“I’m not what you think,” he finally whispered, knowing that Johnny would wait however long it took.
“I know,” Johnny replied, smiling slowly. “Thing is, I’d like to find out what you really are.”
“No,” Orlando said huskily. “No, you wouldn’t.”
Johnny moved closer, reaching to flick his cigarette off the balcony edge. “Yeah, I think I would.” He held his lips only a breath away from Orli’s and his words ghosted over sensitive flesh. “You want to let me in?”
“I...I don’t know...I....”
Then Orlando leaned forward, sealing those warm lips against his own. His hands unclenched, and he took Johnny’s slight frame into a tight embrace.