[October, 2004]
In the end, he'd just say it was a matter of pride.
They'd parted agreeing not to be strangers; even making tentative plans to meet up for a meal were they ever in the same city again. But weeks stretched into months, and entire seasons paraded by with little more than brief telephone calls exchanged between them, more to assure themselves they were still interested in each other than anything else.
Each conversation left Sean with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, which he wrote off as nerves. He filled the void by working on a near-constant basis, accepting a last minute role in a quirky American indie before filming back to back high profile projects. Somewhere in there he found the time to shoot a BBC miniseries and continue his involvement with his beloved Blades. Then a script arrived that changed everything.
After Rings and circuses, Viggo had managed to avoid the limelight and slipped almost effortlessly back into obscurity, turning his attention back to Percival, painting and photography after working in Spain for awhile. Sean's absence was a constant ache and nothing he tried assuaged it in the least. He couldn't ride hard enough, paint long enough, hike far enough to make the hurt go away, and no matter how much he exhausted himself, sleep remained a stranger.
In retrospect, Viggo couldn't say what put him on a plane to London when the trees in Idaho had just begun to turn. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. He told his son as he set out for the airport that he'd try to make it back for Halloween, but unlike years past, he could make no promises.
Viggo had barely settled into his hotel, a mid-priced establishment near Leicester Square that seldom hosted the rich and famous (which made it perfect) when his cell phone rang. A swift glance at the display set his heart pounding. "Hey," he said softly. "It's been a while. How are you?"
"Hey, yourself," Sean replied somewhat tersely, setting down the script he'd finished reading for the third time. Oh yes, he definitely wanted the part. "And yes, it has been a while. I just wanted to ring you to let you know I'm in London for the rest of the year. That's all of it, really."
Viggo sank slowly into a chair, feeling more like a salmon come to spawn than a man acting of his own volition. Had the stars changed? Had Hell frozen? If he believed in signs and portents, he'd have thought the apocalypse was upon them. "Sean?" he asked, his voice more tentative than usual, "I'm not sure why you called."
A familiar upset in the time-space continuum reached out and took hold of Sean by neck. It took all of three sentences to lose Viggo, a new record in his experience. Usually, though, it was the other way 'round. Viggo'd talk while Sean listened with half an ear until some sort of response seemed necessary. "I called," he said very slowly, reverting to American idioms to ensure his meaning actually made it through the tangled thicket of Viggo's mind, "to tell you I'm in London until after the New Year." Even his accent had flattened.
"Yeah, I know that," Viggo replied, slightly confused by Sean's explanation. "I mean, why did you call now?"
Bewildered didn't begin to cover it. "I don't rightly know," Sean answered after a brief pause. Why does anyone pick up a phone and ring up a friend? "Viggo, what are you on about?"
"Oh, I just got into London about an hour or so ago." Viggo's tone was light, just short of airy.
Sean imagined Viggo sitting back in his hotel suite, shoes off (naturally), feet propped on the low table in front of him, examining what was left of his fingernails and picking last week's paint off his cuticles as he casually mentioned he just happened to have arrived in the city moments before Sean just happened to call, as though such occurrences happened every single day. But this being Viggo, it probably did. "You're having me on. Are you working, then?"
"No, I just…well, I have a couple of meetings at Elstree, but they're a bit ad hoc. I mean, I don't have any specific meetings lined up; just, there are some people I'd promised to call when I was back in town and since I'm here.…" Viggo spent a solid ten minutes explaining that he really had no reason to be in town other than he was, while Sean decided that it must make sense to Viggo since it made entirely no sense to him whatsoever. It ended with, "…so when I have a schedule, assuming I do, I'll call and let you know when I'm available."
"Available for what?" He thought he'd been listening as closely as he usually did, but even though his eyes had dropped back to the script in his lap, he was certain he'd have recognized some form of an invitation had Viggo issued one, and he'd not had any chance to issue one of his own. Viggo never seemed to pause for air, which made interjection an art form.
Viggo paced around his cosy hotel room—from bed to chair was three steps—readying the next verbal salvo to be launched in Sean's direction. "I might be mistaken, it's been about a year after all, but that night we had dinner I thought we'd decided we'd do that again the next time we were in the same place at the same time, and since I'm here and you're here I guess I just assumed we were going to try to get our schedules to mesh."
When he and Viggo had first started spending an inordinate amount of time in each other's company, Liv once asked Sean if he ever managed to get a word in edgeways. "He can't speak with his mouth full, luv," he'd replied, "and by that point, I've not much to say neither." The memory stirred up a slew of mixed emotions and Sean shifted in his seat for a wide range of reasons. "Aye, well," he hedged, "when you've a schedule, ring me with it and we'll see what we can sort out."
Viggo provided his contact information, which Sean jotted down without comment. If Viggo wanted to stay in a single en suite, that was his business. All that served to do was reinforce the notion that Viggo and reason decided to remain mere acquaintances at best. A few days passed before Viggo called again with date, time and location and the simple request that Sean join him for dinner at a pub within walking distance of Elstree that came highly recommended by the crew.
A horde of caterpillars took up residence in Sean's stomach—they moved far too slowly to be butterflies and he was convinced these weighed more—as he heard himself accept. It felt like a first date, except they already had a history together and he didn't remember being nervous the first time. The day after they'd dined together, however, had been spent in a haze of lust and confusion that never entirely abated.
Restlessness became insomnia as the day approached and Sean found himself spending nights on the sofa reading the script again. He'd been quick to accept the part. Something woven into the simple story struck a chord, but he decided it was best not to delve too deeply into the whys of it.
After showering, Sean stared at his reflection with uncommon particularity, coaxing each strand of hair into place. "Pub, pub, pub," he muttered as he put on and discarded every pair of jeans he owned, deeming them too tight or too ragged or too new or too baggy. Shirts went through the same audition: too trendy, too casual, too formal, too colourful, until Sean was knee deep in clothing. The weather was brisk and damp, so he settled for classic and warm.
There was no hope for it, really. The only way to the garage from the house was past his daughter, who, despite the open sketchpad on her lap, appeared to be lying in wait. Sean had already told her he was going 'round to the pub, mentioned it casually after his first born had presented him with the monthly diary for the school term with all the important dates circled while inquiring if he had plans for Wednesday next. But Sean never wore wool trousers and black cashmere to his favourite watering hole.
"Where are you off to, then?" Lorna asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Some press thing?"
"Told you already, I did. The pub."
"Not in that get-up. Who with?"
"With whom," Sean corrected automatically. His girls were London raised and he was determined they sounded it.
"'oo wiv?" Lorna repeated stubbornly, rising from the couch and standing hands on hips in front of her father. Her eyes widened as she caught a whiff of cologne, one Sean hadn't worn in a very long time. She leaned close sniffing audibly, then stepped back, a dangerous glint in her eye. "With whom?" she inquired silkily, sounding exactly like her mother just before all hell broke loose.
"Were it your business, I'd tell you, luv, but it's not." Sean replied curtly, receiving for his efforts that look of contempt only a teenager could manage.
"You’re a fool, Dad," she warned, "if you're getting mixed up with him again," special emphasis on 'him' added, just in case he didn't get it.
There were several ways to play this and Sean elected the one most likely to get him out the door in one piece. Sean pulled his eldest in for a quick hug before grasping her by the shoulders and smiling into her green eyes, so like his own. "It'll be all right, Wren, there's a good lass," using her pet name she'd given herself when she was four or thereabouts.
"I'm waiting up," she promised as she walked him to the door, unwittingly making her father feel the younger and with a curfew to boot.
'How do they do it,' he wondered as he kissed her on the forehead and told her not to bother, knowing it was pointless but doing it anyway. Where do they get this uncanny ability to reverse roles at the blink of an eye? Sean gave up trying to decide whether it was a gift given to adolescents in general or girls in particular as he backed the car out of the garage, set off towards Elstree and the place Viggo had chosen for them to meet.
After fighting himself and traffic for well over thirty minutes, he found a prime spot in a nearby car park, donned his camelhair overcoat and then elected to take a circuitous path to his destination, grateful that the streets were relatively deserted. London was teeming with people during the summer months, but now that autumn was well upon them, the crowds had lessened immensely.
The evening air was bracing and Sean turned up the collar of his coat as he walked, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The drive across town had done nothing to calm his nerves and his brisk pace only deepened his agitation. He pulled a pack of smokes out of his pocket, lit one and inhaled deeply. The cigarette did little to soothe his nerves and after one puff, he tossed it carelessly into the gutter as he continued on his way.
Light spilled through gleaming windows, casting a yellow rectangle of warmth onto the cobbled sidewalk while Sean stood outside the pub for a moment, his hand resting uncertainly on the brass knob. He sighed and walked around the block again; not knowing Viggo was a witness to his hesitation. He circled the block once more before convincing himself he was more foolish than even Melanie believed and stepped through the door.
It took a moment for Sean's eyes to adjust and spot the upraised hand near the back of the pub. It was nice, as pubs go, with a pool table, dartboards, a large selection of ales and a full menu. Viggo had chosen well. There were even a few booths, and Viggo had gotten there early enough to set up residence in one. The usual assortment of condiments were organised by colour in the middle of the table and from appearances, Viggo was about halfway through a pint.
The waitress was at the table before Sean had a chance to sit down and he ordered a pint as well, surprised that it was delivered before they'd managed to get all the way through their cautious hellos. Sean gave Viggo a quick once-over and arched a brow at his former lover's attire.
For once, Viggo was in no danger of being tagged as a vagrant. A beautiful hand-woven linen shirt in a thousand shades of blue topped black jeans that clung to his arse like a three-year old to a favourite blanket. He was even wearing socks that matched. His hair was short and very nearly its natural colour and Viggo blushed to his roots at Sean's frank appraisal before glancing away. "I really did just get out of a meeting," Viggo told his ale. That Sean overheard was happenstance.
"Aye, well, when you said this were a pub, I weren't sure if you meant it." Every other bloke was dressed in workaday clothes: jeans, tees, the occasional flannel or denim jacket. Not these two and that neither was a regular was evident from the curious glances tossed their way.
"I ordered for us," Viggo explained as a steaming shepherd's pie was placed in front of Sean and a thick burger was set in front of him. "I thought you'd be hungry and I didn't want to wait. I'm starved."
Sean's eyebrows furrowed at hearing Viggo's explanation. Was this, he wondered, a way to end the evening that much sooner? He didn't know and he nodded his thanks as he spread his napkin in his lap and tucked in. He ate steadily for several minutes, keeping a close eye on his meal as though it might suddenly come to life and make a dash for the door.
Despite his declaration to the contrary, Viggo ignored his meal, instead rooting around on his plate for the perfect French fry and setting each aside when it failed to meet some mythical standard. He glanced from time to time at Sean's plate, but looked no farther across the table than that.
"Thought you said you were hungry," Sean remarked, setting fork and knife aside in favour of resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. "I'll not eat until you do." Sean was not going to watch Viggo spend an hour picking at his food; if his presence was that intolerable he'd leave and wait until Viggo found enough fortitude to actually eat a meal with him. "You managed well enough the last time you saw me," he pointed out, though that evening had hardly been a relaxing affair for either of them.
Viggo took a grudging bite and began speaking before he'd finished chewing. "I dunno. Tonight's had a blind date feel to it," he admitted, washing down his food with a large swallow of ale. "I mean, we know each other, but we don't. Not any more. Not really."
"Isn't that what tonight's for?" Sean inquired delicately. "To see if we want to?" He fished out a piece of meat and chewed thoughtfully. Why was he here? He'd dressed to make an impression, splashed on Viggo's favourite scent, had even changed the bed linens in preparation for Christ only knew what, then ran to the toilet certain he was going to be sick. And for what? To see if he could fit back into his life someone he wasn't certain he wanted there?
"I thought tonight was to have dinner, maybe chat a bit, get caught up," Viggo hedged, trying to read whatever lay behind Sean's guarded expression. He dragged a fry through a pool of ketchup and popped it into his mouth, resisting the urge to suck the salt off his fingers.
The fork froze halfway to Sean's mouth. Perhaps his expectations had been too high. "Ah. Well. All right, then." He set it on his plate, the steam still rising from the potato and bit of carrot speared on the tines, his appetite wafting away on the same slight breeze. He leaned back in the booth, eyes hooded, his gaze fixed on a small spot in the middle of the table. Probably a breadcrumb, he decided.
An outstretched hand reached across the table. "Viggo Mortensen. It's both an honour and a pleasure to meet you." A warm smile graced Viggo's face, reaching his eyes. He knew his palm was clammy, that his hand trembled, that if Sean looked too closely he'd notice that his eyes were too bright. None of it mattered.
Perplexed, Sean took the open hand in both of his, his grip firm though his fingers shook. "I know who you are, Viggo."
"Do you, Sean? Do you really?" Viggo's asked as he withdrew his hand, his voice stretched as thin as his nerves. "What am I to you? Am I a friend? An acquaintance? Little more than a former cast mate? The ex?" He choked on the last word and drained his glass to hide the pain. He felt like a gambler risking it all on a single throw of the dice, praying the roll didn't come up snake eyes.
"Eat," Sean suggested, though it was very nearly an order. He turned his attention to the remains of his supper, refusing to meet Viggo's gaze until the last bite had been taken. Eat, drink, eat, drink until he signalled for another round. It was nigh on impossible to think of Viggo as 'the ex', not when he occupied such a large parcel of cranial real estate.
"I don't know what you are to me," Sean said after Viggo had eaten enough to assure Sean he wasn't about to starve. "Seems as though we've reached a crossroads of sorts, doesn't it? Which path do we take, Viggo? Or is the place where we decide to go our separate ways?" Even as he said it, he knew in the marrow of his bones that the latter was not an option.
"The amicable break-up after the acrimonious one?"
Sean's eyes narrowed as he inhaled sharply. "Is that your word for it, then? Acrimony? Mine's shorter." The words were harsh, unyielding, unforgiving, as though each were fired from a crossbow at close range and Viggo paled as Sean looked on.
Without another word, Viggo rose from the booth and walked unsteadily towards the door, oblivious to the pounding of leather soles coming up swiftly behind him. A hand grasped his arm near the shoulder and swung him around. It was all the impetus Viggo needed. Adding force to momentum, he spun on his heel, his clenched fist landing squarely on Sean's jaw.
The pub went silent. The Boulevard of Broken Dreams grew still. Viggo watched as Sean stumbled back two full body lengths, standing balanced on the balls of his feet, his eyes hard on Sean, his senses stretched out like a cat's. Tension crackled and Viggo was the power source.
"You hit me," Sean accused as he regained his balance, astonished and not a little bit stunned by what had just transpired.
"You hurt me," Viggo countered, his voice hard. "Want to call it even?"
"Sit down, finish your pint," Sean grimaced, "and we'll talk. We'll talk," he announced forcefully for their audience's benefit, rolling his eyes when their collective breath was released. He touched his jaw lightly, wincing when it ached. He'd carry a reminder of this for a few days. He followed Viggo back to their booth, waiting until after Viggo sat before seating himself. "How's your hand?" he asked.
Viggo snorted. "I don't think anything's broken." He flexed his fingers a few times before wrapping his hand around the cool glass to soothe it. "It'll be fine in a day or so, though I might have to cancel my forthcoming engagement as a pianist with the London Phil."
"Prat," Sean returned, his eyes softening.
"Probably," Viggo agreed. He turned his full attention on his companion. "That was low, Sean. I fucked up and I know it. And while I'm sure you're going to hold my feet to the fire, probably for the rest of my life, I'm not going to let you bludgeon me with my mistake whenever it suits your mood."
Sean nodded, his tongue flicking out from between his lips, licking at them nervously. He hung his head as though he were just found guilty and gaze at Viggo through lowered lashes. "Aye," Sean agreed hoarsely. Message received and understood.
***
"I can't get it all square in my mind," Sean confessed. "Since seein' you last, I keep having these thoughts, dreams really." He stopped and threw his darts in quick succession, uncertain of how much he should say. He snorted and shook his head when he looked at his placement: one dart in the 8, one outside the scoring circle and one in the wall.
"I've been having them all along, but they're changing now," he continued as Viggo sent his darts flying: double 13, 20, 15. Two good scores. "I wake and the bed is cold on the side that was yours." He felt the heat rising in his cheeks, but forged onward. 18, triple 3, wall. The dart next to the board took some effort to extract. "At first it scares the piss out of me that you've gone missing and I don't rightly know why you're not there. Then I remember and I'm relieved." As he stepped back behind the throwing line, Sean looked at Viggo's blue eyes, reflecting the hurt they both felt. "That's the one, the usual one," he amended.
"Now though," Sean continued, "it's not relief I'm sensing. It's loss, knowin' the place beside me will never be warm that way again." It was more than simple loss, it bordered on grief; an aching sense that something vital had been ripped from his soul leaving him empty and bereft.
Sean raised haunted eyes to the man standing next to him who at one time was closer than kin. "If you could ask one thing of me, Viggo, knowin' the answer would be yes, what would it be?"
"Not yet," Viggo whispered as the jukebox changed tunes. "I can't answer that yet." He tucked his emotions safely behind his eyes before continuing in the same vein. "There will be time, I promise you that, but this is not the place." He offered Sean a crooked smile before turning to pull his darts out of the board.
They threw several more rounds—Viggo's darts landing within the circle, Sean's well outside it—in silence. Sean needed to talk. He could feel a thousand words bubbling to the surface, though he knew that when the time came, his tongue would cleave to the roof of his mouth and he would be unable to string three words together. His disquietude was reflected in his throwing and Sean found himself pulling many more darts out of the wall than usual.
The final score reflected Sean's inner torment. Viggo had amassed 194 points. Sean had nothing. "Viggo? Let's go home."
Summary: Sean and Viggo meet again after a long time
Rated: PG
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 3931 Read: 933
Published: 05 Apr 2011 Updated: 05 Apr 2011