Half Asleep and Dreaming (VM/OB, R)

[mirabile-dictu.livejournal.com]

Title: Half Asleep and Dreaming
Author: Mirabile Dictu and empress_wu
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: VM/OB, among others
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Viggo learns to see.
Disclaimer: Lies, terrible lies.

A/N: The work that the empress_wu did on this story transcends any notion of betaing; I am proud to list her as co-author. Her sensitivity, intelligence, and insight into the story and the characters significantly improved both. I am beyond grateful to her.

Warnings: Real life timeline not adhered to. Some dialog written in dialect. Copious allusions to Alice through the Looking-Glass.


Half Asleep and Dreaming

~ ~ ~

Alice was up on the chimney-piece while she said this, though she hardly knew how she had got there. And certainly the glass was beginning to melt away, just like a bright silvery mist.

~ ~ ~

Viggo's fingers were smudged with ink; he noticed only because they in turn smudged the journal pages. He stared at the whorls and curls of his fingerprints and found them interesting; interesting enough that he began intentionally smudging the page.

He smiled at the results. Dipping the pen in ink again, he carefully turned a partial thumbprint into a tiny flower, and the smear of his pinky into a grinning crescent moon.

He was keeping the journal for Henry. Although his son had visited him several times, he had school and obligations back in LA. Viggo missed him horribly, a physical ache as if he'd lost a part of his body. Henry was the most important person in Viggo's life and to spend months and months without seeing him, hugging him, kissing him, watching him grow up was almost unbearable. So they spoke frequently by phone and sent each other letters, scribbled mostly on the backs of things -- photographs, envelopes, the covers of school notebooks. And when this grand adventure was finally over, Henry would have this journal, so he'd know that his father had thought of him constantly.

In the journal, Viggo had sketched his castmates, including his horse Ureas, and the scenery, both real and WETA-made. He had carefully drawn his sword, and the ring of Barahir, and his elven brooch. He jotted down song lyrics overheard from the hobbits' trailer, and stories about Sean Bean climbing mountains dressed as Boromir. Like the photos on his make-up mirror, the journal would encapsulate Viggo's journey through Middle-Earth, so he could share this magic time with Henry.

He sighed and set down the pen. Elijah had given him the pen and ink, rather shyly, saying that he thought Viggo would have appreciated the calligraphy lessons he'd had as Frodo. And Elijah had been right. He did love the feel of the pen between his fingers, the slip of the ink, its gleam on the page.

Dom had given him special paper for the journal. Hand-made, lumpy with grasses, sweet smelling, unbleached. Viggo hadn't a clue how Dom had known he'd love the paper, but he'd been right, too. Viggo had carefully bound it, stitching the pages together with a deep green grosgrain ribbon that Billy had given him, one from a set he'd bought for his sister.

And he kept the journal and the supplies in a box given him by Sean Astin, made of wood painted with leaping rabbits and enigmatically smiling cats and trees with curling green leaves. There was a scent to the box that Viggo couldn't identify; it wasn't cedar, or pine, or balsa. He leant forward to sniff at it yet again, and shook his head.

The sixteen months were nearly up. Helm's Deep had been endured. He had had to say goodbye to Sean Bean, a parting harder than Aragorn's farewell to Boromir. Eventually he would have to leave the entire cast and crew behind him. Not something he was looking forward to, despite his desire to be home and with Henry.

He carefully fitted everything back into the box and slipped the lid on. He hated to feel so nostalgic before the fact, so melancholy when he was still here and deeply involved with the filming. He sighed, and lightly tapped the top of the box. Time for a beer, he decided. He glanced at his watch. Orli and the hobbits would be at the pub by now; he'd swing by.

The night was cool but not cold; he was happy to be out in it. He had dithered over wearing his sword. It had almost become expected of him, and he did enjoy the weight of it at his hip, but he didn't want to appear more eccentric than he really was. Which was, he admitted to himself, rubbing his artful stubble, pretty fuckin' eccentric. Maybe he should have brought it, if only to give Dom something to tease him about.

No. No, Dom didn't need any help with that. His latest obsession was the Rohirrim transvestites; that should keep him happy for the night. Viggo made a mental note to do something odd soon, though; he didn't want Dom to get bored. Now that was a terrifying thought.

The hobbits' local was a couple of miles from where Viggo was staying, a fuggy British-feeling pub hidden away down a Wellington back street. Viggo had become used to the warm beer, the bizarre games played with the things they called "beer mats," Billy's pool-sharking, Elijah's drunken demands for pornography, and Orlando's wild dancing. Everyone else had become accustomed to it all, too; they had found a kind of home here, so far from home, and Viggo found himself curiously attached to the place.

~ ~ ~

Wandering up and down, and trying turn after turn, but always coming back to the house, do what she would. Indeed, once, when she turned a corner rather more quickly than usual, she ran against it before she could stop herself.

~ ~ ~

How the hobbits had first found the pub, Viggo wasn't sure. It wasn't easily located; in fact, the first time they'd invited him, he'd given up and gone home, convinced they'd played a joke on him. Now he knew which dark side street to step into, which alley to turn in, which unlit stairwell to climb, and then there was the doorway, brilliantly lit though not visible from the street below, the warm air flowing out with the smell of yeast and hops and, oh dear, yes, vomit and piss.

He raised his eyebrows and stepped carefully, for it was clearly a very busy night. He wondered which of the hobbits were involved. Because, he smiled, the hobbits were always involved.

"Vig!" Dom shouted to him, waving wildly, a hectic flush on his cheeks, his hair tousled and wet with sweat. Shit, it was hot in here; Viggo immediately pulled off his overshirt and tossed it onto a chair next to Dom. "Billy was sitting there, but fuck him," Dom said. He twisted in his chair and bellowed, "Billy! Another pint!"

Billy was at the bar; without turning around, he flipped off Dom.

"How are you tonight?" Viggo asked as he seated himself in Billy's chair.

"Oh, man. You don't want to know about my balls, do you? 'Cause that's all we can talk about, me and Bill."

"Your balls. Indeed. And what about your balls are you finding more fascinating than usual?"

"Their knackers are in a twist," Elijah answered for him, leaning down from his position against the wall behind Dominic to put his arms around his shoulders. "Tell me again about your testicles, Dominic. Please," he whispered seductively, his eyes wide and glittering.

"Aw, Christ, here we go again," Orlando said, rolling his eyes. "I'm sick to death of hearing about your nads, girlfriend."

Dominic did his best to look wounded. "Where's the love?" he asked, shaking his head sadly.

Before Orlando could respond, Billy arrived, nearly staggering under the weight of the pints of beer. He sloshed a good bit out as he set them down, and with his ankle hooked and dragged a chair from another table to theirs, squeezing in between Viggo and Dom. "Okay, it's like this. If Richard Taylor ever comes near me again, I'm fookin' kickin' his nuts right up his throat. Fookin' torture instruments, he's created, special for us, I do believe."

"No shit." Dom shrugged off Elijah, who stood up and stretched, revealing a freakishly white stretch of stomach between his tee-shirt and jeans.

"Gentlemen," Viggo said, sipping his beer. "Start from the beginning."

"Treebeard," Dom and Billy said in unison.

"Come on, Orli," Elijah said, grabbing his hand. "Honest to god, they'll be dragging their balls out for Vig to inspect next. Let's dance."

"Hey, that might be fun," Orlando protested, watching Dom over his shoulder as he was towed away.

"No illustrations necessary," Viggo assured Dom and Billy, who were leaning intently toward him. "Just the story, please."

He listened, trying not to laugh, as they complained at length and in unnecessary detail about their daily ordeal. "And this is just the beginning!" Billy moaned, resting his head on Dom's shoulder, looking young and pitiful. Viggo appreciated the skillful acting even as he laughed. "We have weeks of this ahead of us, weeks!"

Dom slung his arm around Billy and kissed the top of his head. "We'll figure somethin' out, mate," he assured him. "Some way to get back at WETA. Vig'll help us."

"Vig will not help you," Viggo assured them confidently. "Though I will listen to any ideas you may have."

"You have no feeling for my testicles?" Dom asked incredulously.

"None that I'm currently aware of."

"Don't worry, Dom," Billy said. "I care."

"Yeah, but, you have to. I thought Vig would. Breakin' me heart."

"He's just not admittin' it to himself," Billy stage-whispered, and Viggo nearly laughed. He'd lose points if he did, though, so he gulped his beer and mastered himself.

"Maybe that's it," he mused once he was sure he wouldn't smile. "I'm simply not letting myself be aware of my feelings for your and Dom's balls. That seems likely to me." He brightened. "I could get in touch with my feelings. Maybe you should show me the bruises." He stared expectantly as his friends; having thrown down this challenge, he had no idea how they'd respond.

"Dear god," Sir Ian said. "Viggo, my dear, I thought you had more sense."

Viggo sighed with relief. Saved by his knight in shining armor. "That's okay," Dom began, but Ian held up a stern finger.

"No, it is not. As much as I enjoy viewing a young man's private parts, I prefer to view such parts in private. Thus any show-and-tell will take place in more discreet circumstances. Are we clear, young man?"

Dom's mouth twitched and for a moment Viggo hoped he'd lose it, but Dom merely sighed. Billy said, "Sir Ian, ya have no idea what yer missin'."

Ian gestured gracefully. "I shall not sleep, puzzling over this loss."

"Dance with me, Vig," Dom said suddenly, and Viggo smiled.

"It would be a pleasure, Miss Monaghan," he said, and rose, offering Dom his arm.

"Oooh, such a gentleman!" Billy cooed. Ian pinched him, and Viggo's last sight was of them laughing wildly, while he and Dom navigated through the sweaty crowd. Dancing with Dom was an art form, one Viggo hadn't fully mastered, but he enjoyed trying.

~ ~ ~

"You may call it 'nonsense' if you like," she said, "but I've heard nonsense, compared with which that would be as sensible as a dictionary!"

~ ~ ~

Viggo had had to say goodbye, had wept in public and in private, gone home, done the publicity rounds, and now found himself back in New Zealand for what Peter called "pick ups." He felt as if he'd never been away; he was indeed able to pick up his old life nearly instantly, including his relationship with the cast and crew.

Orlando said, "It's like, you know, um, amazing, really amazing, how that whole thing works, you know? It's just sandbags, but it's not, and they had me run up them a hundred times, but wow, I just, you know? So cool." He looked satisfied. "Very cool."

Viggo said, "I see," and took a sip of his coffee. Orlando was stroking Viggo's hair, quite focused on the task; he had just had it cut, and Orlando seemed to be enjoying the feel of it under his hand.

"Did you see? Were you there? I was so into the moment, yeah, you know? That it was really hard, like, to see beyond it, just --" He took his hand away from Viggo's head for a moment to gesture, although Viggo couldn't understand what the gesture meant. Then he lay it again on Viggo's head, as if in blessing. "Pete is fucking brilliant," Orlando finally said, and fell silent, continuing to stroke Viggo, like petting a horse. Viggo let himself lean into the touch for a moment before pulling away.

"Oy! Elf-boy!" Dom slid into the seat next to Orlando. "Heard you were climbing oliphaunts today. Can't wait to see the dailies."

"Sandbags, actually," Viggo corrected him.

"So you did see?" Orlando asked.

"No. But I heard you." He smiled at Orlando, who looked alarmingly gratified.

"It was amazing, Dom, really," Orlando said. "Wait till you see one."

"Sandbags?"

"No, fool; the oliphaunts. Mumakil, actually." Viggo found Orlando's pride touching, really. "You'll see. I think you die near one, don't you?"

"Cunt," Dom said.

Viggo smiled. Merry didn't die, of course, he only collapsed in front of an oliphaunt, and Orlando knew it as well as Viggo did.

"It's all right, hobbit," Orlando said in mock-comfort. "Not everyone can be an elf and live forever."

"How d'you keep your hair so clean, anyway? Rub it with conditioner while out on the battlefield?"

"Boys," Viggo warned them, having heard this argument before. He stood, Orlando's hand slipping down the side of his head and body. "I'll see you on-set. Perhaps."

He was very aware of Dom and Orlando's silent observation of him as he left. He adjusted his cloak self-consciously.

~ ~ ~

"Speak in French when you can't think of the English for a thing -- turn out your toes as you walk -- and remember who you are!"

~ ~ ~

"Dom, you are an idiot," Billy announced. The Fellowship were sitting in a rough circle in their director's chairs, trying to block the wind and stay warm by tossing a hacky-sack around. Even Sir Ian was involved. Orlando was to Viggo's right, as usual, whispering questions to him about their next scene when the sack had come flying toward him.

"Not at my face, arsewipe!" Orlando yelled, batting the sack away and toward Sean Astin, who neatly flipped it with his hobbit foot to Elijah. Viggo kept his eye on the sack while listening to Orlando grouse at Dom.

"He's an idiot," Billy explained again to Orlando in what seemed to Viggo to be an oddly possessive tone, and smacked the back of Dom's head.

"Ow! Fuck, what's that for?"

"Behave yerself, eh?" Billy flipped the sack to Sean Bean, who fumbled it and blushed. "Ah, eye on the ball, Beanie."

"Eff off, Pip," Bean said, and tossed the sack to him. Billy fielded it expertly and sent it to Orlando, who was prepared this time and sent it flying at high speed directly at Dom.

"Fuck!" Dom leapt from his chair, knocking it over, and Billy seized him around the waist.

"Down, boy," he whispered into Dom's ear. Dom glared at Orlando, who scowled back at him.

"I think that's enough," Viggo said mildly. He enjoyed watching the interactions but not the anger that seemed to be brewing between Orlando and Dom lately. He considered both of them friends and disliked discord between them.

"Let's get some coffee," Billy suggested, and tugged at Dom, pulling him away.

Elijah watched, round-eyed, as they went off, until Sean Astin put his hand on Elijah's ankle. "Wouldn't you like some coffee, too, Mister Frodo?" he asked in Sam's soft voice.

"Yeah, yes." He smiled at Sean. "My Sam." They also rose. "Would anyone else like coffee? Vig? Ian?"

"I'll come with you, if I may," Ian said. He picked up the hacky-sack from where it lay on the ground. "I think I'll keep this. One never knows when a hacky-sack will come in handy."

"What about you, elf?" Viggo murmured to Orlando, who still looked irritated.

"Not when he's around."

"What's between you and Dom these days? I thought you were an honorary hobbit?"

Orlando pulled his shoulders up near his ears but didn't respond. Viggo sighed and looked at Sean Bean, who shrugged. "I'd like coffee," Sean said, and tugged Viggo up. "Stay here and sulk," he told Orlando as he led Viggo away.

"What is with those two?" Viggo wondered.

Sean laughed shortly. "Are you really that blind? I thought you saw everything."

Viggo looked at him curiously, but he said nothing more, though Sean's eyes were gently mocking.

That night, he wrote in his journal to Henry, "There is some strange rift in our Fellowship, something I can't understand but think I should. The hobbits are closing ranks."

He stared at the words. He had grown to love his castmates, especially the other members of the Fellowship, and it disturbed him to see Dom and Orlando at odds with each other. He wondered if they'd had an affair that had gone sour, or if they were both after the same person, and if so, who.

Viggo shook his head. Nothing made sense. Sean was right; he needed to watch more carefully.

~ ~ ~

"Contrariwise," continued Tweedledee, "if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be: but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic."

~ ~ ~

Viggo tucked his camera into a pocket of his Aragorn costume; it was a tiny digital one that Elijah had told him about. He was experimenting with it and not particularly happy with the results, but lenses had always helped him focus, and he felt a particular need to focus right now.

Elijah looked exhausted these days, and Sean Astin near collapse. Viggo was worried about them both, but only got to see them occasionally, usually on weekends, although today he was in Wellington at the studios and had slipped over to the studio where they were filming. "It's as though the Ring truly weighs them both down," he'd written in the journal, trying not to smudge the ink. "They are good men and strong, but their journey has been arduous."

Unnoticed, Viggo had taken photos of them while they'd been resting between takes. Sam had been sobbing, and Sean's face was still puffy and red in the shots. Elijah was sitting close by his side, propped up wearily against a polystyrene rock. They looked utterly convincing as Sam and Frodo, Viggo thought; two dear friends pushed almost to the breaking point, becoming more fragile with every day and yet somehow continuing on. He admired them tremendously. They hadn't been at Helm's Deep, but they had their own battles to fight.

As he studied them through the view-finder, he saw Elijah wipe Sean's face with a tissue, twisting his head down so he could see into Sean's face. Sean raised his head, laughing ruefully, took the tissue, and blew his nose. Elijah said something that made Sean smile, and Viggo watched as tears filled Sean's eyes again. Sean pulled Elijah into a hug, holding onto him as if his life depended on it. After a few seconds, Elijah's arms came up around him and patted him awkwardly on the back. They remained like that for several minutes, seeming reluctant to release each other.

Viggo reviewed the shots he'd just taken -- at least one would be worth keeping. He wasn't sure whether he would show them to anybody; the exchange seemed curiously intimate and his camera an intrusion.

Andy Serkis appeared in his view-finder, crouching next to Sean and Elijah. To Viggo's amusement, he saw both of them draw away, as if Gollum himself had approached them. Poor Andy. Viggo thought he had the most difficult role of all. He took several more photos of the three of them, trying to capture the tension among them, but knowing he was failing.

He sighed and left. He had his own work to do.

That night, he went back to the hobbits' usual pub, still carrying the camera. He found Billy alone at the bar, drinking steadily. He was a prodigious consumer of alcohol; Viggo wondered if that was because he was Scots, an actor, or just Billy. "The same," he told the bartender, motioning toward Billy's glass. He knew it would be whiskey. "Where are the others?"

Billy shrugged and looked up at him. Viggo was under six feet, but still had a good four inches on the tallest hobbit, so he sat down and slouched, bringing his face closer to Billy's. "I think they're trying to persuade the manager to let them DJ." He shuddered dramatically. "Brought ear plugs, in case they start up."

Viggo laughed; Dom and Elijah's taste in music was well-known among the cast and crew by now. He tended to enjoy it, but not always, and not always at five in the morning. "So they left you to drink alone? Not very matey of them."

Billy raised his glass to Viggo. "Yeh're here, eh? Yeh're my mate." He clinked his glass against Viggo's. "Skol."

"Skol." He drank; the whiskey was very good, as he'd known it would be. "Billy. What's with Dom and Orlando these days?"

Billy shook his head, his sweet mouth pursed. "Dom's an idiot," he said again, but this time his voice was dry and bitter. "He's always after the next glittering thing."

"Is that it?" Viggo asked, surprised. When Billy didn't respond, Viggo leaned closer to him, trying to see past his shuttered expression. "I thought you and Dom . . ." He trailed off, unwilling to concretize his thoughts.

Billy turned his head, and Viggo felt his breath upon his face. "You thought Dom and I were what?" Viggo shrugged, but refused to drop his eyes. "Lovers?"

"More than that," Viggo said firmly. "I know you're more than that."

Billy smiled, a bit sadly, Viggo thought. "We are, yes."

"That's why watching him with Orlando is so difficult."

Now Billy dropped his eyes. "T'isn't like that, Vig. You don't understand."

"I'd like to," Viggo said softly.

Billy began turning his glass in tiny circles on the bar, watching it closely. Viggo took another sip, then sat his glass down as well. Billy's fingers were making tiny movements, almost compulsively tapping and sliding along the glass. It made Viggo tense, so he rested his hand over Billy's, calming the movement. To his surprise, Billy turned his hand and laced his fingers through Viggo's, so they sat there at the bar holding hands.

Through Billy's hand, Viggo felt his pulse, and a warm, damp misery seeped into him. Billy wasn't drunk, but he was on the way, and Viggo wanted to protect him. "Let me help," he whispered, staring at their joined hands.

Billy squeezed his hand and released it, picked up his glass and drank deeply, then turned to study Viggo. "You mean it," he said. Viggo noticed how bloodshot his eyes were, and smelt the sweet scent of marijuana on his breath.

"You are so fucked up," he marveled, and Billy finally smiled, tears glinting in his eyes.

"You have no idea."

Viggo stood suddenly. "I'll be right back," he promised, and hugged Billy quickly. "Save my place."

He turned and shouldered his way through the crowd around the bar, and then on the dance floor. In the corner, in a glass booth, he saw Dom and Elijah, laughing, flipping through CDs and vinyl. When he reached them, he rapped sharply on the glass and pointed at Dom. "Come here," he mouthed. They laughed but obediently came around to him. He stood as straight as he could, trying to tower over them, and rested his hands on either side of them, boxing them in.

"Dominic, Billy's at the bar and he needs you. Go now." Both men started, but Viggo grabbed Elijah. Dom slipped under Viggo's arm, and they both watched him wind gracefully through the crowd and disappear. Then Viggo turned to Elijah. "I think Sean is going under," he said abruptly. "What are you going to do about it?"

Elijah studied him carefully, and Viggo wondered what he saw. Viggo saw a small man but fierce, more intelligent than he liked people to know, more private than his public behavior would admit. He loved Elijah; not that much older than Henry yet more worldly and injured than he hoped Henry ever would be.

At last Elijah sighed and rested his head on the glass behind him. "I don't know if I should get involved," he said in his husky voice, and Viggo smelt cigarettes and cloves. "I could, but it's complicated."

"Maybe," Viggo said, "but nonetheless he needs someone, and Christine isn't here now."

"Vig --"

"No, Elijah. You have a responsibility."

Elijah didn't blush, but he winced slightly, and his mouth twisted. He sighed again. "You can be very persuasive," he said.

"You have no idea," Viggo said, deliberately repeating Billy's words. "I'll drive you."

Elijah nodded and they pushed their way out of the pub, down the slick and twisting stair, into the alley, and out onto the street. Unfortunately, the nearest Viggo had been able to park was a quarter of an hour's walk away, but Elijah said nothing, just pulled out a cigarette. Viggo put his hand out and after a hesitation, Elijah handed him one and lit it.

When they were back on a main street, Viggo asked, "What's with Dom and Orlando these days?"

For the first time, Elijah looked surprised. "I thought you would know."

He shook his head. "I've been trying to figure it out."

Elijah laughed hoarsely. "Fuck, Viggo. And here I thought you knew everything, especially after your performance tonight. Our guru and leader." He tossed away his cigarette and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "You disappoint me."

"Don't play that game," Viggo said sharply.

Elijah didn't reply for a long time. Viggo's car was in sight when he finally said, "S'not a game, Vig. It's real and painful. And maybe I owe you, since you're taking me to Sean's, but I think it's something you need to figure out for yourself."

There was a note of finality in Elijah's voice that surprised Viggo. He sounded more real than the drunken, giggling Elijah he was accustomed to. Viggo thought he'd just had a glimpse of the real Elijah, the man behind the impish grin and big blue eyes, and that he'd found a stern taskmasker.

It was a longish drive to Sean's place, but neither man spoke. Elijah rolled down the window and smoked two more cigarettes en route, but Viggo didn't complain. When they arrived, they sat in the car for a few minutes, engine idling. Then Elijah said, "Thanks. I know I've needed to do this for a while, but I've been conflicted. Chris, you know, and other things, too. Well, Dom, mostly."

"I know," Viggo said, though he didn't.

"No, you don't," Elijah told him confidantly. "Vig. Listen to me. This traveling circus is finally, finally drawing to a close. Endings are important. End this well, okay?"

Viggo's lips parted, but he wasn't sure what to say. Finally, he just nodded. Elijah patted his hand on the steering wheel. "Well, do the best you can. You always give a hundred and fifty percent; that should just about do it." With that, he opened the passenger door and climbed out, slamming it behind him. He stood looking at Sean's house for a moment, stretched his back, and strode up the path to the front door. Viggo saw by the dashboard clock that it was nearly midnight; Sean would no doubt be in bed and probably asleep, but clearly Elijah didn't care.

As he watched, a light came on over the door, revealing Elijah in his grunge attire. Then Sean appeared, wearing a dark green robe. Even from the street, Viggo could see his welcoming smile. He watched a few seconds more as the two men embraced; they stood swaying on the threshold. "Good luck," he murmured to them, and drove away, back to his own home, to ponder Elijah's words.

~ ~ ~

"The rule is, jam to-morrow and jam yesterday -- but never jam to-day."

~ ~ ~

Viggo began to pay more attention to his elf. "What do your elf-eyes see?" he'd had to say to Legolas at one point, and what a line to get out. Now Viggo pondered what his human-eyes saw. He realized that although the tension was greatest between Dom and Orlando, all the hobbits were a bit short with him these days. He'd been so focused on the two of them that he'd missed the other changes.

How had he not noticed this? What was wrong with him? Viggo had always prided himself on noticing; it was what he did. He was an observer, a careful observer of the world around him, but he'd let something pass without marking it. He felt slightly shamed by this fact, and determined to catch up.

While Legolas was there for Aragorn, Viggo realized that Orlando wasn't really there; he was all elf. The minute he'd put in the blue contact lenses, Orlando was left behind. Returned to London, maybe; Viggo wasn't sure. But he pulled out his camera -- his real one, not the digital one -- and studied Orlando from behind it.

He was different as Legolas. Well, he was an actor and, though young, good, with the potential to be better. As Legolas, he rarely smiled; even his cheekbones looked sharper, just as Legolas was sharper than Orlando. Viggo hadn't been there for Orlando's training, so he hadn't had the opportunity to watch him grow into Legolas, although Orlando and the others told amusing anecdotes about the process. He simply turned into Legolas each morning, and then turned back into Orlando each night.

Viggo snapped the camera, then lowered it from his eyes. Legolas was watching him, sternly, almost disapprovingly, and for a moment Viggo was taken aback. He nodded and turned away, feeling a strong need to put away the camera. He had disappointed Elijah; he didn't want to disappoint Legolas, too.

That was the day Viggo broke two of his toes.

That night, in his hotel room, he stared at them, purple and bulging around the bandages. Fuck, that had hurt. And tomorrow was a day of running. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, cut short again to make the wig easier to wear, but he missed its presence. It seemed emblematic -- actually, all of it did. His broken toes, his missing hair, his sense of imbalance. All tied together in some weird, antipodean way, turned upside and unintelligible. No wonder he'd screamed so loud and long; Pete thought he'd stayed in character, but really, it was frustration at his inability to comprehend this strange little world.

Well, that and it hurt like fuck.

He tried to wiggle his toes, but ow, ow, ow. He took two more Tylenol and went to bed. Less than an hour later, the phone woke him. "Viggo!" boomed John, sounding insanely awake. "You haven't had dinner, I'm sure. Stop skulking in your room and come down. My treat."

"John, thanks, but I'm --"

"Nonsense! Come down at once or I shall come up, and then the maids would talk for weeks. I'm in the lobby, waiting." He hung up before Viggo could protest further. He flopped his head back against the padded headboard. He knew John in these moods; he was unstoppable. Might as well give in gracefully. At least he'd get a good meal out of it.

At that thought, his stomach growled. Viggo knew who would win this argument, and rose from bed, carefully hobbling as he dressed. No shoes, though; John would have to put up with that idiosyncrasy.

"There you are!" John was truly a force of nature, Viggo had decided months ago, and nothing had yet changed his mind. "Come along. Oh, look at your poor toes. My dear, I was most impressed at the dailies! Brilliant job of sublimating your pain, simply splendid work. Careful of the sidewalk; it's been raining. In you go," he held the passenger door for Viggo. Illegally parked, Viggo noticed, but no one in Wellington would dare give John a parking ticket.

"Where are we going?" Viggo asked, not really caring.

"Oh, to a wonderful place I discovered a few weeks ago. Very intimate, wonderful service. I hope you don't mind that it's just the two of us tonight."

"No, of course." Viggo closed his eyes; he still felt half asleep and dreaming. "Why me?"

Unusually, John didn't respond immediately. They drove in silence for a long while, so long that Viggo felt himself begin to drift off. Near hallucinatory images appeared before him; hypnogogic, he thought they were called. Or was it hynopompic? He could never remember. He saw Legolas studying him, concerned. "You're late," he told Aragorn with an elvish lack of irony. Behind him stood Gimli, tears glistening in his eyes, the sentimental dwarf. Why did they follow him? Eowyn said it was because they loved him; if that was true, why then did they love him?

The car stopped and Viggo woke, turning to find John studying him. "You are tired," he said kindly. "Perhaps this wasn't a good idea. But you need to eat, and a little whiskey will take your mind off your toes."

"It's a great idea, John," Viggo told him honestly. "Just don't keep me out too late."

"Or you'll turn into a pumpkin!" John roared, slapping Viggo's shoulder. "Here we are, old man. Oh, the feasting we'll enjoy this night."

And feast they did; John was right. A small place, not much larger than a private dining room, with only six tables. Amazing courses in tiny servings kept rolling from the kitchen in wave after wave. Little birds, tiny fishes, miniature vegetables arranged in toy gardens, in glazes that glistened like liquid jewels. Viggo ate more heartily than he thought himself capable of, the food was so delicious and John's company so cheering.

At some point in the evening, John raised a glass to Viggo, who -- no longer certain precisely what was in their glasses by that time -- raised his in response. "To requited love," John said quietly, and drained his glass. Viggo hesitated; that was not the toast he had expected, but took a sip of his own drink.

"What, ah, is the occasion?" he asked when John plunked his glass down and waved to the waiter.

John raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise. "Why, simply that, dear man. Simply that. A wish that all love should be requited. Do you not agree?" Viggo shrugged, a bit elaborately, throwing his body into his confusion. John smiled. "I think you do."

Viggo shook his head, a helpless smile curling his lips that he tried to hide by rubbing at his beard. Then the waiter arrived and whisked away their current round of empty dishes and to bring yet another course, and Viggo hid behind the bustle, feeling unlike himself. And shy, he admitted silently, shy before John's confidence.

"What say you to the hobbits pairing up?" John asked him over dessert.

Viggo looked up in surprise. "Pairing up?"

"Yes, yes, two by two, like the animals of Noah's arc. Bit odd, but somehow predictable, don't you think?"

Viggo felt speechless. So his intervention had worked? Or was something else responsible? He smiled at John. "Happy news," he said finally, and this time he raised his glass.

"The drunken little bastards. Fornicating their nights away. Bless them all." The two men clinked their wine glasses together, John beaming at Viggo. "God bless us, everyone!" he roared, lifting his glass to the other diners, who laughed and toasted them in return.

In bed for the second time that night, Viggo realized John had been right -- a bit of whiskey and good company was exactly what he, and his broken toes, had needed. He settled back, wrapping the sheet and blankets around him like a bedroll. So the hobbits had paired up. He wondered what that meant, especially for Sean and Christine. Not the sort of thing he could ask.

But how did John know, and why didn't he? Again, Viggo had the sense that he hadn't been watching closely enough, that life in New Zealand was blinding him in ways that he couldn't compensate for. He needed a different filter, a more powerful lens, something that would allow him not only to see things in the distance but close up.

He pulled out the box his journal lived in from its hiding place under the bed. Again, he sniffed at the box, still wondering what the faint scent might be, then lifted out the heavy bound paper, tied with the green ribbon, and the pen and the bottle of ink.

But what to write? This journal was not only his, it was Henry's, too. He dipped the pen into the ink, turning it carefully and tapping it against the bottle. Then he wrote, "We can never know another, we can never know ourselves. We know so little, we see so little, there is so little consolation, and none we can offer another, except our bodies and our love.

"And bodies fade and die, they are as transient as our breath, and love is as insubstantial as the air, and thus we have, ultimately, nothing to cling to, nothing to comfort us, nothing to offer one another."

Well, that was suitably depressing, he thought, staring down at the glistening words, slowly fading as the ink sunk into the nubbly paper. Is that really what he wanted to say to an adolescent who was prone to existential angst already? To himself?

He set the journal aside to let the ink dry before putting it away, clicked off the light, and lay down to sleep.

The next day he had a slight hangover, not surprisingly. He popped some aspirin, both for his head and his foot, and struggled into his clothes. His driver was waiting for him at the front door of the hotel; it was still deep night, without a hint of dawn in the east. By the time he arrived to have his wig affixed, he felt Aragorn stirring. The sight -- and sound -- of the hobbits' trailer made him smile. He would watch more carefully today, he promised himself.

~ ~ ~

"It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards," the Queen remarked.

~ ~ ~

"Run!" the radio squawked, and Aragorn ran, closely followed by Legolas, while Gimli stumped along behind.

"Come, Gimli!" Legolas called over his shoulder, but Aragorn ignored him, focusing on what little trail the orcs had left. Merry and Pippin were still, he was sure, captives, and he would not leave those dear friends in such evil straits.

But shit, his foot hurt. Still, Viggo kept running until the helicopter disappeared again. He stopped and stood panting, resting his hands on his knees. Legolas turned abruptly into Orlando and moaned, wrapping his hands around his ribs, and Gimli limped sadly toward them, Brett looking tired and sore himself. The three huntsmen, Viggo thought, smiling ruefully. Good thing Merry and Pippin weren't really relying on them.

Viggo hiked back to where the radio was tucked under a patch of spiky grass. "Here," Orlando said, and poured him a handful of Smarties. They were the best thing he'd tasted since last night's dinner with John.

"How you doin', Orlando?" Viggo asked his castmate.

Orlando shook his head. "If I tell you, you'll tell the hobbits, and they'll say I'm whingeing again."

"Not so good, then." Orlando shrugged and ate another handful of candy. Viggo studied him. He was always a bit pale, and certainly Legolas' makeup exacerbated that, but after their morning of running, Orlando should, Viggo felt, be a bit pinker. Without thinking, he reached out to touch Orlando's face, resting the back of his hand on his cheek.

Orlando flinched and looked startled. "Sorry," Viggo said, a little embarrassed by his gesture. "It's just." He shrugged.

"S'all right," Orlando murmured, and Viggo realized he was blushing. He stared at Orlando, trying to understand what was going on.

"You sure?"

Orlando gave him a crooked grin, odd on Legolas' face, but Viggo was not reassured. Then the helicopter soared around and the radio started crackling, Barrie's voice barely intelligible through the static. "Oy," Brett said, pointing at the radio. "Let's chuck it over the cliff, eh?"

Orlando and Viggo burst out laughing. If his foot hadn't been hurting so much, Viggo might have kicked it over. "Not today," he said at last. "But soon, very soon."

As they climbed into the copter, Viggo noticed that Orlando had returned to Legolas' stern demeanor, the laughter completely gone from his face. He was sorry. He had enjoyed hearing his laugh. Buckling in, he wondered why he hadn't noticed when that had happened -- that he'd noticed Orlando's laughter, and that he hadn't noticed its disappearance.

~ ~ ~

"You couldn't deny that, even if you tried with both hands."

~ ~ ~

Viggo made a point of looking up the hobbits as soon he had a day to himself. He worked with Ureas in the morning, took a much-needed nap at midday, and then headed out for their favorite Wellington haunts in the afternoon. Not at the Chocolate Fish, not at Fidel's, not at any of the music stores. He stood on the sidewalk, thinking. Where would four high-energy little guys spend a Sunday afternoon?

Playing pool, he decided, at least Dom and Billy would. He headed to their secret pub. He'd never been during the day, wasn't even sure it would be open, but it was a good place to start.

It was open for business, though significantly quieter than the last few times he'd been. He didn't recognize the bartender, and the smell of piss wasn't nearly as strong during the day, but he found Dom and Billy working the pool table.

Very serious players they were, too, he realized as he watched them. They hadn't noticed him, or at least hadn't acknowledged his presence, so he leaned against the bar. "Draw one," he told the bartender, watching them. The crisp click of the cue popping against the balls, their sharp rebound, was the only other sound; for once, no music was pounding nor crowds gossiping. Billy was winning; Dom mostly stood back and watched, and Viggo thought he looked more proud than annoyed at his partner's success.

When the last ball dropped into a pocket, Billy stood and grinned at Dom, who high-fived him. Viggo began to applaud.

"Strider," Dom greeted him. "Fancy a game?"

"Not with you sharks."

"Aw, come on, then," Billy urged, and his smile was indeed shark-like. Well, what the hell. He took a last sip of his beer and resigned himself to losing swiftly. At least he could be graceful.

"How you boys doing?" he murmured selecting his cue.

A few hours later and many dollars poorer, he had his answer. The boys were doing fine. Better than Viggo was, in fact. "Pity," Billy said insincerely, counting the New Zealand dollars Viggo handed to him.

"Real shame," Dom agreed. "I do believe it's the custom of the land for the loser to buy a round."

"Or three." Billy looked up at Viggo, who sighed dramatically.

"Barkeep!" he called, and circled his hand over the heads of the two hobbits. "But no more pool," he added.

"Not much fun anyway," Dom said leading the way to a favored table.

"Fuck you very much, Monaghan."

"Now, now. Don't be a sore loser," Billy said. "There are lots of things you can do that we can't."

"Like what?" Dom challenged him.

"He's better on horses than you."

"Oh, I beg to differ. Have you seen me on my Phony Pony?"

Viggo covered his eyes with one hand at the image. "Thank all the gods, I haven't had that opportunity."

"Well, Billy has. Am I not brilliant?"

"At bobbin' up and down on the thing? Brilliant would be the very word."

"There. So what else is he good at that we're not?"

Billy looked thoughtful, tapping a finger against his chin. "I'm sure there's something, Dom. Isn't there? What about them pictures he's always snappin'?"

The beer arrived them, to Viggo's relief, but Dom wouldn't let the topic go. "Those snapshots? You callin' them art? More like Jackson Pollock than Ansel Adams."

"Well, there is the small problem with those smears of light," Billy agreed sadly.

"Slow down, slow down," Viggo said. "Those smears of light are telling the viewer something."

"Yeah, that ya need a new camera, I'm thinkin'," Billy said confidently.

"And a steadier hand."

Viggo knew he'd never win this contest; he wasn't even sure what the rules were. He sat back and watched the Billy-and-Dom show unfold, resigned to losing a bit more dignity.

But at last he interrupted them, leaning forward and speaking quietly. "The last night I was here. When I drove Elijah to Sean's. What happened?"

"You'd have to ask them," Dom said primly. "I'm sure we wouldn't have a fuckin' clue."

"No. With you two."

Dom and Billy exchanged looks so meaningful that Viggo was sure that several lifetime's of conversations had taken place in those few seconds. Billy shrugged and took a sip of beer. Dom studied Viggo's face as if he'd never seen him before. "Not sure what you mean," he finally said.

Viggo stared back at him, determined to see, to really see what was going on, but Dom stared back blankly, giving nothing away. He looked at Billy, who looked back, his innocent hobbit face firmly in place.

I'm the artist, he told himself. I'm the one taking the pictures, smears of light and all, and painting the pictures, and making the music. Yet even I still can't capture everything.

"How's Orlando doing?" he suddenly asked.

Billy grinned. "I find that an interesting question; don't you, Dom?"

"Fascinating, yeah. Why do you ask, Vig? What's your agenda?"

Viggo groaned, but they were off again, and he could only endure and order more beer. And some crisps, to fill their mouths. Suddenly inspired, he said, "Did you know that Tolkien didn't actually like Pippin? Called him that wretched Took, I believe." As he'd hoped, they sprang on this like dogs on a particularly succulent bone. He settled in to enjoy the show.

~ ~ ~

"I won't be introduced to the pudding, please," Alice said rather hastily, "or we shall get no dinner at all."

~ ~ ~

"You look tired," Viggo said softly to Orlando as they waited for the lighting to be arranged.

"M' fine," he said just as softly, but Viggo didn't believe it and let his expression reveal his disbelief.

"It's been a long day," he murmured.

"They're all long days." Viggo nodded, and after a moment Orlando continued. "But they do seem to be getting longer."

Viggo had noticed that the more exhausted Orlando was, the more coherent his speech patterns. He smiled to himself and patted Orlando on the back. "Come to dinner with me." He realized that he wanted to take care of Orlando, to erase the exhausted expression.

"If I'm still standing," was all Orlando said before they were called back for more running and sword waving. Viggo sighed, hitched Aragorn's belt a bit tighter, and sprang forward.

He remained standing, of course he was; they all did. It was what they did, Viggo thought as he showered off Aragorn's grime. Even Sean Astin, who was clearly nearing the end of his stamina, was standing; he'd watched Sean and Elijah en route to Feet. As exhausted as he looked, he was tenderly embracing Elijah, as if deriving strength from his contact with Elijah. Viggo had smiled at them, but they hadn't seen him; they saw, he realized, only each other.

Orlando was standing in the car park, looking a bit lost. "Dinner, remember?" Viggo said to him, taking his elbow. Orlando looked at him gratefully and followed him to his car. "Sean Bean would never let me drive," Viggo told him. "You have some courage."

"Crazy Americans, driving on the wrong side of the road," Orlando said obligingly, but Viggo could see his heart wasn't in it.

"Hush," he said firmly. "Just slow down, close your eyes. Let me look after you for a little while."

For the first time Orlando really looked at Viggo, and smiled. "I'd, um, yeah. Thanks."

"Eyes."

Orlando leaned back in the passenger seat and closed his eyes. Viggo watched him for a few seconds more, then started the engine and pulled out. He decided to take Orlando home with him. He didn't have much in the house, but he could fix a cheese omelet. There might even be the makings for a salad.

Orlando was dozing by the time Viggo pulled into his driveway. "Hey," he whispered. "I hate to wake you, but you really should eat."

"Mm," was all Orlando said. Viggo helped him out of the car and led him into the house, switching on lights and turning up the heat.

"In the kitchen, okay?" Viggo had dragged a battered armchair into the kitchen for nights like this, and he settled Orlando in it, putting his feet up on one of the wooden kitchen chairs. He poured them both glasses of an Australian shiraz and began to fix them a meal.

"Why are you doing this?" Orlando startled him by asking.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Wine woke you up? Because I needed it. I thought you might, too."

"You've never asked me over before."

"Ah, well." He pursed his mouth; Orlando was right. He hadn't. Why hadn't he? Too busy watching and not seeing. "Sorry. Glad you're here now, though."

"Ta." Orlando sipped his wine. "Me, too." Viggo found a tomato in pretty good shape and chopped it up, then beat the eggs while butter melted in the skillet. After a while, Orlando said, "It's nice here. Quiet."

"I like it. Isn't your place quiet?"

Orlando laughed softly. "D'you know, I'm not sure? I'm usually out partying. I like it well enough, and Liv liked it, but I'm not one for being alone, eh?"

Viggo nodded; he could well believe that. He heard Orlando sigh, but then focused his attention on the omelets, not wanting to burn them. It seemed important that they be perfect tonight.

Orlando woke up even more while eating. "Did you know that all the hobbits are together? It's weird, man. I never thought that could happen. I mean, what are the odds? It's like Pete knew, man, he just knew. You read the books and they're paired up in the same way, you know? Just amazin'." He looked very satisfied.

"Paired up how?" Viggo hesitated and then added, "Are they lovers?"

Orlando laughed, his entire face creased into amusement and making Viggo smile in return. "You didn't know? Randy little guys, every one of them. Bit promiscuous, if you ask me."

Viggo shook his head and wondering again what part, if any, he had played in bringing them together. His face hurt from smiling so hard; he hoped he had pushed things along. None of his business, of course, but he still wanted them to be happy.

"You and Dom?"

Orlando blushed a little, and smiled fondly. "Oh, we had some good times, we did. Nuffin' serious, though, ya know? Not like him and Bills."

Nuffin'. Viggo smiled even harder. "They are quite a team," was all he said, though.

After their dinner, Orlando dried dishes while Viggo washed. They stood in the kitchen working companionably, speaking very little. Orlando was looking tired again, and a little sad. When they finished, Viggo led him into the living room and they settled on the couch, listening to a CD Elijah had given Viggo, some Icelandic group that had created their own language. Viggo delighted in it, flattered that Elijah had found something so perfect for him.

Orlando fell asleep. Viggo watched him, feeling an odd tenderness toward him, and then pulled Orlando against him. He came willingly, resting heavily against Viggo's body, laying his head on Viggo's shoulder, and sighed. "I really needed this," he murmured sleepily. Without thinking, Viggo kissed his forehead and tightened his embrace around Orlando.

"Me, too. We should have done this months ago."

Orlando lifted his head and looked sadly into Viggo's eyes. "Why didn't you? I waited so long."

Viggo felt his mouth fall open in shock. "I thought -- you and Dom. Or Liv. And Liv."

Orlando blushed again. "Well, yes. But no. I mean, it was always, like, you know, a competition. A race. I kept running faster and faster, but you were always ahead of me."

Viggo stared at him. "I'm sorry," he began, but Orlando abruptly kissed him, and Viggo forgot everything else and kissed him back. Orlando tasted of the cheese in their omelet and the wine they'd had with dinner and of his own sweet self. If it had been a race, he thought foolishly, it was one he was glad to lose.

He swung his arms around Orlando and pulled him tightly against his body. He was slim, still boyish, but well muscled, and he was hot with desire. For me, Viggo realized, inflamed at the knowledge that he was so desired. "Christ," he murmured between kisses. "Dear fucking Christ."

Suddenly he pulled back, almost panting. "I'm going to take you to bed," he told Orlando, standing up and hauling Orlando up with him. "Right now." They stumbled up the hall, kissing and clutching at each other. When they reached the bedroom, they stood a moment, staring at each other. Viggo shook his head and they reached for Orlando. "I'm sorry I was so slow."

"Slow?" Orlando kissed his neck and jaw, then licked at his ear before whispering into it, "you were too bloody fast for me. I didn't think I'd ever catch you."

"I'm an idiot," he answered before kissing him again. They fell onto the bed, and even fully clothed, Viggo thought holding Orlando like this, his weight pressing Viggo down, was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced.

They kissed some more and then Viggo began tugging at Orlando's clothing. In his haste to climb out of his trousers, Orlando half fell off the bed. "What's this?" he asked, and Viggo saw the box in which he kept Henry's journal was visible.

"Secrets," he whispered, and then yanked off his shirt. "Later." Orlando smiled brilliantly at him and pulled off his own shirt.

Much later, Viggo remembered the box under the bed and the journal it contained. What would he write Henry about this night? He lay on his back, Orlando curled against him.

"Take what happiness is offered," he decided he'd write. "But you need to see it before you can accept it, and that's the difficulty, learning to see, to be open to the world and its gifts. Open your eyes to love, Henry. Open your eyes to the world."

Well, maybe he wouldn't write exactly that, he thought, closing his eyes and feeling his body relax toward sleep. But something. Henry deserved to know.

And he needed to remember. Although how anyone could forget Orlando, he wasn't sure. He smiled to himself, imagining sketching Orlando, maybe outlining his body, smudging all of him with the glistening ink, even writing on Orlando's body. That's where he would memorialize this: on Orlando's body. He dreamt of sliding ink across Orlando's skin, tracing his muscles, drafting poems, writing words of love on his lover's body.