Summary: Viggo struggles with his son's obsessions and takes a job in New Zealand. Makes a new friend. Learns to use his sword in new ways. Gets drunk & listens to a strange conversation. Plays footie. Hears more Shakespeare than he has in a long time. Takes some photos.

Rated: NC-17

Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo

Warnings: None

Challenges:

Series: Possibly a Mistake

Chapters: 7 Completed: Yes

Word count: 17578 Read: 14729

Published: 30 Jul 2009 Updated: 30 Jul 2009

His agent called around noon to wish him luck. 'Break a leg, fucker,' was his agent's exact phrasing. He pondered firing the guy. Method acting was not about luck, it was about emersion, knowing the character, and not doing it, whatever it was, unless he knew it. Integrity kept his acting honest. It also kept him poor. Such is life.

He arrived at the airport at 3:30, more than two hours ahead of his flight, and was immediately engulfed in waves of travelers. He tried not to look envious at the family saying goodbye to a son, at women hugging husbands, husbands hugging wives, or at lovers entwined. A young couple was particularly enthralled, and he found himself thinking sourly, get a room as he walked by them, then wondered when he had become so staid, so - prudish. So.. whatever he was.. angry. No one saw him to the airport except the taxi driver, who wished him a good trip, but was probably wishing for a good tip. He dragged his luggage to the ticket counter, handed everything over, and asked for the manager, because there was a screw up with the passport. By the time he had paid the extra for the additional weight - he had to bring his paints and his books and his photography equipment - and worked his way through security - e had to wear this particular belt, he reminded himself, it always set off the alarm system -- the voice over the loudspeaker announced the boarding of his flight to New Zealand. Amidst the chaos, Viggo and a few others kept their seats in the waiting area, experienced travelers, who knew that there was no point in standing until their row was called, and even then it would be hurry up and wait.

Eventually, Viggo shouldered his knapsack, heavy with books, a sweater, and his journal, gripped his guitar, and waited in line, noting the two heavyset men in front of him, and hoping he didn't have a seat beside one of them. He hadn't insisted on first class. If he had, it would have been another week before he could get to New Zealand and the director, Viggo struggled to remember his name and failed, said he needed him on the set yesterday. Last week. Last month. So he hadn't insisted on first class. Which was possibly a mistake. What kind of project was this? At the end of the world, Tolkien, and a director who fires a lead a few days into shooting? Viggo shook his head.

Possibly a mistake. It must be. The project resting on him. Shit.

The gate attendant tore off a piece of his boarding pass, and he gripped it between two fingers, the rest of his fingers clutching the strap of his knapsack.

The plane was jammed with people. Who would think this many people wanted to go to Auckland? And on the same day he did? The steward at the door looked at his guitar and frowned. 'Will that fit in the overhead?'

Viggo shrugged. 'It should.' His hand tightened around the guitar case handle. Try telling me to check it in the baggage hold, his eyes challenged the steward. Just try it Mack, I'l shove this up your.. '

The steward eyed him speculatively, and then Viggo saw the flicker of recognition. Having his face plastered all over the big screen with Demi Moore's , or with Gwyneth Paltrow's, had its rewards and sometimes those meant he got to keep his guitar in the cabin of the plane. 'I'll take it, put it in the first class closet, keep it safe for you,' the steward said, reaching for the guitar. Sometimes it meant he got to sit in first class, but not this time. His guitar would have a good ride, though. What the hell? Life's a beach and then we die.

'Thanks.' Viggo noted the man's name. 'Thanks, Paul.' He amended. He shifted the weight of the knapsack further on his shoulder, and a low buzz emitted from an outside pocket. The steward frowned. Viggo rolled his eyes. 'Razor. On-off switch is faulty.' At least it hadn't gone off in security. He thanked his lucky star for that. His lucky star. His good fairy, his guardian angel. Whatever, whoever it was who occasionally reached down to earth, and touched Viggo's life, fixing what he had fucked up soooo irredeemably. And sooooo often. He sighed again. Eighteen months away from home. From Henry. Already he ached for his son. Eighteen months away from his son?s mother. How can I love someone so much who hurts me so bad?

He patiently waited for the line to thin out, so he could edge his way toward the rear of the plane. His eyes flickered to the row headings, noting the letters for the seats. He sighed. 25E. Not an aisle seat. But he had known that. He watched the two heavy-set men in front of him. Shit. One threw his bag on 25 F, the other on 25 D. Probably counting on the seat between being empty, not wanting to buy a second seat, or spring for first class. His fucking luck. Should have waited a day. Another flight, not so crowded. Or maybe the whole project might be *possibly* a mistake. Eighteen months away. Not good. Who would take Henry for the obligatory Halloween trick or treating? Not his mother. She hated Halloween. He considered turning around, but realized that the hassle of getting his bag off, answering questions, the police, would be too much aggravation. Not to mention explaining to his agent why he couldn't leave his son for 18 months. Jesus Christ, Viggo, he would say, rolling his eyes. Do you want a career in acting or not? And Henry. Henry would be disappointed. Aragorn is cool, Henry had said. Okay, Aragorn is cool. And running out of money is definitely *not* cool. And finally he was playing a character that Henry liked, that Henry could find heroic. And cool! Viggo toyed with the idea that Henry and his friends might re-enact bits and pieces of this movie, like they did the movies of their other hero. He pushed the thought of Henry's obsession from his mind.

He looked in the overhead compartment above his seat. Who the fuck brings this much luggage as carry on, he asked himself crossly, conveniently overlooking his guitar nestled in the first class suit cabin. The overhead compartment was already brimming with two draggable suitcases, coats, and briefcases. He looked across the aisle, and figured he could stuff the knapsack into a corner there. He slid his hand briefly into the side compartment, and turned off his buzzing razor. Fucking razor. He made plans to tape it on the first train tracks he found in New Zealand. Buy a disposable. An outer pocket of his knapsack zipped off, and he tossed it on his seat, claiming the space from the two meat packers. The heavyset dudes glared at him. Christ, they could pulverize him, just by sitting on him. He'd be squished flat. Suitable for mailing. Would fit right through the slot at the post office. Viggo stuffed his knapsack into the corner of the overhead and slammed the door down. He stripped his sweater off and threw it on the seat, too and gestured to the man at the aisle. Big fucking deal, so he had neck the size of Mike Tyson's. Viggo could piss against the wall too. Fat neck, small dick, Viggo told himself. The guy was already settled in his seat, but huffed out, and Viggo slid in behind him, settled his slim butt into the seat, and wiggled his feet under the seat in front of him. That passenger decided to put his seat back, and descended practically into Viggo's lap. Viggo had a nice view of the guy's bald spot. Shiny. A bit oily. Oi. It was going to be a very long trip. 13 fucking hours 'should have waited for a first class seat.' Just when he thought it couldn't get worse, a thud hit the seat from behind. A small voice murmured and a woman answered. Viggo shut his eyes. A child. People traveling with children deserved medals. He knew that. Been there, done that. But why did it have to be behind him?

He rummaged through his zip off. The knapsack, for his travels, was one of Henry's brilliant ideas. "?You can put a book you're reading and your journal in it, and pens and stuff you need, and stuff the rest of it above," he had said, demonstrating how it zipped off the main knapsack. "Keep it all together." That after Viggo had lost his pen - his only pen -- somewhere, and then left his journal in the seat pocket. The zip off contained a book, his journal, and a notepad, a few pens, and his portable CD player and some batteries, life savers, chewing gum, a comb, not that he ever actually bothered to comb his hair, some tissues - snot rags, Henry called them - and more music. Henry, who was literate about these things, copied Viggo's favorite songs onto CDs, and patiently explained to his father, who was *not* literate about these things, how to insert the disk and run the tiny player. "But not until the captain says okay," Henry added, "because of the interference with their navigation equipment." How the fuck does a $100 CD player interfere with the million dollar navigation equipment? No wonder that the world is so incredibly fucked up.

Two hours into the flight, Viggo switched disk, and continued jotting down notes in his journal. He was half finished with Fellowship of the Ring. Jesus, Tolkien wrote a great story, but he really needed an editor. The man wrote like a train of thought, and sometimes running on the same track, sometimes not. Someone less skillful would have a train wreck. Someone more skillful would have a.. he hesitated to use the word masterpiece, because Tolkien's was. But more of one. More of a masterpiece. If that were possible. One story line, then another. He was fucking dizzy. Viggo pressed his fingers against his eyes and shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the thighs pressing into him from either side, the dull ache in his butt from sitting too long without moving, the bruise on his kidney from junior?s kicking, and the cramp in his back from being pressed against the seat by Mr. Shiny Spot. The flight from hell.

He had most of the characters straight in his mind so far: Samwise, Frodo, Pippin, Merry, Gandalf, Arwen, Elrond, Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas. Trying to put faces on them was another problem entirely. Gimli, the dwarf. John Rhys Davies. He'd met him once. The man was fucking huge, how the hell does he play a dwarf? Gandalf. McKellen. Fabulous actor. Very gay. Whatever floats his boat. Doesn't float my boat, but live and let live. Frodo. Big blue eyes. Elijah. He nodded and remembered. The Good Son. Radio Flyer. Henry had liked those. Samwise. Sean Astin. Patty Duke's son. He squinted, trying to put a face to the name, and all he could do was imagine a shorter, younger Gomez Addams. Not right. He shut his eyes and concentrated. Goonies. Yeah, that's right. Okay, Henry liked that one too. Astin was good. Goonies. Safe Passage, that movie with Susan Sarandon. And Rudy. Yeah, he was good. Or was it Austin? No, Astin. He sighed. Ian Holm. Bilbo. Boromir. His mind blanked. Who the hell was Boromir? He looked at his jottings of notes from the phone conversations with Jackson. Pierce Brosnan? He shook his head. Fuck. What would his brain be like after another 10 hours on this flight? He sighed and shut his book, stuffing it back into his sack. He looked with annoyance at 25D, who had put up the armrest and whose beefy thigh was encroaching on 25E. He turned his gaze speculatively to 25F, who also had pushed up the arm rest and was encroaching on 25E.

'I need to get out,' he said softly.

Nothing. Nada. Ne.

Viggo sighed, feeling trapped and suddenly a bit panicked. Mr. Shiny Spot hadn't moved. 25F was snoring, practically in unison with 25D. He was wedged in between two linebackers and a guy with a greasy bald spot. A jolt hit the seat behind him. And a kid. Fuck.

Viggo gripped his sack of goodies in his teeth, wiggled up in his seat, and, placing his hands on the back of 25F and 24F, hoisted himself over the man in the aisle seat and landed lightly in the aisle. There were advantages to doing his own stunts. He stretched, and felt the painful return of blood to his back muscles and his butt.

He wandered into the back of the plane, used the latrine, washed his hands, and splashed some water on his face. Shutting the door to the lavatory, he peaked into the kitchen. 'May I sit on the floor here, for a while,' he asked, imbuing his voice with as much misery as possibly. He hoped he looked as pathetic as he felt. The steward raised his eyebrows and shook his head. 'I'm in 25E, go look,' Viggo grumped.

One of the stewardesses, the blonde who had served him his drink, looked quickly and walked back with a smile on her face. 'It's against regulations, she said, but she pulled down one of the jump seats. 'But it's certainly safer than spending your time hanging out in the toilet.'

Viggo read for another hour, trying to sort out the characters and the story. He sketched out the relationships on his pad. Ring. Bad. Frodo. Good. Gandalf. Good Wizard. Saruman. Bad Wizard. He started to giggle, this insane sequence running through his head. Are you a good witch or a bad witch? I'm Glinda the Witch of the North. Follow the yellow brick road. Toto too? Toto too! If I only had a brain!

Yeah, if *I* only had a brain. Viggo was increasingly convinced, sitting on the stewardess's jump seat in the kitchen of a Boeing 747 somewhere over the Pacific Ocean that he didn't. That Henry didn't either. Who were these people? He sighed. This story didn't make much sense. He really wanted some chocolate. Boromir, Man of Gondor. Steward's son. Was he a good witch or a bad witch? Viggo giggled again. A good one. But not a witch. Yeah, Good. Soldier. Good son. Doesn't have much use for Aragorn. Gondor needs no king. Hobbits. Weirdness in big hairy feet. Elves. Wise, strong and very old, Spock-like, with pointy ears.. Orcs. Uruk-hai. Very bad. Now there is a good argument against genetic engineering. Sauron. Also a very bad dude. Galadriel. Good witch. Elrond. Good. Why were there no child elves? But there were once. Arwen Evenstar. He must have missed that explanation. He felt like Dorothy, and way out of his element.

When the turbulence hit, the plane dropped far enough so his ass left the seat and the jump seat slammed up. He came down on the floor. The crew, standing around and talking, looked surprised. The captain lit the fasten seat belt light and the stewardess ordered him back to his prison in 25E.

Once trapped in his seat, Viggo dozed fitfully. The plane bucked and dipped. His music recycled several times and he didn't change the disk. Mr. Shiny Spot put the seat further back, if that was possible, and Viggo could smell the sweaty sticky odor of his scalp, and the mousse he had put on his hair, to poof it up. He looked reluctantly. Whatever the man had used, it was failing him. The hair lay in sticky strings over his pink, shiny scalp. Viggo shut his eyes on the sight and put his own seat back, but the child kept kicking him in the kidneys. A soggy cracker flew over the headrest and landed on his eye. He picked it up, examined it, and decided it was too chewed up to eat himself, so he reached back with his hand, returning it to the owner. He flexed his shoulders and listened to his muscles crackle. This whole thing was a bad idea. His back hurt. His head hurt. He wanted to go home. He shut his eyes and tapped his heels together. When he opened them, all he saw was Mr. Shiny spot. His Birkenstocks didn't work like ruby slippers, because he didn't end up in Kansas. Not that this wasn't altogether bad, but ending up in California wouldn't have been half bad. Disappointed, he drifted back into sleep, and dreamed of Danish cheese and beer and good crusty, chewy bread. Why the hell was Don Quixote tilting at windmills on the Danish countryside? 25D shifted in his seat, his beefy thigh rubbing Viggo's, nudging him awake, and then the man leaned on his shoulder and snored. Viggo shut his eyes and stifled a groan. Could life get any better? His evil side was a sarcastic bastard. Things had to look up. He dreamed he was walking up the stairs to his bedroom, but it was the bedroom at their old house, the house Christine now lived in, alone, or with whomever. He shook himself mentally. Not his house anymore. Thank God. At the top of the stairs the soldier loomed. Layered blond hair. Green jacket, green eyes. Richard fucking Sharpe. Viggo jolted awake.

Now this was a plus. Viggo smiled. A plus, New Zealand for 18 months. No Richard fucking Sharpe. Henry's obsession. And Christine's. The reason he has no television. No vcr. And for that matter, no marriage. A frown creased his brow and he scratched his chin. He had over-reacted there, maybe a bit. You think? Yeah, his evil side was a sarcastic bastard.

It was one thing for Henry to have an obsession. Insulting, somewhat. No, he corrected himself. Not somewhat, actually, he had been outright offended that his son's obsession was some Brit. A poncy Brit with a fancy accent and no doubt a very tight ass. Viggo had had to look at the fellow every time he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. On Henry's bedroom door. On his bedroom door. Inside Henry's bedroom. On the back of the bathroom door, and above the toilet, too. Richard fucking Sharpe, larger than life, watching him take a piss. Looking down his British nose. Richard fucking Sharpe watching him brush his teeth, take a shower, take a crap. Richard fucking Sharpe watching him go into his bedroom, come out of his bedroom. Mocking him. And when Henry played, he didn't play at cops and robbers, no Billy the Kid, no Vietnam heroes. If Henry wanted a movie action hero, what was wrong with some of the guys Viggo had played? Henry should emulate Frank? Definitely the dark side was a sarcastic bastard. Viggo had been in no mood to be generous. He still wasn't. No characters from his movies. No Frank, no Jerome, no Clay. Well those weren't appropriate, but that was beside the point. It was all, always, Richard fucking Sharpe. Pre-pubescent boys playing at Napoleonic soldiers, squealing with glee, creating their own fantasy world in his back yard. Asking him questions about Spanish, getting words for their own fantasies. Toy swords, make shift uniforms. Harper. Wellington. Hogan. Teresa. The Chosen Men? And of course, Richard Fucking Sharpe. Over the Hill and Far Away.

That was a mistake. Fuck! The tune started in his head, and he angrily turned up the music in his player to drown it out. He knew it all. He hated it all. Tall. Handsome. Green eyes. Great lover. His son?s hero. His wife's fantasy. Viggo's limbs twitched. Man, she had been pissed. You think? But so had he been. Returning home, after a long shoot, and a long journey, coming into the house and finding his son and his son's mother watching Lady Chatterley. And he had to walk in on the juicy bit.. , although from what he had heard, the entire production was full of juicy bits. Oliver fucking Mellors butt fucking Lady fucking Chatterley. His rockabilly wife watching with glazed eyes. His seven year old son watching with confusion. What are they doing, Mom? Christ! He had exploded, grabbing the television and heaving it through the plate glass window. The sound of shattering glass couldn't cover up his anguished voice: What the fuck are you doing? And the explosion of the tube when it hit the ground brought the neighbors into the street, to listen to him rant.

Pictures of Richard fucking Sharpe all over the house, even on the piano. You'd think the guy lived with them. He had had enough of Richard fucking Sharpe. Viggo had grabbed the picture off the piano and heaved it out the window too, and the action had released the demons inhabiting his gut. He had grabbed the VCR and had flung it after the television set, and then had grabbed the tapes, all of them, in one armful, and had flung them into the front yard. His wife had yelled at him to stop, but her voice had only fueled the red flames in his brain into a white heat. 'You would rather have Sharpe here than me,' he had accused her tartly. And then, as time stopped, as the sun halted in the sky, the moon turned into cheese, and hell froze over, she had nodded. Was that crack his heart breaking? His heart had thudded in his chest so loudly the neighbors must have heard it. They were all in the fucking street anyway, listening to him yell. And he had nearly shit in his pants.

But his heart didn't break, and he didn't make a mess in his drawers. And the clock on the mantle kept ticking, his watch didn't stop, and the sun set and the moon rose, and no one at NASA noticed that it was now made of cheese. The cracking sound had been a piece of the television popping open. Viggo had turned on his heel and had then and there packed his paints, his music, his pictures, his photography equipment, his books, his scripts, all his rocks and trinkets and stuff he had found, petrified this and that, fossils, funky shells, stuff that was interesting, had great colors or shapes or reminded him of something, or just this and that he had found on the ground and couldn't live with out, or had picked up off a beach, a desert, or wherever - shoved them into boxes. And he had shoved his miserable excuse of a wardrobe into a couple of suitcases, and called three taxis, loaded them full of his stuff, threw the house key on the dining room table, and left. It was one of those days, like reading Faulkner, that never seemed to end and when every memory left him breathless and sweating.

He had felt like a poacher living in two rooms at the Ramada Inn, one room for his shit and one room for him. His room was impersonal, decorated in some bastardization of Art Deco Italian Rococo Historicism, which meant it had no character at all. And he hated it, normally he wouldn?t have fucking noticed, or not minded, but he noticed this, it burned his eyes, grated on his sensibilities, turned his stomach, and he hated every fucking minute of the time he spent there. He tried pulling a picture off the wall and replacing it with one of his own, and discovered that the hotel had screwed the artwork into the walls with cement toggle bolts. Like who the fuck would steal one of these? Maybe heave it out the window or burn it, but not steal it. He had never hated a hotel more, and normally he didn't give a shit about hotels, they were part of an actor'?s life, hotels, trailers, and catered food, the anonymous life on location, but this one represented his failure. He couldn't open the window, and he couldn?t regulate the air conditioning, and he couldn?t control his life, his wife, his temper, nothing the way he wanted it. His son's hero was someone else, and his wife wished there was someone else in the bed. The room was too hot, or too cold, or too stuffy or too .. whatever. His life was too fucked up.

Not one to let grass grow under his feet, he had found a cottage to rent, and then to buy. A room for Henry, but the rule had been laid down from Day One, and it was "The Rule that Could Not Be Broken" -- Henry had that imprinted on his brain: no pictures of Richard Fucking Sharpe, not where Viggo could see them, at least, and no television, no VCR. And when he went into Henry's room to collect the boy's laundry, he assiduously avoided looking at the pictures of Richard fucking Sharpe on the wall. He knew they were there, and when he really wanted to make himself miserable, he would go into Henry's room, stretch out on Henry's bed, look at the pictures of Henry's hero, and tell himself he was a loser. Richard fucking Sharpe was his boy's hero, and his wife's dream. Richard fucking Sharpe on a horse. Richard fucking Sharpe and the Chosen Men. Richard fucking Sharpe, with his shirt unbuttoned, showing his manly chest. Richard fucking Sharpe, looking heroic, the dashing soldier. Richard fucking Sharpe looking noble, the prick. Viggo hated the sight of him.

At least in New Zealand there would be no Richard fucking Sharpe.

He was awake now, the aggravation causing him to grind his teeth and sending his blood pressure into overtime, and he realized that his ears had popped. He glanced at his watch. 4:45 a.m. The cabin lights were on. Enough. He slammed his hand into the chair in front of him. Mr. Shiny Spot awoke with a jolt, and sat up, looking over his shoulder in annoyance. Viggo didn't give a shit. He was tired of being pinned into his seat by a shiny bald spot. He flared his elbows out, and awoke the two sleeping beauties on either side. And he stretched. Twelve frigging hours trapped here. He'd be lucky he didn't have a thrombosis. He wanted two inches of unencumbered space around him. He wanted the latrine. He wanted a beer. He wanted a smoke, some decent food, he wanted to breathe clean air, and see some flowers. Feel dirt and grass under his feet. He could see the sky turning pink, through an edge of window about a mile from his seat. Not a mile, rational Viggo told him. Yes a friggin.. mile, the bastard that was his alter ego snapped back. And he really needed a smoke. And the latrine. Not necessarily in that order.

He consulted his watch again. The end of this interminable journey was in sight. Except he still had to get to Wellington; this was only the leg to Auckland. But he wouldn?t be able to get off this plane fast enough. 18 months. You can survive 18 months away from home. Might even be glad to see Richard fucking Sharpe when you get home. The thought surprised him. Naw. He smiled ruefully. Maybe one of these Brits knew the fellow. Maybe he could get his son an autograph. Why bother? Because Henry would love it, that's why. Christ, only 12 hours from LA and he's already missing Henry desperately. He blinked back tears.