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fellowshippers2005-08-18 10:47 pm
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-08-18 10:47 pm
BDL 10...really! No kidding!
Well, thanks to the fastest edit on record (overnight, how’s that for genius?) our dear sister Gloria Mundi has enabled me to offer you a new chapter of Beyond Design Limitations. Now I know there’s been a big break between this one and the last, so let me just remind you that Sean is in England, having just finished Macbeth, Viggo is in Morocco, filming Hidalgo, Mickey is in Central America, looking for one of the clones (yes, Orli clones, for those who aren’t up to speed with this story), and Orlando Lambda and Johnny Depp have just returned to the Caribbean from LA to continue filming Pirates 1. And that’s where we’re at with:
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Ten – In the Dark
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is NC-17
Sexual innuendo, M/M sex, naughty language
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’
which can be found on my website
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!)
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history
NOTE 2: Story takes place in early 2002
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Ten: In the Dark
Johnny
He’d come topside to grab his shoulder bag, worried that it might rain overnight, remembering almost too late that there was a signed, first edition copy of ‘The Gunslinger’ in there. Lightning crackled far out over the calm Caribbean. Depp paused as he heard the guard at the end of the pier talking to someone. He could just make out two figures beneath the security light that one of the grips had rigged for him. The guard let the visitor pass, and Johnny went over to the gangplank to see who it was. Orlando looked up only when his foot hit the deck, and met Johnny’s eyes with a face creased with emotion.
“Oh, uh, good evening, Johnny. I...uhm, is it too late to take you up on that dinner invitation? Or at maybe just come aboard and chat?” A calm, pleasant mask had slid into place quickly. Johnny had no idea what was up, and he was curious.
“Welcome aboard, Mister Turner. Or is it Mister Bloom, this evening?”
“Just Orli, I’m afraid,” the kid said, even though he was still wearing his costume pants, albeit with sandals and a tee shirt. He followed Johnny across the gently domed deck and down the galley steps.
“Bit cramped, sorry,” Johnny said, ducking under a crossbeam and stepping into the small dining area.
Gore Verbinski smiled up at the arrival of company, playing with his ice cream spoon and a last few melted swirls of strawberry. “Hello, Orlando. Johnny said you couldn’t make it.”
“I didn’t think I would, but my schedule cleared unexpectedly.” The kid was surprisingly quick with the lie, and that smile looked almost genuine. But Johnny would have bet the week’s per diem that he had expected to find him alone. Orlando slid into a seat on the low bench, across from Gore, and turned to hand a bottle to Johnny. “Hope you have a corkscrew.”
Gore snorted. “Does the Pope have Bishops?”
“You be nice,” Johnny lectured his director, taking a quick peek at the label. Some shit from the Mount Gay distillery over in Barbados. This would be barely drinkable. They should stick to rum in these parts. He was surprised that it didn’t come with a screw cap and attached sippy straw. “Why, thank you, Orlando. I’ll pop this open and let it breathe.” Let it expire, would be more like it. He busied himself with cork and glasses.
Gore was chatting up his star effortlessly, and Orlando’s mood lifted as he talked about his character. The kid was a blank slate when you wanted to know about his personal life, but he could hold forth for hours on the merits of William Turner. Johnny guessed that Orli hadn’t eaten yet, regardless of the hour, and he dished up a fresh plate of penne, putting the leftover salad on the side and finding the crusts of garlic bread he’d toasted. He slid the food under Orlando’s nose, along with some clean utensils, and the kid started eating automatically. Gore nodded at a plate of cheese and Johnny fetched some crackers and joined them.
He battled back his survival instincts and poured the Mount Gay wine. Gore didn’t visibly wince when he took a sip, which was probably a good sign. Orlando drained his glass. Johnny took a small taste between conversational volleys, and managed to swallow. Not as bad as he’d feared, but still more suitable as paint-thinner or tie-dye than something to savor with friends. He looked longingly at the bottle of Château La Tour Figeac St. Emilion he’d set out on the counter when planning this dinner. Gore went off on some story about when he’d been the guitarist for the Little Kings, and Johnny smiled blandly across the table at Orli.
He’d finished the plate of food and was now cleaning up the remains of the cheese, scrabbling after broken bits of water crackers, nodding and smiling where appropriate. Gore wound down that story and took another sip of wine. Johnny could tell that Gore was glancing wistfully at the St. Emilion as well.
“I hope I haven’t kept you too long, Verb,” Johnny said in a convenient moment. “Know that you’ve got lots of work to do tonight.” He patted the man’s leg under the table.
Gore took direction pretty well, immediately indicating that he was ready to leave. “I’m really sorry I can’t stay and chat some more, gentlemen.” Johnny moved to let him get to his feet. “But you know how it is. Thanks again for the invitation, Johnny. Best meal I’ve had in days.”
“Gracious liar,” Johnny teased, taking his seat again. “Find your own way out?”
“Not too many ways to go wrong in here. Don’t know why you won’t let us get you a nice room ashore, Johnny.”
“What, and give up a chance to be seasick around the clock? No thanks, Verb.” The truth was there were no nice rooms ashore. He was quite happy here on his little yacht, thanks, and Gore knew it. Verbinski was just pissed that he hadn’t thought of renting one himself.
“Well, good night.” Their director left, clumping up the steps with a whistle.
Johnny got up to bus the dishes, piling them up for the maid to do tomorrow when she dropped in, then noticed that the St. Emilion was gone. That bastard Verbinski had snagged it on his way out! Fucker!
“I’m really sorry to just drop in on you,” Orlando was saying softly, fiddling with the spoon Johnny had left him.
Depp scooped the remains of the strawberry ice cream into a bowl and slid it onto the table. “Don’t apologize, Orli. My hatch is always open to you...you know that. Eat up, or it’ll go to waste.” Like Ben & Jerry’s would ever go to waste.
Bloom made quick work of the ice cream, and Johnny smoked a Gauloise and watched him patiently. After the bowl was clean Orli sat back, taking another sip of the wine. “This isn’t very good, is it?”
Johnny smiled. “It’s the thought that counts. How about some coffee?”
“No thanks. Water, maybe.”
Johnny fetched him a bottle of Evian. “Why don’t you come into the salon, Orli? It’s a bit more comfortable.” They made their way forward to the area that doubled as a guest room. Johnny’s bedroom was just past it, in the bow, where the hiss of water against the hull lulled him to sleep each night. They got comfortable on the richly upholstered couches, Johnny propping his bare feet up and sighing like a sultan. “So, what’s got you wandering the beach this time of night?”
Orli fiddled with the label on his water and looked at his hands for a while. “Someone disappointed me. He said he’d be there, and he wasn’t.” He took a deep breath and looked up. “It made me sad.”
“A lover?” Johnny asked softly.
“What? No, nothing like that!” Orli blushed. “Just an old friend, from before. From New Zealand.”
“Ah, the infamous Fellowship I’ve heard so much about.”
“No, uh, not really. Just a friend. I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if he let you down. You know you can always come and talk to me. I might let you down occasionally, but never intentionally.”
Orli was smiling. “I know. Johnny, about Los Angeles – that night....”
“You were too drunk to remember?”
“Yes.” Spoken so softly.
That took all the fun out of torturing him about it. “Nothing happened, Orlando. We kissed for a while, which was very nice, I have to admit. I don’t usually find men attractive, but you do have a certain masculine charm about you.” It was still amusing to watch the blush on that handsome face. “I took you in to bed and helped you undress, and by the time I’d gotten my own boots off you were sound asleep. Quite the rejection of my own considerable charms, you know.”
“You just let me sleep?”
“Yeah, basically. Stayed and cuddled with you for a while, to be sure you were really going to be all right. You’re quite the cuddler. When you got down to some serious snoring I let myself out.”
“I don’t snore!” Orlando huffed, smiling for the first time in a while.
“Like a fucking lumber camp!” Johnny teased. Orlando got to his feet and moved the short distance to Johnny’s couch. He curled up beside him, like a cat, and leaned in, laying his head on Depp’s chest.
“Thanks, Johnny.”
“Don’t mention it.” He worked his fingers through Orli’s hair, careful of the extensions, amused at the way the shorter pieces wrapped around his fingers. Orlando hadn’t showered yet from their day in the hot sun, but Johnny didn’t mind. He wrapped his arm around the kid’s shoulders and kissed his brow. “You’re okay, Mister Turner. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Viggo
Sand sifted through his fingers, drifting away on the same winds that had created the entire Sahara desert. Showed you what persistence could achieve in even the most unpromising circumstances. He hunched his shoulders against the early morning chill and squinted into the rising sun.
Viggo heard laughter and squeals from another part of the fortress set. The wardrobe girls had found a bunch of scorpions in a pile of costumes, and several of the electricians had captured them for impromptu races and betting. Of course the scorpions would hardly move this early in the day, let alone scurry. And then someone had gotten the brilliant idea of turning a spot and couple of mirrors on them to heat them up, and the resultant scramble of black carapaced bodies had sent grown men and women running, bets forgotten.
“It’s like working with kindergarteners,” Viggo mused aloud. “Except that you can threaten to withhold snacks and send the kids off for a nap when they get out of control.” He decided that he’d have to call Henry and thank him for growing up without any major international incidents or violations of the Geneva Convention Accords. Exene and he had produced a pretty good kid, in retrospect, and Henry already had more sense than at least half of the adults on this film crew.
One of the stallions whinnied shrilly, setting off the others. God, did they have a mare in season somewhere in the area? Just what the movie needed – more horse hi-jinks. Two riders had been sent to the hospital yesterday. The horses were unruly and strangely unsettled in this alien place – even the local Arabians brought in for group scenes. Something about this land seemed to haunt men and animals.
The wind whipped up suddenly, tugging at his clothes and burning away the last traces of chill, giving promise of the scorching temperatures ahead. It was clearly going to be one of those days. Viggo set his jaw and rose to his feet.
Sean
He was just reaching for a dusty bottle of wine when his cell phone rang. Sean fumbled with the tiny device for a moment before getting it to his ear. “Aye?”
A burst of static made him wince and there was a pause before the caller spoke. “Bean, it’s your spook.”
“Where the fock are you at?” Sean demanded, shifting his basket from one hand to the floor. Didn’t need to drop eighty quids' worth of fine wines onto the floor of the local shop. He was a favored customer, but that might end the preferential treatment. “This reception is dreadful.”
“I’m in Guatemala City.”
Sean snorted. “I’ll assume that’s in Guatemala, yeah?”
“Oh, you’re definitely getting better with the deductive reasoning there, actor-boy. I’m using the local phone system. My cell died.”
“Could've e-mailed me again. I got your earlier message.”
“Not likely. Take too much time, and too many taps on the lines. Lost my computer in Thailand.”
“You lost a fockin laptop loaded with spy goodies?”
“Traded it for some stones. Don’t worry about it. Just wanted to tell you that I’m on my way to Mexico, and you should get yourself psyched up to fly.”
“Fly?” he squeaked unmanfully. “Fly? Bloody hell. Does the Colt need me that bad?” A passing customer shot him a dirty look, and he turned his shoulder, trying to lower his voice.
“Naw, the kid is holding out. He’s taking anti-depressants and had some questionable herbal compounds, as well as some vitamins that I’d be pretty skeptical about. But he’s on his feet and hasn’t sprouted another head or anything. Seemed a little fragile, maybe, emotionally. Send your mate the King over to pick up the pieces. You’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“You found another one?” Sean whispered.
“Can’t hear you. Crap connection. I found a lead...could be your boy.”
“He’s alive?”
“Moved to Mexico. Going to take me a night to get there, not a readily accessible area. He was here just a couple of months ago. Family that had taken him in was killed in a fire. He’s gone to a relative. Sounds like he’s healthy and functioning. This could be the one you’re looking for. Locals liked him a lot, but said he was strange.”
“Please,” he muttered aloud, unintentionally. Please, please let it be the lost soul who’d been touching his mind for years now. “You’ll contact me again when you know.”
“Having trouble hearing you. But I’ll be in touch. Good enough?”
“Yeah! Yeah. Good luck, Spook.”
“Mañana, Bean. Adios.” The lousy call was cut off.
Sean stared at his phone for a moment before returning it to his pocket and drawing a deep breath.
“Did you want to try that Shiraz, Mister Bean?” the shop’s proprietor asked, coming up the cramped aisle with an obsequious smile.
“The…? Oh, yeah. I’ll have a taste. If it’s as good as you say....”
“You’ll be ringing me for the whole case,” the shopkeeper assured him. “You’ll be wanting to throw a party just to show it off.”
“I could be throwing a party all right,” Sean said slowly, letting a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Orlando
He woke up to a strange rocking sensation, disoriented for a moment, but not afraid. He no longer had those nightmare moments when he would refuse to open his eyes, terrified that he’d see blank white walls and simple, institutional furnishings. Or even worse, waking up to find someone in scrubs leaning over him with a clipboard or some instruction, or even syringes and needles. God, he hated needles!
He was more curious than anything, and his eyes slid wide while he stretched. The light was dim and flickering softly, reflecting off water outside the uncurtained porthole. More light spilled down the companionway from the back of the yacht, and he could hear terns shrieking over their breakfast. Johnny’s boat. He had been sleeping on the couch in Johnny’s boat. Swinging his legs around, Lambda stretched again while the sleek cashmere throw he’d been covered with pooled in his lap. Oh yeah...dinner. His eyes darted to the small door that sectioned off the bow, where Johnny was presumably still slumbering. The door was open a crack, like the way that a parent would keep an ear on a sleeping child.
It made him feel warm inside for a moment, realizing how much Johnny had put himself out to accommodate a friend. Friend...co-worker...or stranger? Shame washed quickly over the clone. He’d imposed himself, and with no excuse other than his own need. He remembered the comforting arms and the soft words of assurance: “You’re okay, Mister Turner. Everything’s going to be okay.”
God. Depp must think he was a total pussy. Orlando got to his feet as quietly as possible, pausing to fold the throw as neatly as he could manage, and straightening the pillows. Should he leave a note? No, that would be silly. He’d see Depp on set in a while. Orlando moved cautiously, trying to be Elf Assassin silent as he slipped back through the ship and up on deck, jumped to the pier and took off at a jog.
Locals were up and around, as were some of the crew. A few people looked at him questioningly, but he tried to pretend he didn’t see them as he jogged up the street to his hotel. Just a bloke out for an early morning run, he told himself. Nothing to see here. Go about your business. He hated being so self-conscious, but that was what he got for being an actor. No matter what you did or where you went, people would stare at you.
Orlando breathed a sigh of relief when he reached his room. He had his key out, but the door was already open a crack. Oh, yeah, he’d left in quite a huff last night. He’d slammed it pretty hard – probably hadn’t caught. He stepped into the dim interior and had gone a couple of step before registering that someone was sitting on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, legs crossed.
“Mickey?” he stammered hopefully, blinking in the relative darkness after having been out in the bright Caribbean morning.
“No,” said a familiar voice. “Were you expecting company? Is that why your door was open all night?” The Australian accent was softened by a concerned tone.
Orlando yanked open the curtains at the front of the room and stared at Geoffrey Rush in surprise. Rush was reclining comfortably, with Orli’s Bear tucked under his arm and a blinking cell phone in his hand. “What are you doing here?” Orlando stammered, utterly at a loss.
Rush sighed deeply, swinging his legs to the floor. “Not much. Can’t keep an eye on you if you’re going to bugger off in the middle of the night. Viggo’s right to be worried about you, mate.” He stood up, towering over Orlando without meaning to.
“Viggo?”
“Yes, Viggo. Your friend, boyfriend, guardian angel or whatever. He had me keep an eye on you while you were filming ‘Ned Kelly’ too. You really are dense, you know that? Frankly, I’m tired, and I’m tired of babysitting for Mortensen.” He took Orlando’s limp hand and set the cell phone firmly in his palm. “Here. Open it like this. Push this little button, this one, and click to here...now, listen to your fucking voicemails. There’s like sixty of them there, and those people are calling you because they care about you.” He raised the phone to Orlando’s ear and pushed past him to the door. “God knows why,” he muttered softly. He turned to toss the bear back onto the bed and then went out the door, closing it firmly behind him.
Orlando stumbled forward, sinking slowly to the edge of the bed as Sean’s voice implored him to call, just call. He had to know if his Colt was doing all right.
“No,” Orlando whispered, tears swarming, unbidden, from the corners of his downcast eyes.
Elijah
“I’d miss this if I wasn’t living in Los Angeles,” he said, gesturing randomly with his chopsticks.”
“You’d miss Chinese food?” Dom questioned incredulously, speaking around a mouthful of General Tso Chicken. His knees were supporting the carton, bare feet planted firmly on the dashboard.
“Not Chinese, you twerp, but drive-through Chinese and eating it in the car while I’m stuck in traffic on the 405.” Elijah leaned forward to tweak the AC. “Better call mom and tell her we’ll be late. Where’d I put my cell?”
Dominic was still blinking at the thought that anyone could miss eating in their car. “First off, was your mum planning to feed us? Because maybe the take-out was ill-advised. Second, why would you not be living in LA? Third, what’s a twerp, and do I need to smack you for calling me one?”
“Twerp is a term of great affection, honey baby-cakes pookie sweet – hey!”
Dom’s hand had rebounded off his skull. “Now I know you’re taking the piss.”
“Ow, all right? Ow. Don’t hit me. I’m delicate.”
“Like a brick.”
“Yeah, well...mom’s probably going to tell us we’re staying for dinner. But you know what a shit cook she is. If it ain’t burnt, it ain’t food. She thinks that charcoal is one of the required food groups.”
“Don’t dis on Debbie,” Dom warned, taking another swing at him, missing completely. “Oh, look, we can drive forward another, uh, three meters! Things are moving nicely now!” He waved bye to the four kids in the SUV in the next lane as Elijah eased them forward. Time to entertain a new set of motorists. “Your mum is a wonderful lady. A paragon for stage mothers everywhere. She’s a saint amongst sinners, and she single-handedly raised my boyfriend from an obnoxious little brat to an obnoxious slightly less little brat, so don’t you speak ill of her!”
“She once burned potato salad. That takes talent.”
“Talented woman. Pass me another wonton, Doodle. So what’s this ‘I’d miss LA’ shite? You planning on moving back to En Zed? The allure of Wellywood calling?”
“No, uh...well, I was thinking about getting myself an apartment in New York.” He was afraid to even look for a moment. He could feel the silence like a wet blanket.
“Oh. I see.”
This was going to be worse than Elijah had imagined – and he had a pretty impressive imagination.
Mickey
Stuffing the remains of a banana in his mouth, Kostmayer pushed himself through the crowd just enough to ensure that he got a seat on the bus before it was too full. A few distracted students and grumbling office workers were left with the grandmothers who would wait for the next bus. The vehicle groaned and leaned threateningly over the sidewalk before swaying off into traffic like a galleon under sail. Mickey listened to the chatter and exclamations of his fellow passengers, gathering opinions on the upcoming elections.
Antigua had been a stunningly beautiful colonial town very high in the mountains, cradled between three green volcanic peaks wreathed in clouds and mist. It was exactly as Phi had described, but the man Mickey had been searching for was long gone. The remains of the family home had been impressive even in their funereal state. With many rooms around a central courtyard, it had likely been a lovely place behind thick daubed walls and beneath the shade of many ancient trees. The uneven bricks underfoot had been displaced by a powerful earthquake many years before, explained one of the neighbors. Apparently life in Antigua was anything but dull. The nearby cathedral had a gaping crack running right up to the massive doors and across its face. The cathedral had been there for hundreds of years, and would remain despite the heaving earth and equally volatile vicissitudes of the population it served.
The bus veered through interminable traffic of the capital city, past innumerable stores painted in the cheery bright blues of the Pepsi logo. The soft drink company would provide free paint and assistance to any business owner who would consent to the free advertisement. Even houses bore the logo in some parts of town, giving poverty a shining face.
Paint of different hues had been splashed on roadside embankments and prominent rocks in support of conflicting political groups, a code of allegiances too confusing for an outsider to decipher without notes on the shifting climate of discontent and promises.
“Where are you going, friend?” asked a college-aged kid, smiling at him from across the crowded aisle as the bus sighed to a stop, doors opening in a futile attempt to squeeze one or two more souls inside.
“Airport,” Mickey told him.
“Going home?”
“Not yet. Going to the seaside. Get some sun.”
“You need a tan!” the kid laughed.
“Don’t I know it. I think I need a vacation.”
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Ten – In the Dark
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is NC-17
Sexual innuendo, M/M sex, naughty language
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’
which can be found on my website
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!)
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history
NOTE 2: Story takes place in early 2002
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Ten: In the Dark
Johnny
He’d come topside to grab his shoulder bag, worried that it might rain overnight, remembering almost too late that there was a signed, first edition copy of ‘The Gunslinger’ in there. Lightning crackled far out over the calm Caribbean. Depp paused as he heard the guard at the end of the pier talking to someone. He could just make out two figures beneath the security light that one of the grips had rigged for him. The guard let the visitor pass, and Johnny went over to the gangplank to see who it was. Orlando looked up only when his foot hit the deck, and met Johnny’s eyes with a face creased with emotion.
“Oh, uh, good evening, Johnny. I...uhm, is it too late to take you up on that dinner invitation? Or at maybe just come aboard and chat?” A calm, pleasant mask had slid into place quickly. Johnny had no idea what was up, and he was curious.
“Welcome aboard, Mister Turner. Or is it Mister Bloom, this evening?”
“Just Orli, I’m afraid,” the kid said, even though he was still wearing his costume pants, albeit with sandals and a tee shirt. He followed Johnny across the gently domed deck and down the galley steps.
“Bit cramped, sorry,” Johnny said, ducking under a crossbeam and stepping into the small dining area.
Gore Verbinski smiled up at the arrival of company, playing with his ice cream spoon and a last few melted swirls of strawberry. “Hello, Orlando. Johnny said you couldn’t make it.”
“I didn’t think I would, but my schedule cleared unexpectedly.” The kid was surprisingly quick with the lie, and that smile looked almost genuine. But Johnny would have bet the week’s per diem that he had expected to find him alone. Orlando slid into a seat on the low bench, across from Gore, and turned to hand a bottle to Johnny. “Hope you have a corkscrew.”
Gore snorted. “Does the Pope have Bishops?”
“You be nice,” Johnny lectured his director, taking a quick peek at the label. Some shit from the Mount Gay distillery over in Barbados. This would be barely drinkable. They should stick to rum in these parts. He was surprised that it didn’t come with a screw cap and attached sippy straw. “Why, thank you, Orlando. I’ll pop this open and let it breathe.” Let it expire, would be more like it. He busied himself with cork and glasses.
Gore was chatting up his star effortlessly, and Orlando’s mood lifted as he talked about his character. The kid was a blank slate when you wanted to know about his personal life, but he could hold forth for hours on the merits of William Turner. Johnny guessed that Orli hadn’t eaten yet, regardless of the hour, and he dished up a fresh plate of penne, putting the leftover salad on the side and finding the crusts of garlic bread he’d toasted. He slid the food under Orlando’s nose, along with some clean utensils, and the kid started eating automatically. Gore nodded at a plate of cheese and Johnny fetched some crackers and joined them.
He battled back his survival instincts and poured the Mount Gay wine. Gore didn’t visibly wince when he took a sip, which was probably a good sign. Orlando drained his glass. Johnny took a small taste between conversational volleys, and managed to swallow. Not as bad as he’d feared, but still more suitable as paint-thinner or tie-dye than something to savor with friends. He looked longingly at the bottle of Château La Tour Figeac St. Emilion he’d set out on the counter when planning this dinner. Gore went off on some story about when he’d been the guitarist for the Little Kings, and Johnny smiled blandly across the table at Orli.
He’d finished the plate of food and was now cleaning up the remains of the cheese, scrabbling after broken bits of water crackers, nodding and smiling where appropriate. Gore wound down that story and took another sip of wine. Johnny could tell that Gore was glancing wistfully at the St. Emilion as well.
“I hope I haven’t kept you too long, Verb,” Johnny said in a convenient moment. “Know that you’ve got lots of work to do tonight.” He patted the man’s leg under the table.
Gore took direction pretty well, immediately indicating that he was ready to leave. “I’m really sorry I can’t stay and chat some more, gentlemen.” Johnny moved to let him get to his feet. “But you know how it is. Thanks again for the invitation, Johnny. Best meal I’ve had in days.”
“Gracious liar,” Johnny teased, taking his seat again. “Find your own way out?”
“Not too many ways to go wrong in here. Don’t know why you won’t let us get you a nice room ashore, Johnny.”
“What, and give up a chance to be seasick around the clock? No thanks, Verb.” The truth was there were no nice rooms ashore. He was quite happy here on his little yacht, thanks, and Gore knew it. Verbinski was just pissed that he hadn’t thought of renting one himself.
“Well, good night.” Their director left, clumping up the steps with a whistle.
Johnny got up to bus the dishes, piling them up for the maid to do tomorrow when she dropped in, then noticed that the St. Emilion was gone. That bastard Verbinski had snagged it on his way out! Fucker!
“I’m really sorry to just drop in on you,” Orlando was saying softly, fiddling with the spoon Johnny had left him.
Depp scooped the remains of the strawberry ice cream into a bowl and slid it onto the table. “Don’t apologize, Orli. My hatch is always open to you...you know that. Eat up, or it’ll go to waste.” Like Ben & Jerry’s would ever go to waste.
Bloom made quick work of the ice cream, and Johnny smoked a Gauloise and watched him patiently. After the bowl was clean Orli sat back, taking another sip of the wine. “This isn’t very good, is it?”
Johnny smiled. “It’s the thought that counts. How about some coffee?”
“No thanks. Water, maybe.”
Johnny fetched him a bottle of Evian. “Why don’t you come into the salon, Orli? It’s a bit more comfortable.” They made their way forward to the area that doubled as a guest room. Johnny’s bedroom was just past it, in the bow, where the hiss of water against the hull lulled him to sleep each night. They got comfortable on the richly upholstered couches, Johnny propping his bare feet up and sighing like a sultan. “So, what’s got you wandering the beach this time of night?”
Orli fiddled with the label on his water and looked at his hands for a while. “Someone disappointed me. He said he’d be there, and he wasn’t.” He took a deep breath and looked up. “It made me sad.”
“A lover?” Johnny asked softly.
“What? No, nothing like that!” Orli blushed. “Just an old friend, from before. From New Zealand.”
“Ah, the infamous Fellowship I’ve heard so much about.”
“No, uh, not really. Just a friend. I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if he let you down. You know you can always come and talk to me. I might let you down occasionally, but never intentionally.”
Orli was smiling. “I know. Johnny, about Los Angeles – that night....”
“You were too drunk to remember?”
“Yes.” Spoken so softly.
That took all the fun out of torturing him about it. “Nothing happened, Orlando. We kissed for a while, which was very nice, I have to admit. I don’t usually find men attractive, but you do have a certain masculine charm about you.” It was still amusing to watch the blush on that handsome face. “I took you in to bed and helped you undress, and by the time I’d gotten my own boots off you were sound asleep. Quite the rejection of my own considerable charms, you know.”
“You just let me sleep?”
“Yeah, basically. Stayed and cuddled with you for a while, to be sure you were really going to be all right. You’re quite the cuddler. When you got down to some serious snoring I let myself out.”
“I don’t snore!” Orlando huffed, smiling for the first time in a while.
“Like a fucking lumber camp!” Johnny teased. Orlando got to his feet and moved the short distance to Johnny’s couch. He curled up beside him, like a cat, and leaned in, laying his head on Depp’s chest.
“Thanks, Johnny.”
“Don’t mention it.” He worked his fingers through Orli’s hair, careful of the extensions, amused at the way the shorter pieces wrapped around his fingers. Orlando hadn’t showered yet from their day in the hot sun, but Johnny didn’t mind. He wrapped his arm around the kid’s shoulders and kissed his brow. “You’re okay, Mister Turner. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Viggo
Sand sifted through his fingers, drifting away on the same winds that had created the entire Sahara desert. Showed you what persistence could achieve in even the most unpromising circumstances. He hunched his shoulders against the early morning chill and squinted into the rising sun.
Viggo heard laughter and squeals from another part of the fortress set. The wardrobe girls had found a bunch of scorpions in a pile of costumes, and several of the electricians had captured them for impromptu races and betting. Of course the scorpions would hardly move this early in the day, let alone scurry. And then someone had gotten the brilliant idea of turning a spot and couple of mirrors on them to heat them up, and the resultant scramble of black carapaced bodies had sent grown men and women running, bets forgotten.
“It’s like working with kindergarteners,” Viggo mused aloud. “Except that you can threaten to withhold snacks and send the kids off for a nap when they get out of control.” He decided that he’d have to call Henry and thank him for growing up without any major international incidents or violations of the Geneva Convention Accords. Exene and he had produced a pretty good kid, in retrospect, and Henry already had more sense than at least half of the adults on this film crew.
One of the stallions whinnied shrilly, setting off the others. God, did they have a mare in season somewhere in the area? Just what the movie needed – more horse hi-jinks. Two riders had been sent to the hospital yesterday. The horses were unruly and strangely unsettled in this alien place – even the local Arabians brought in for group scenes. Something about this land seemed to haunt men and animals.
The wind whipped up suddenly, tugging at his clothes and burning away the last traces of chill, giving promise of the scorching temperatures ahead. It was clearly going to be one of those days. Viggo set his jaw and rose to his feet.
Sean
He was just reaching for a dusty bottle of wine when his cell phone rang. Sean fumbled with the tiny device for a moment before getting it to his ear. “Aye?”
A burst of static made him wince and there was a pause before the caller spoke. “Bean, it’s your spook.”
“Where the fock are you at?” Sean demanded, shifting his basket from one hand to the floor. Didn’t need to drop eighty quids' worth of fine wines onto the floor of the local shop. He was a favored customer, but that might end the preferential treatment. “This reception is dreadful.”
“I’m in Guatemala City.”
Sean snorted. “I’ll assume that’s in Guatemala, yeah?”
“Oh, you’re definitely getting better with the deductive reasoning there, actor-boy. I’m using the local phone system. My cell died.”
“Could've e-mailed me again. I got your earlier message.”
“Not likely. Take too much time, and too many taps on the lines. Lost my computer in Thailand.”
“You lost a fockin laptop loaded with spy goodies?”
“Traded it for some stones. Don’t worry about it. Just wanted to tell you that I’m on my way to Mexico, and you should get yourself psyched up to fly.”
“Fly?” he squeaked unmanfully. “Fly? Bloody hell. Does the Colt need me that bad?” A passing customer shot him a dirty look, and he turned his shoulder, trying to lower his voice.
“Naw, the kid is holding out. He’s taking anti-depressants and had some questionable herbal compounds, as well as some vitamins that I’d be pretty skeptical about. But he’s on his feet and hasn’t sprouted another head or anything. Seemed a little fragile, maybe, emotionally. Send your mate the King over to pick up the pieces. You’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“You found another one?” Sean whispered.
“Can’t hear you. Crap connection. I found a lead...could be your boy.”
“He’s alive?”
“Moved to Mexico. Going to take me a night to get there, not a readily accessible area. He was here just a couple of months ago. Family that had taken him in was killed in a fire. He’s gone to a relative. Sounds like he’s healthy and functioning. This could be the one you’re looking for. Locals liked him a lot, but said he was strange.”
“Please,” he muttered aloud, unintentionally. Please, please let it be the lost soul who’d been touching his mind for years now. “You’ll contact me again when you know.”
“Having trouble hearing you. But I’ll be in touch. Good enough?”
“Yeah! Yeah. Good luck, Spook.”
“Mañana, Bean. Adios.” The lousy call was cut off.
Sean stared at his phone for a moment before returning it to his pocket and drawing a deep breath.
“Did you want to try that Shiraz, Mister Bean?” the shop’s proprietor asked, coming up the cramped aisle with an obsequious smile.
“The…? Oh, yeah. I’ll have a taste. If it’s as good as you say....”
“You’ll be ringing me for the whole case,” the shopkeeper assured him. “You’ll be wanting to throw a party just to show it off.”
“I could be throwing a party all right,” Sean said slowly, letting a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Orlando
He woke up to a strange rocking sensation, disoriented for a moment, but not afraid. He no longer had those nightmare moments when he would refuse to open his eyes, terrified that he’d see blank white walls and simple, institutional furnishings. Or even worse, waking up to find someone in scrubs leaning over him with a clipboard or some instruction, or even syringes and needles. God, he hated needles!
He was more curious than anything, and his eyes slid wide while he stretched. The light was dim and flickering softly, reflecting off water outside the uncurtained porthole. More light spilled down the companionway from the back of the yacht, and he could hear terns shrieking over their breakfast. Johnny’s boat. He had been sleeping on the couch in Johnny’s boat. Swinging his legs around, Lambda stretched again while the sleek cashmere throw he’d been covered with pooled in his lap. Oh yeah...dinner. His eyes darted to the small door that sectioned off the bow, where Johnny was presumably still slumbering. The door was open a crack, like the way that a parent would keep an ear on a sleeping child.
It made him feel warm inside for a moment, realizing how much Johnny had put himself out to accommodate a friend. Friend...co-worker...or stranger? Shame washed quickly over the clone. He’d imposed himself, and with no excuse other than his own need. He remembered the comforting arms and the soft words of assurance: “You’re okay, Mister Turner. Everything’s going to be okay.”
God. Depp must think he was a total pussy. Orlando got to his feet as quietly as possible, pausing to fold the throw as neatly as he could manage, and straightening the pillows. Should he leave a note? No, that would be silly. He’d see Depp on set in a while. Orlando moved cautiously, trying to be Elf Assassin silent as he slipped back through the ship and up on deck, jumped to the pier and took off at a jog.
Locals were up and around, as were some of the crew. A few people looked at him questioningly, but he tried to pretend he didn’t see them as he jogged up the street to his hotel. Just a bloke out for an early morning run, he told himself. Nothing to see here. Go about your business. He hated being so self-conscious, but that was what he got for being an actor. No matter what you did or where you went, people would stare at you.
Orlando breathed a sigh of relief when he reached his room. He had his key out, but the door was already open a crack. Oh, yeah, he’d left in quite a huff last night. He’d slammed it pretty hard – probably hadn’t caught. He stepped into the dim interior and had gone a couple of step before registering that someone was sitting on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, legs crossed.
“Mickey?” he stammered hopefully, blinking in the relative darkness after having been out in the bright Caribbean morning.
“No,” said a familiar voice. “Were you expecting company? Is that why your door was open all night?” The Australian accent was softened by a concerned tone.
Orlando yanked open the curtains at the front of the room and stared at Geoffrey Rush in surprise. Rush was reclining comfortably, with Orli’s Bear tucked under his arm and a blinking cell phone in his hand. “What are you doing here?” Orlando stammered, utterly at a loss.
Rush sighed deeply, swinging his legs to the floor. “Not much. Can’t keep an eye on you if you’re going to bugger off in the middle of the night. Viggo’s right to be worried about you, mate.” He stood up, towering over Orlando without meaning to.
“Viggo?”
“Yes, Viggo. Your friend, boyfriend, guardian angel or whatever. He had me keep an eye on you while you were filming ‘Ned Kelly’ too. You really are dense, you know that? Frankly, I’m tired, and I’m tired of babysitting for Mortensen.” He took Orlando’s limp hand and set the cell phone firmly in his palm. “Here. Open it like this. Push this little button, this one, and click to here...now, listen to your fucking voicemails. There’s like sixty of them there, and those people are calling you because they care about you.” He raised the phone to Orlando’s ear and pushed past him to the door. “God knows why,” he muttered softly. He turned to toss the bear back onto the bed and then went out the door, closing it firmly behind him.
Orlando stumbled forward, sinking slowly to the edge of the bed as Sean’s voice implored him to call, just call. He had to know if his Colt was doing all right.
“No,” Orlando whispered, tears swarming, unbidden, from the corners of his downcast eyes.
Elijah
“I’d miss this if I wasn’t living in Los Angeles,” he said, gesturing randomly with his chopsticks.”
“You’d miss Chinese food?” Dom questioned incredulously, speaking around a mouthful of General Tso Chicken. His knees were supporting the carton, bare feet planted firmly on the dashboard.
“Not Chinese, you twerp, but drive-through Chinese and eating it in the car while I’m stuck in traffic on the 405.” Elijah leaned forward to tweak the AC. “Better call mom and tell her we’ll be late. Where’d I put my cell?”
Dominic was still blinking at the thought that anyone could miss eating in their car. “First off, was your mum planning to feed us? Because maybe the take-out was ill-advised. Second, why would you not be living in LA? Third, what’s a twerp, and do I need to smack you for calling me one?”
“Twerp is a term of great affection, honey baby-cakes pookie sweet – hey!”
Dom’s hand had rebounded off his skull. “Now I know you’re taking the piss.”
“Ow, all right? Ow. Don’t hit me. I’m delicate.”
“Like a brick.”
“Yeah, well...mom’s probably going to tell us we’re staying for dinner. But you know what a shit cook she is. If it ain’t burnt, it ain’t food. She thinks that charcoal is one of the required food groups.”
“Don’t dis on Debbie,” Dom warned, taking another swing at him, missing completely. “Oh, look, we can drive forward another, uh, three meters! Things are moving nicely now!” He waved bye to the four kids in the SUV in the next lane as Elijah eased them forward. Time to entertain a new set of motorists. “Your mum is a wonderful lady. A paragon for stage mothers everywhere. She’s a saint amongst sinners, and she single-handedly raised my boyfriend from an obnoxious little brat to an obnoxious slightly less little brat, so don’t you speak ill of her!”
“She once burned potato salad. That takes talent.”
“Talented woman. Pass me another wonton, Doodle. So what’s this ‘I’d miss LA’ shite? You planning on moving back to En Zed? The allure of Wellywood calling?”
“No, uh...well, I was thinking about getting myself an apartment in New York.” He was afraid to even look for a moment. He could feel the silence like a wet blanket.
“Oh. I see.”
This was going to be worse than Elijah had imagined – and he had a pretty impressive imagination.
Mickey
Stuffing the remains of a banana in his mouth, Kostmayer pushed himself through the crowd just enough to ensure that he got a seat on the bus before it was too full. A few distracted students and grumbling office workers were left with the grandmothers who would wait for the next bus. The vehicle groaned and leaned threateningly over the sidewalk before swaying off into traffic like a galleon under sail. Mickey listened to the chatter and exclamations of his fellow passengers, gathering opinions on the upcoming elections.
Antigua had been a stunningly beautiful colonial town very high in the mountains, cradled between three green volcanic peaks wreathed in clouds and mist. It was exactly as Phi had described, but the man Mickey had been searching for was long gone. The remains of the family home had been impressive even in their funereal state. With many rooms around a central courtyard, it had likely been a lovely place behind thick daubed walls and beneath the shade of many ancient trees. The uneven bricks underfoot had been displaced by a powerful earthquake many years before, explained one of the neighbors. Apparently life in Antigua was anything but dull. The nearby cathedral had a gaping crack running right up to the massive doors and across its face. The cathedral had been there for hundreds of years, and would remain despite the heaving earth and equally volatile vicissitudes of the population it served.
The bus veered through interminable traffic of the capital city, past innumerable stores painted in the cheery bright blues of the Pepsi logo. The soft drink company would provide free paint and assistance to any business owner who would consent to the free advertisement. Even houses bore the logo in some parts of town, giving poverty a shining face.
Paint of different hues had been splashed on roadside embankments and prominent rocks in support of conflicting political groups, a code of allegiances too confusing for an outsider to decipher without notes on the shifting climate of discontent and promises.
“Where are you going, friend?” asked a college-aged kid, smiling at him from across the crowded aisle as the bus sighed to a stop, doors opening in a futile attempt to squeeze one or two more souls inside.
“Airport,” Mickey told him.
“Going home?”
“Not yet. Going to the seaside. Get some sun.”
“You need a tan!” the kid laughed.
“Don’t I know it. I think I need a vacation.”
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