(NO...NO...NO...NO!!)
Sean fights it, as he backs the pickup from the drive and concentrates on closing the big gates with his in-car command. Then he turns the wheel and sets off for that most ordinary of businesses involving daily life - shopping for food. The roads are busy as always on a Saturday, so those (No...No's!!) will be just lurking in the dark of his mind, waiting to pursue him if he should relax for one half-minute.
Swinging into the carpark of the Superstore his eye is caught by a posterz88;: ' That' poster for the television series
‘A Game of Thrones'. Large, black-dark and... there... there is.... (NO...NO...NO...screams his mind.. NO...!!). Sweating, cold, he puts the car swiftly into a space, fumbles the key from the dashboard. The engine falls asleep. Breathing slowly, deeply, holding down his fear, Sean reaches for a token, takes one, but his shaking hand knocks two or three others to the car-floor. He manages to calm himself, cursing this stupid unreasoning panic - no other name for it - that will not leave him, not since the finish of the first series, now a while past. It only now surfaces spasmodically - but last night was terror-filled. He had lain, unable to move, hardly able to draw a necessary breath, frozen beside the slow-snoring warm life next to him. He had not even been able to lift a finger to touch the long, relaxed back, to feel it, to save himself...
Sean pushes the trolley, it crabbing, half-angled, waiting for that woman… (no...No...NO!!). He swallows, pushes, and forces his way into the browny-yellow interior of the crowded, noisy store. Heaving his recaltricant trolley along the rows, he reaches, with only half his mind, for the cereal packets, the sugar "butter..? ...the eggs, better have three small boxes...oh yeah... cheese...?" . He pulls the trolley now, it follows, doglike, leashed to his still-shaking hand. Cheese – oh, this - plastic-wrapped, sweating slightly. "Copycat… I am too," he thinks, still fighting to keep the (NO..No's...) under control. «z88;This pack - or that, (NO...No...no's..)" his fingers linger, touching ..."Oh that, it’s bigger..." (No...no..no's peer, lurking behind the rows of dairy produce).
Sean pushes quickly away, hefting the trolley round the end of the row - using far more muscle-power than should be necessary to guide a normal aluminium trolley - those muscles formed, hardened, grown strong from ..(from the heaviness of IT... the grunt of effort in lifting... the great backswing...NO...NO...NO...NO...M-O-R-E...!! )
He leans, exhausted, against a display of canned dogfood, the stacked tins jiggling, chittering against each other, shaken by his shivers. He fights, as Ned had fought - the doubts, the fears of weakness allowed, (the fear of failure - the never-ending battles....NO...NO...NO...!!) Finally, passing throught the check-out, crumpling the long white strip of paper into a back pocket, he shoves, cursing, the now heavy, still bloody-minded trolley. He heaves (the weight reminiscent....?) the bags into the back, and leaves the trolley beside the collection point. He can’t cope with tricky little tokens just now. He climbs into the cab, and, buckling himself in, firmly denies the wish (the fear?) of looking across at the poster. He pushes the still-struggling NO...No's… away and decides, "Home". He'll get back "Home'" as fast as he can, to where he can really bury those NO...No...No's... there - in the smell of Viggo's hair, his neck, oh his soft warm neck, as he weeps , and shakes, returning the NO...No...no's to their unseen, hidden lair.
He leaves the car outside the back door, gathers the bags in both hands, they are heavy (heavier than...?), backs the door open, and piles the bags on the kitchen table, hearing the clack-flick of tipped plates, left from this morning. (The ‘ no..no...no's are duller now, but so persistent !) His hand grips the banister-rail at the stairs: (that grip is bigger than the hilt of the Sword, the hilt almost too small to enable that great weight - and that length, to be held with confidence). His feet mounting (No...no...NO..!!), the eleventh stair groaning its habitual grumble of pain.
The door at the end of the passage is ajar - tall light shines. The door smiles wider (the no...no...no..'s are small now!). There is a figure, a man, silhouetted against the window, a big man's armspan wide, from floor to ceiling, facing North , away from soft rainwinds, ‘(but greeting the snow, when Winter comes…..) The man stands by a wooden easel, a thin brush poked forgotten in the back pocket of the colour-splattered jeans, the paint from it rubbing, painting the shirt fallen loose, pink on blue, blue on pink… Sean pauses, holding his breath…. a hand dabs brush into plunge of colour, strokes a circle, then hesitates, strikes a long sweep...
The man turns. Eyes regard, head askew, a question? The eyes are grey, the colour of very early autumn mornings, promising the sun. The hand drops the brush onto the low table, reaches, palm up, towards Sean: the eyes now shine as the sun upon the seas, while a slow grin forms round the gapped teeth gripping two more brushes, slicing the face frame.
" 'Lo Vigs, got yer maté, four packets, and I've found some lovely bacon..." his voice cracks. He steps forward, so that the raised hand will reassure his cheek... he is held... safe.... (The no...no...no’s flee, themselves screaming 'no...no...NOoo…NOOooooooo')
The Sword rests, its point weight-pierces the earth.
The Great Sword, spell-forged, its name is 'ICE'
IT WILL NOT FALL TODAY!
Summary: Sean has a bad night sometimes, and it bothers his day....
Rated: PG
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 930 Read: 410
Published: 03 Jul 2011 Updated: 03 Jul 2011