Elizabeth Perry (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
watersword) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2005-12-22 06:39 pm
watersword) wrote in fellowshippers2005-12-22 06:39 pm
Doors and Water and Bitterness and Sand and Rope, PG-13
Title: Doors and Water and Bitterness and Sand and Rope
Author: Élizabeth de l'Epée et du Mot de l'Eau![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
watersword
Fandom: RPF
Pairing, Characters: Orlando Bloom, Viggo Mortensen, Henry Mortensen, Dominic Monaghan, Billy Boyd (not a clusterfuck ewewewew)
Series: None.
Rating: PG-13.
Archive: Only if you ask, please.
Warnings: Language.
Spoilers: None.
Timeframe: 2005.
Summary: Not to worry, you've got the key.
Disclaimer: This work is complete and total fiction. The author does not know Orlando Bloom, Viggo Mortensen, Henry Mortensen, Dominic Monaghan, or Billy Boyd and is making no claims about their sexualities or relationship(s). No money is being made and no disrespect, copyright, or trademark infringement is intended.
Crossposted to:watersword (friendsfiltered post) and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fellow_shippers.
Notes: I don’t use betas; any errors are solely and completely my fault. Written in an LJ update window while multitasking.
Orlando looks up when Henry kicks the door open, cell phone jammed between his neck and shoulder, and his smile is automatic. "Yeah, so when he turned around -- hey -- it was like he'd never seen her before, I swear." Henry drops his backpack on the floor next to the chair he spawls out in, all awkward teenage grace and Mortensen gravitas. He almost puts his feet up on the table before remembering that Orlando is still watching him. "Yeah, it was," he says, and covers the mouthpiece. "Get me off this," he says urgently, and Orlando smiles again.
"I'm not supposed to be here," he reminds Viggo's son, who makes the 'so? you are here' face. Orlando closes his eyes for a moment, but the muscles at the corners of his lips twitch, and give him away.
Viggo is, in a word, goddam fucking tired.
That's three words, isn't it? Oops. His phone doesn't ring (the churchbells rang and my skin was salt, salt blood) while he's in the shower, trying to rinse off fatigue -- it doesn't work. When he steps out, he has to catch hold of the towelbar for a moment, and stands, swaying slightly (bough in the breeze, winds of change, and you left, beloved) in the empty bathroom. The walls don't even echo with the unheard sound of the phone.
1 MISSED CALL, the thumbprint-sized screen on his cell phone would read if it were turned on. And if he bothered to read it when it was.
Neither of those things are true, and Viggo gets into bed, and sleeps, and never hears Orlando say I love you and I dreamt of you in a rainstorm last night.
Gore takes his coffee black, with three sugars. Orlando pushes the packets of blue, yellow, pink, and white across the wobbly table to him, and sits back. "I see what you're saying," Gore says. "I just --"
You can't see what I'm saying, Orlando doesn't say. I'm speaking and last I checked, this was my life, my real life, and there is no closed captioning for my life!
"You just what?" he asks, instead.
"I'm just not sure," Gore says, ripping over another sugar packet. "We're over budget and behind schedule as is, you know that."
"The worst hurricane season in fucking decades, and --"
"Yep. Blame the director for natural disasters, blame the star for box office." Orlando flinches. "It's a fucking good idea, Orlando."
"Thanks."
"I just --" He shakes his head. "This is the part that sucks about directing," he says grimly.
There is very little that is bad about shooting in Hawai'i. He loves it. He absolutely loves it, no conditions, no questions. He hadn't thought about moving out here for permanent, but now that Dallas had to answer questions about it, he has to admit it isn't a bad idea.
The only bad thing about shooting Hawai'i, about shooting outdoors in Hawai'i, is the sand -- not the sand on his feet or in his teeth or his hair, the sand up his ass.
He wishes he were joking.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh," he said to the empty foyer of his flat as he strips. It itches and chafes and he really really really hates it. He strips there so's to avoid tracking sand through more of the apartment than he has to -- it's all bare wood floors and rattan rugs he can just shake out the window, but he swears he can feel the sand even when it's not there.
"Eager much, Dom?" The voice is as familiar to him as his own, and he doesn't care about the sand anymore, or he wouldn't, except buggerfuckow.
There's no one to play cat's-cradle with here. Billy misses the cut-off circulation, the rope (string) burns, the hours spent melting the fresh-cut ends together with candles. Well, okay, he doesn't, but he misses playing cat's-cradle.
They're filming a movie about the bloody Navy, why aren't they practicing playing with rope? He loops the dirty string over his fingers and tugs. He knows lots of things to do with it, and not just cat's-cradle. Not anymore.
He can make a clove hitch, sheet bend, figure-eight stopper, sheepshank, eye splice, bolin, and a lark's head, but there's no one to play with, no one to laugh at, no one to tie to the bed.
Feedback would be poured tea and named Alf.
Author: Élizabeth de l'Epée et du Mot de l'Eau
waterswordFandom: RPF
Pairing, Characters: Orlando Bloom, Viggo Mortensen, Henry Mortensen, Dominic Monaghan, Billy Boyd (not a clusterfuck ewewewew)
Series: None.
Rating: PG-13.
Archive: Only if you ask, please.
Warnings: Language.
Spoilers: None.
Timeframe: 2005.
Summary: Not to worry, you've got the key.
Disclaimer: This work is complete and total fiction. The author does not know Orlando Bloom, Viggo Mortensen, Henry Mortensen, Dominic Monaghan, or Billy Boyd and is making no claims about their sexualities or relationship(s). No money is being made and no disrespect, copyright, or trademark infringement is intended.
Crossposted to:
watersword (friendsfiltered post) and fellow_shippers.Notes: I don’t use betas; any errors are solely and completely my fault. Written in an LJ update window while multitasking.
I have told you that, no matter how many times you have refused to enter the sanctuary, you have only to knock and the door will be opened to you. I have said to you "Ask and it shall be given you," but you refuse to believe in me. You think that someone is counting your sins, your moments of indecision or recalcitrance, but it is not true. You are the only one counting. I say to you, brother, "stop counting, stop making excuses, stop pretending that the door is locked. I am here at the threshold. Reach out and take my hand and we will open the door and walk through together." I am the door to love without conditions. When you walk through, you too will be the door. ~Paul Ferinni, I Am The Door
Orlando looks up when Henry kicks the door open, cell phone jammed between his neck and shoulder, and his smile is automatic. "Yeah, so when he turned around -- hey -- it was like he'd never seen her before, I swear." Henry drops his backpack on the floor next to the chair he spawls out in, all awkward teenage grace and Mortensen gravitas. He almost puts his feet up on the table before remembering that Orlando is still watching him. "Yeah, it was," he says, and covers the mouthpiece. "Get me off this," he says urgently, and Orlando smiles again.
"I'm not supposed to be here," he reminds Viggo's son, who makes the 'so? you are here' face. Orlando closes his eyes for a moment, but the muscles at the corners of his lips twitch, and give him away.
Viggo is, in a word, goddam fucking tired.
That's three words, isn't it? Oops. His phone doesn't ring (the churchbells rang and my skin was salt, salt blood) while he's in the shower, trying to rinse off fatigue -- it doesn't work. When he steps out, he has to catch hold of the towelbar for a moment, and stands, swaying slightly (bough in the breeze, winds of change, and you left, beloved) in the empty bathroom. The walls don't even echo with the unheard sound of the phone.
1 MISSED CALL, the thumbprint-sized screen on his cell phone would read if it were turned on. And if he bothered to read it when it was.
Neither of those things are true, and Viggo gets into bed, and sleeps, and never hears Orlando say I love you and I dreamt of you in a rainstorm last night.
Gore takes his coffee black, with three sugars. Orlando pushes the packets of blue, yellow, pink, and white across the wobbly table to him, and sits back. "I see what you're saying," Gore says. "I just --"
You can't see what I'm saying, Orlando doesn't say. I'm speaking and last I checked, this was my life, my real life, and there is no closed captioning for my life!
"You just what?" he asks, instead.
"I'm just not sure," Gore says, ripping over another sugar packet. "We're over budget and behind schedule as is, you know that."
"The worst hurricane season in fucking decades, and --"
"Yep. Blame the director for natural disasters, blame the star for box office." Orlando flinches. "It's a fucking good idea, Orlando."
"Thanks."
"I just --" He shakes his head. "This is the part that sucks about directing," he says grimly.
There is very little that is bad about shooting in Hawai'i. He loves it. He absolutely loves it, no conditions, no questions. He hadn't thought about moving out here for permanent, but now that Dallas had to answer questions about it, he has to admit it isn't a bad idea.
The only bad thing about shooting Hawai'i, about shooting outdoors in Hawai'i, is the sand -- not the sand on his feet or in his teeth or his hair, the sand up his ass.
He wishes he were joking.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh," he said to the empty foyer of his flat as he strips. It itches and chafes and he really really really hates it. He strips there so's to avoid tracking sand through more of the apartment than he has to -- it's all bare wood floors and rattan rugs he can just shake out the window, but he swears he can feel the sand even when it's not there.
"Eager much, Dom?" The voice is as familiar to him as his own, and he doesn't care about the sand anymore, or he wouldn't, except buggerfuckow.
There's no one to play cat's-cradle with here. Billy misses the cut-off circulation, the rope (string) burns, the hours spent melting the fresh-cut ends together with candles. Well, okay, he doesn't, but he misses playing cat's-cradle.
They're filming a movie about the bloody Navy, why aren't they practicing playing with rope? He loops the dirty string over his fingers and tugs. He knows lots of things to do with it, and not just cat's-cradle. Not anymore.
He can make a clove hitch, sheet bend, figure-eight stopper, sheepshank, eye splice, bolin, and a lark's head, but there's no one to play with, no one to laugh at, no one to tie to the bed.
Feedback would be poured tea and named Alf.