Viggo:
First there was a letter.
It was addressed to Christina Harald, with a return address from some London agency, and Viggo tossed it in the box behind the door with all the other mail addressed to his late grandmother. He intended to mail the box to his mother when he had time, but mostly he just forgot about it.
There was plenty to keep Viggo Mortensen busy. He'd only been in London less than two months, after having taken up his elderly grandmother's long-standing invitation, when the frail old woman had succumbed to pneumonia and died. Abruptly, Viggo was left in London with no income and bills to pay. He'd gotten the relatives notified and gotten Gamma buried, and had no time for anything else, really, before having to look for work.
Good luck struck on that front, and within three weeks of starting to search, he'd found a job with Ground Covers, a reputable landscaping business in the city. They'd taken a chance on him, since he had no working experience in landscaping and maintenance, but he'd proved himself willing to work hard and take on the jobs nobody else wanted. And the truth was, Viggo loved it.
He loved that he could just put everything in the world out of his mind except the cool of the dirt, the clean splash of water, the trickling sweat under his already soaked shirt, the crisp, sometimes almost chemical smell of leaves crushed by accident or intent between his fingers. The endless variety and beauty of flowers fascinated him, but he found he could also be mesmerized by the slow-growing strength of trees and the sometimes stout, sometimes sprawling exuberance of bushes.
And when he got home at the end of the day, to Gamma's small, tidy rowhouse, he could shower, walk down to the corner pub for a sandwich and beer, and go home to peace and solitude.
Peace and solitude were two things Viggo valued, after his hectic career in the States and his multi-act melodrama of a marriage, now well over. All told, he was as content as he'd been in at least two decades.
So he threw the second letter in the box, too.
And the third.
Sometime later, he flipped through the mail at the end of a work day and there, between an advert for perfume and his new (although quite late) issue of The New Yorker, was another letter to Gamma Harald. This was, rather than being from some anonymous city bureaucracy, was from the law firm of Caldwell, Massey and Bean. The name sounded familiar. Upon consideration, Viggo decided that Ground Covers must do their landscaping. For some reason he was associating the name with Japanese red maples and chrysanthemums.
Viggo almost opened it. He wasn't a stupid man; he knew that letters from lawyers were rarely good things. But he decided to wait til after dinner and put it down on the entry table.
A while later when he strode out, clean and damp and smelling of Old Spice, the breeze of the closing door wafted the envelope into the waiting box with all the other mail. And by the time Viggo arrived home yawning, tipsy and ready for bed, he'd forgotten all about it.
Sean:
He never expected a reply to a Vacate Order on the first mailing. In fact, in almost twenty years, Sean Bean couldn’t remember a single instance when he received one. Even after the second letter, a reply was somewhat less than rare, but after the third attempt, without answer, he knew none would be coming. Inconvenient as bloody hell, as this now required him to make a personal visit. And damn, if he didn’t hate that.
He instructed his driver, employed of course by the firm, to pick him up at precisely 10:00 am. The property was only four miles away, but with London traffic it could take an hour, and he had a lunch appointment to keep.
Pulling up to the address, the buildings weren’t much different than many he had seen before; old row houses, decades old, most likely being held together by nothing more than layers and layers of paint. He wasn’t particularly happy about this aspect of his job, when redevelopment pushed people from their homes, but he knew they were being paid a decent price for their homes, the only fact that allowed him to sleep at night.
Getting out of the car he took the few short paces across the sidewalk, up 5 steps, and knocked on the seemingly ancient oak door.
Viggo:
Viggo was staring at one of the backyard birdbaths, sipping mid-morning coffee, when the knock came. Blinking slowly out of his reverie, he glanced at the cheap apple-shaped clock on the wall: 10:40. Who did he know who was likely to come calling at 10:40 on a Tuesday morning?
Ummmm.... Well... Nobody, actually. Which made the knock a bit of a mystery, and Viggo liked mysteries. Kept his mind off things like really wishing he had a thick, juicy steak. With steak fries. And Texas toast. And maybe some baked beans on the side.
Gah. Don't think about that. Grabbing the generic cane leaning against his chair, he lifted his foot off the box he'd been using as a footstool, stood, and limped to the door. Just in case it was the vicar out there - which would be weird, but then London had proved to be full of weird - he paused to brush any toast crumbs from his plain blue tee before he opened the door.
"Can I help you?" was out of his mouth before he properly registered that it wasn't the vicar, or a fund-raising lady, or a kid trying to sell magazines. It was, in fact, an unhappy looking but quite nice-looking man. Dressed very well.
Viggo flicked a glance from the man to the sleek car waiting at the curb. With a driver, he noted. Self-consciously, he shook his long, shaggy hair back behind his shoulders and looked back at the nicely dressed man.
"This doesn't look promising," he said. "Unless you're here to tell me somebody's died and left me their fortune. Are you likely to tell me that?"
Sean:
The visual he expected when the door was open, was that of an aging woman. Christina Harald was 82 years-old last he checked, and the figure standing before him was definately not her. And, when he spoke, the accent decidely American, he double checked the address on his papers and the one above the door.
"No, actually I'm not," Sean said. "I'm looking for one Mrs. Christina Harald. Might I find her here?" Looking back down at his file, he barely took note of the man's appearance.
Viggo:
"Not lately," Viggo said. "If you really need her, you can find her at St. Peter's on Quayside. She's out back. Resting."
Nice looking dude. Gorgeous voice. Too bad about that corn cob apparently stuck up his butt.
Sean:
"Well, that's going to cause a bit of diffi..." he stopped himself before appearing a complete cad. "My apologies." He extended his hand to the man standing in the doorway.
"Sean Bean of Caldwell, Massey and Bean. My condolences, of course. Are you related to Mrs. Harald?"
Viggo:
Viggo took the proffered hand for a polite shake. Good hand, strong, not too soft (which he'd expected, given the clothes and the car). Viggo couldn't help noticing that Bean's hand was beautifully manicured, which led him to glance at his own.
Which was slightly dingy with ground-in dirt as usual and he hadn't cleaned under nails for ... oh... a while. Not specifically. Hmmm.
"Uh, yeah," he answered, dragging his attention from the man's hand and back to his face. "I'm her grandson."
Caldwell, Massey and Bean. That rang a bell. Abruptly Viggo remembered a letter, or maybe two. Or so. "What can I do for ya, Mr. Bean?"
Sean:
Sean glanced down at the hand that had taken his, noticing the well used hands, tanned and strong. He wasn't a mechanic, Bean deduced, no oil, no petrol smell, but definately a working man's hands.
"I'm here regarding the letters, from my firm. Have you recieved them, Mr....erm...is it Harald?"
Viggo:
"Mortensen," Viggo supplied easily. "And I think I remember a letter. Maybe two?"
Viggo knew he was no good at the practical details of daily life. If he hadn't already known it, he'd been more than fully informed during the course of his rowdy divorce from Gillian. He could keep up with things he'd read twenty years ago, the care and propagation of an unknown but growing number of plants, the winners of all the Kentucky Derbies ever, but balance a checkbook?
Ha.
Remember to pay bills on time? It took some doing. He knew it was probably not the best idea to keep all of Gamma Harald's mail in a box without opening it, but damn. He really didn't want to ... he just never thought of it.
Except now there was a fancy man with a fancy car on the doorstep and it looked like the chickens had come home to roost.
"I'm guessing... umm... maybe I should've opened one?" Feeling like the idiot he no doubt was, he gave Bean a crooked sheepish grin.
Sean:
"Well, yes, you should have, Mr. Mortensen. But, considering the circumstances, it's understandable. You wouldn't mind if I came in, would you," he asked, hoping to take care of business quickly.
Sean Bean rarely entered a property that he was about to seize. He found it much easier to displace himself from what was actually taking place if he just kept his face buried in the paperwork. Unfortunately, there were times when he had to do just that.
"If I'm not here at a bad time, that is."
Viggo:
"Ahhhh... no, not a bad time," Viggo said, limping backwards enough to open the door to the man. "Come on in."
He glanced around, beyond the tiny, completely bare foyer to the small living room still furnished with his grandmother's battered old furniture and the few items he'd picked up at thrift shops. And, of course, the cardboard box ottoman.
"Not much to look at, I'm afraid," he said after a moment, limping into the living room. "Y'want some coffee? Fraid I don't have any tea."
Sean:
Sean glanced around the room, not unlike some he had seen before. The barest remnants of a long life, the last furniture that she and he husband had likely bought together, staying in one piece just long enough, until...
"I'm fine, thank you," he replied, looking for a place to take a seat. He opted for a kitchen chair, as the table would be useful.
"Mr. Mortensen, the reason for my visit is two fold. First, because I obviously never received a reply to my three letters, and secondly to inform Mrs. Harald, and now of course, you, of the status of the redevelopment project in this area. May I ask, are you your grandmother's legal heir?"
Viggo:
Hoooo boy.
Viggo limped over to his favorite chair to pick up his coffee cup, then settled down at the table with the visitor, who suddenly seemed to have "lawyer" written all over him. Viggo really really didn't like lawyers. Gillian's very fine lawyers had essentially cleaned him out, leaving him for all intents and purposes a pauper. Damn lawyers.
"I really don't know," he admitted slowly. "I guess maybe so?"
He glanced at the window into the back yard, where a pair of jays were either courting or attempting murder. With birds, as with humans, sometimes it was hard to tell which was which.
"Redevelopment?" That didn't sound good. "What? Like, improving the houses?"
Sean:
"Well, no...not exactly," Sean said, opening the file folder. "This entire block has been condemned. The letters if you had read them, would have advised your Grandmother that she would be duly compensated for the property and that she had 60 days to vacate. Unfortunately, that time has now reduced itself to two weeks."
Handing a copy of the original letter over to Mr. Mortensen, Sean apologized. He studied the man for the first time, as he read. American, yes, but undoubtedly of Danish heritage. The strong jaw and square chin didn't lie.
"I'm sure this is quite inconvenient for you, but the project is required to start on time, regardless."
Viggo:
"Condemned?" Viggo's brain stam-stuttered to a jarring halt at that word. "What?" Flailing for something to latch on to, his reeling mind grabbed the nearest similar thought.
"This doesn't have anything to do with a hyperspace bypass, does it?" His beer was all temporarily gone, but at least he had a towel.
Shit, Mortensen, you really are as nuts as Gilly said.
Sean:
"It has to do with the redevelopment of areas that have been deemed officially blighted. The structures here are no longer safe, refitting them is economically not feasible."
He eyed the man, almost passingly, when Viggo clenched the towel in his hand.
"You have 14 days, Mr. Mortenson. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do to change that. I suggest you find lodging soon, or pack what you can and return to the States." His voice sounded colder than he intended.
Viggo:
"Whoa, whoa, whoa...." Viggo said, frowning. "What? Are you telling me I've got no say in this? I... I'll get a lawyer. I'll take it to court."
Yeah, like in his dreams he could afford a lawyer, but this guy didn't know that, right?
Sean:
"You are welcome to do whatever you wish, Mr. Mortensen, but I would not suggest it. You would be wasting your hard earned money." He stood from the table, walked around the back of the chair and pushed it in.
"I've been doing this for over 20 years," he said, internally bristling at the thought of that. "I can tell you, you will not win."
Viggo:
"Wait! Where do you think you're going?" Viggo stood, too, teetering a bit as he accidentally put full weight on the sprained ankle.
"You just come in here to tell me I have to leave my house in two weeks and then you're just gonna leave? I mean, what am supposed to do? I don't have anywhere else to stay. What am I supposed to do with Gamma's stuff?"
Damn, he didn't particularly like to let this dude see him in a panic, but... fuck... he hadn't even been in England a whole year yet. He was still nervous of the underground. They wouldn't let him drive the truck at work because he'd absentmindedly driven on the wrong side of the road once. Once, dammit. He still smarted over that.
Sean:
He saw the man flinch when he took a step forward, and Sean silently chastised himself for not paying attention to the cane sooner. Somewhere along the line the coldness overshadowed the man he really was, and he could only believe that it was some sort of survival mechanism. Getting too close only caused trouble.
"I'm going back to my office, Mr. Mortensen," Bean said, flatly. "And what you do with Mrs. Harald's possessions or where you stay is none of my concern. Just be vacated by the 23 of May, or you'll be greeted by the Constable. Tea will not be required."
Spinning quickly on his heel, he walked to the door.
"Oh, and Mr. Mortensen," he said without turning back. "Opening your mail in a timely manner will usually prevent such incidences. I suggest you remember that in the future." He walked out the door, letting it close behind him and climbed into the back of the car.
Viggo:
Viggo stood there, stunned, a dozen things he wanted to say tearing through his mind. At least 13 of them were profanities. But the door closed before he could knock open the mental logjam, and Mr. Sean Bean of Caldwell, Massey and Bean was gone.
Well fuck you very much.
He turned slowly and looked at the small, near-empty living room. The small kitchen with Gamma's pots and pans, and her dishes from before the first world war. Two weeks. Two weeks. Shit.
Viggo hobbled back to the wiresprung recliner and sagged into position. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Nothing for it. He'd have to call Ian.
Sean:
When the driver pulled away, Sean looked back. Mistake number one. His eyes focused on the closed door, picturing the man behind it, and he fought back any emotion, annoyance, pity, anger, relief, and just let himself go cold. He had to, else he might as well take down his shingle. Redevelopment had to happen. It was inevitable, it was sound business. But, niggling in the back of his mind was the question. Where would Viggo Mortensen, the Dane from America sleep on the night of 23rd May?
He waived the driver on, and glancing at his watch saw that he wouldn't be missing lunch. At least that was something which was easily done.
Summary: Sean is a high-powered lawyer in London. Viggo is a former hotshot journalist now working for a landscaping firm in London
Rated: G
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: Down & DirtyChapters: 4 Completed: Yes
Word count: 25362 Read: 3873
Published: 08 Aug 2009 Updated: 08 Aug 2009