Fic: Strangers
Nov. 28th, 2003 05:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aleathielI haven't written a fic in...ah...months! But I had a spare hour and though I should dust off my poor muses and let them breathe. Unbetad, so please point out mistakes.
Title: Strangers.
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: this part PG, higher later.
Disclaimer: fiction of course. It's not 2004.
London in December is grey, but to Orlando it somehow feels warming anyway. He’s said it before, but it doesn’t stop it from remaining true: returning to London still feels like coming home. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and pulls his blue scarf up over his chin, letting his breath warm the fabric and warm his face in return. He walks with a slouch, his eyes looking out from under his fringe, watching the world as he passes through it, not meeting anyone’s eyes and crossing the road whenever he spots a group of teenage girls or anyone who looks like they might be paying too much attention to him.
The British aren’t like Americans, he thinks. They are more restrained, fewer stop him in the street. When he is recognised, sometimes they just flash him a smile, or nod as if he were a casual acquaintance. He hasn’t signed an autograph in three days.
It’s cold, but he doesn’t really want to go back to his apartment. He wants the distant company of the strangers on the street, the knowledge they are there. He admits to himself that he does love the knowledge that if he pulls off his scarf and hat and stands in the street there will be people who know him. He doesn’t have to be alone. He just chooses to be.
He pauses to look into the window of a toyshop, indulging his inner child. As his eyes scan the ranks of boxes and teddy-bears he sees something he recognises. He knows the design of that box, and takes a step sideways to be sure. It’s an Aragorn action figure.
Orlando has moved on. It’s been a year since Return of the King. His life has moved from high point to high point - a whirl of filming and publicity, interviews and photoshoots. There is no reason why that little bit of moulded plastic should make him catch his breath and his eyes fill with tears. No reason at all. After all, it’s not like he’ll never see the guys again. So he’s missed a few reunions in the past six months, but he’s been busy. They understood that.
He almost goes inside to buy it, but resists. No point in upsetting himself over something he can’t change. But he does watch a little boy pick up the box and look at the figure, before putting it back on the shelf.
Back on the shelf. Move on to something else.
Orlando buys good old-fashioned squishy chips drenched in vinegar and sits on a wall watching the lights flick on all over London. The air is turning from natural grey to glittery, neon yellow. He think its funny that wherever he goes he is homesick for somewhere else. Just as he is relishing in greasy English food, away from diet-conscious Los Angeles, he realises that the London sky is clogged and greasy too and he misses the clear starlit nights of New Zealand.
It must have been seeing that figure, he tells himself. He has New Zealand on he brain. There is no reason to be dissatisfied with London. He was only thinking a couple of hours ago how much London was like home. Sure, he liked filming Rings, but there’s no reason for it to take over everything else. There’s no reason for that man walking past him to remind him of Viggo. It’s just something in the way he walks and the long, dark coat.
New Zealand on the brain. That’s all.
It’s irrational, but now that the thought has settled he can’t help watching the other man, imagining those are Viggo’s hands digging in his deep pockets for a coin to buy the Big Issue, imagining that is Viggo’s voice he can’t quite hear when the man speaks to a young lady in greeting.
The young lady hands him a piece of paper and a pen and the man inclines his head just the way Viggo would as he talks cordially before handing the paper back. She could just be asking for directions. Maybe they are strangers. Maybe they are friends.
Maybe she is asking for an autograph.
Orlando crosses the street feeling stupid. Why would Viggo be in London? Surely if he was Orlando would have heard? The man is walking away now and Orlando tries to follow, but gets caught in a sudden burst of Christmas shoppers. He is tall enough to see over their heads and the man in the dark coat is getting away. He’s probably just some business man on his way home from work. He’s probably a complete stranger. But if he is then he will keep walking and it won’t matter. It’s a risk worth taking.
Orlando calls out his friend’s name.
Viggo turns.
Title: Strangers.
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: this part PG, higher later.
Disclaimer: fiction of course. It's not 2004.
London in December is grey, but to Orlando it somehow feels warming anyway. He’s said it before, but it doesn’t stop it from remaining true: returning to London still feels like coming home. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and pulls his blue scarf up over his chin, letting his breath warm the fabric and warm his face in return. He walks with a slouch, his eyes looking out from under his fringe, watching the world as he passes through it, not meeting anyone’s eyes and crossing the road whenever he spots a group of teenage girls or anyone who looks like they might be paying too much attention to him.
The British aren’t like Americans, he thinks. They are more restrained, fewer stop him in the street. When he is recognised, sometimes they just flash him a smile, or nod as if he were a casual acquaintance. He hasn’t signed an autograph in three days.
It’s cold, but he doesn’t really want to go back to his apartment. He wants the distant company of the strangers on the street, the knowledge they are there. He admits to himself that he does love the knowledge that if he pulls off his scarf and hat and stands in the street there will be people who know him. He doesn’t have to be alone. He just chooses to be.
He pauses to look into the window of a toyshop, indulging his inner child. As his eyes scan the ranks of boxes and teddy-bears he sees something he recognises. He knows the design of that box, and takes a step sideways to be sure. It’s an Aragorn action figure.
Orlando has moved on. It’s been a year since Return of the King. His life has moved from high point to high point - a whirl of filming and publicity, interviews and photoshoots. There is no reason why that little bit of moulded plastic should make him catch his breath and his eyes fill with tears. No reason at all. After all, it’s not like he’ll never see the guys again. So he’s missed a few reunions in the past six months, but he’s been busy. They understood that.
He almost goes inside to buy it, but resists. No point in upsetting himself over something he can’t change. But he does watch a little boy pick up the box and look at the figure, before putting it back on the shelf.
Back on the shelf. Move on to something else.
Orlando buys good old-fashioned squishy chips drenched in vinegar and sits on a wall watching the lights flick on all over London. The air is turning from natural grey to glittery, neon yellow. He think its funny that wherever he goes he is homesick for somewhere else. Just as he is relishing in greasy English food, away from diet-conscious Los Angeles, he realises that the London sky is clogged and greasy too and he misses the clear starlit nights of New Zealand.
It must have been seeing that figure, he tells himself. He has New Zealand on he brain. There is no reason to be dissatisfied with London. He was only thinking a couple of hours ago how much London was like home. Sure, he liked filming Rings, but there’s no reason for it to take over everything else. There’s no reason for that man walking past him to remind him of Viggo. It’s just something in the way he walks and the long, dark coat.
New Zealand on the brain. That’s all.
It’s irrational, but now that the thought has settled he can’t help watching the other man, imagining those are Viggo’s hands digging in his deep pockets for a coin to buy the Big Issue, imagining that is Viggo’s voice he can’t quite hear when the man speaks to a young lady in greeting.
The young lady hands him a piece of paper and a pen and the man inclines his head just the way Viggo would as he talks cordially before handing the paper back. She could just be asking for directions. Maybe they are strangers. Maybe they are friends.
Maybe she is asking for an autograph.
Orlando crosses the street feeling stupid. Why would Viggo be in London? Surely if he was Orlando would have heard? The man is walking away now and Orlando tries to follow, but gets caught in a sudden burst of Christmas shoppers. He is tall enough to see over their heads and the man in the dark coat is getting away. He’s probably just some business man on his way home from work. He’s probably a complete stranger. But if he is then he will keep walking and it won’t matter. It’s a risk worth taking.
Orlando calls out his friend’s name.
Viggo turns.
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no subject
Date: 2003-11-28 03:12 pm (UTC)Now I feel the need for some squishy chips! I also have a disturbing urge to go hang around toyshops see if Viggo wanders by...
no subject
Date: 2003-11-28 03:14 pm (UTC)More soon.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-09 10:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-06 05:12 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-02-07 12:50 am (UTC)