"Oh, why you look so sad? Tears are in your eyes, Come on and come to me now."
When Viggo read the title in one of the tabloids on display at the grocery store that afternoon, he spared it no more than a passing glance. That tabloid was trash-paper, that was clearly a hoax, he thought, and left it at that, making a mental note to call later and have a good laugh about it.
Then he got back into his car, clicked on the radio.
And it was in the news, too. He just caught the end, so it wasn't all that clear; but it was confusing enough that when he got home he went straight into the living room and flicked the TV on.
And there it was.
"Fuck," he said, and luckily the sofa was just behind him, because his legs gave way and he dropped down on it.
He stared at the screen, feeling so numb he knew he had to be in shock. When he could move, he reached for the remote, switched channels.
And there it was again.
On fucking CBS.
He let the remote fall down on the cushions, and was on his feet and looking down at the phone in his hand before he stopped to think. Phone. He had to useit. No, he'd better not – he would've bet a huge amount of his next paycheck that all he would've found would be a disconnected sound.
The sudden thrill startled him, and he caught the phone back just before it crashed onto the floor.
"Viggo? Viggo, is that you?"
"Orlando. Yeah – I just... sorry. I was..."
"You saw it, then." A muffled voice said something at Orlando's end of the line.
"Orli? Is that Elijah?"
"Ah... yeah. We... we just caught the six p.m. news."
Viggo closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, the TV screen was showing a familiar house, surrounded by TV speakers and crews of reporters and
cameramen. He felt vaguely sick – thank God he had muted the damn thing before dropping the remote.
"Viggo? Vig, you still there? Look, we tried to reach him, but the phone is disconnected, and his mobile is off..."
Viggo took a deep, calming breath. The kids were freaked out, he thought.
Hell – so was he. But he had to snap out of it. Quickly.
"I'll try," he said.
Orlando hesitated, just for a second. "You're going to his flat. We could..."
"Orli. No. The last thing he needs right now is to draw still more attention. Which you two pretty teen-idols coming to his house and walking right into a crowd of reporters is surely gonna accomplish."
"Oh." A brief pause. Viggo could hear Elijah speaking, but not his words. Then Orlando said, "I suppose you are right. Shit, Viggo!" And then he had no more words.
"Yeah," Viggo softly agreed, feeling the other's frustration. Shit,indeed.
An intake of breath at the other end of the line. "Look. You just call,if there is something..." Another intake of air. "If there is anything, Viggo. Anything at all."
And even now, in spite of all that was happening, Viggo had to smile in the face of Orlando's loyalty and desire to dive right into the middle of the fight.
"Yeah. I'll do that. Say hi to Lij. Gotta go," and disconnected. He went into his studio, searched briefly in the top drawer of his desk, found what he was looking for and, pausing just long enough on his way to the door to turn off the TV set with a vicious stab of his finger, went out again.
* * *
Viggo knew the route by heart, even if he had happened by the house maybe twice in the last six months or so. It was just one of those things that you know, and don't stop by wondering why you do know, or even if it matters that
you do.
He did know, though.
He parked two blocks away and walked the distance, trying not to think ahead,not to work himself into a nervous fit. He knew how bad things were as soon as he came in sight of the place, and it was just as he had seen on TV – press -vans, cameras and reporters were all over the place, practically camping out in
the damn driveway.
There was a small coffee shop at the end of the street, far enough to not be bothered by all the chaos, close enough that, sitting in just the right booth near the window, you could still catch a glimpse of the house.
Not that Viggo used to sit in that booth frequently or anything.
Okay – so maybe it had happened. Once or twice.
He got in, and no one paid him attention, which was good. The waitress maybe looked at him a bit longer than usual, but he liked to think it was just because he was still handsome.
The coffee shop was fairly empty at that hour, so he finally found himself blessedly alone. He opened the newspaper he had bought after having parked – and a fucking newspaper it was, The Los Angeles Times, not a mere tabloid – and forced himself to read.
The news hadn't made the front page, but the coverage was still pretty large. Too large, in fact.
Viggo scanned his eyes over the title, and breathed deep.
"World-renowned British actor Sean Bean arrested yesterday night for Indecent Behavior."
Well, fuck, Viggo thought. No wonder Lij and Orli were freaking out. He read the first lines, and right enough, the George Michael affair of some five years
before was mentioned every other line.
At least, the journalist felt in need to point out, he hadn't been caught with a hooker, as another well-known British actor years ago, just with 'another man.' But then again, that other actor had at least had the taste to be caught with a female hooker.
Viggo winced.
It was really bad. Sean's eyes stared at him from the coarse grain of the paper, a black and white police identification photograph. Viggo was used to see Sean's eyes looking at him from the papers, the magazines, TV and movie screens. This was so different, so wrongly different, it just couldn't be right. Those weren't Sean's eyes – they couldn't be Sean's eyes. Haunted, lost eyes. Viggo closed the paper. He couldn't look. He wanted to freak out like the kids. He wanted to get up and tear into that fucking crowd of fucking vultures out there,
and get right into Sean's face and...
And what?
Yell at him. What the fuck he'd been thinking. Kick his ass. You stupid fucker.
Deep breath, he told sternly to himself. You just have to wait.
So he waited, drinking too much coffee and pretending to read the friggin' newspaper and really watching Sean's house and the comings and goings around it.
Sean's house. The house he had bought years ago, to stay in when in L.A. filming some movie or the other. Viggo remembered the first time he'd been in it, he and Orlando and the hobbits. A neat, nice house. So typically Sean – that time there had been Sean's daughters, too.
Viggo took another deep breath. Sean's daughters. He ried to remember if they were in L.A. with him, then recalled clearly Sean telling him they were back in London, with their mothers. Not that that mattered, anyway. What a ess.
He took another gulp of now-cold coffee, passed his other hand over his hair. He had to come to terms with the hole thing. He still couldn't believe it: just two nights ago – the very night Sean got arrested, as he now read-- they'd had dinner over at Viggo's, because Sean was in L.A. for a project and had called to say hi, and Viggo had just finished a new painting for his next exhibition and Henry was with Exene for the whole month anyway, so he had invited Sean over. It had been nice: a pleasant, lovely evening. Two good friends, talking, laughing, trying to not let show how much they'd missed one nother. Failing, and laughing over that, too.
Then Sean had left and, apparently, gone to pick up someone in a club, and got to the point right there by the road in his own fucking car.
Some male one.
Viggo glanced at the clock on the wall opposite him. He'd been in there for over two hours. Outside it was already dark.
He decided he had waited long enough.
* * *
There were still people outside the house, even if less than before. And though it was now decidedly dark, not one light was on inside.
He managed to go around the house without being noticed, and got to the back door. Apparently some reporter had decided to lie in wait there as well. Luckily enough, just while Viggo was trying to decide what to do, the guy's cell-phone went off and, after a brief talk, the man and his cameraman left.
Viggo waited a little longer after they vanished around the corner, just in case. Then he quickly crossed the street, got out of his pocket the spare set of keys Sean had given to him the last time he'd been in L.A., and within seconds he was in.
As he'd expected, the house was completely dark. And silent. He could hear the sounds from the outside, cars rushing by, even – if he listened very, very carefully – the muted voices of the reporters still lingering on the doorstep. He checked to be sure he'd locked the door behind him.
Now. Where would Sean be? Probably upstairs, in his bedroom. Feeling his heart beating oddly loud in his chest, Viggo navigated the darkened house, managing to not stumble into random articles of furniture too often, all the time cursing the damn journalists out there who wouldn't let him flip on the lights.
When he reached the bottom of the stairway, though, he decided he wouldn't risk giving Sean a heart-attack. Feeling discreetly certain he couldn't be heard outside, called Sean's name aloud.
No answer.
Yet he was sure Sean was home – the jacket he'd worn two nights ago had been flung carelessly over the banister. He just hoped the stupid fucker hadn't done anything... stupid.
"Sean, it's Viggo. I know you're home. I'm coming up, all right?"
Still no answer. Viggo started climbing, three steps at a time. The stupid fucker. If he found out he had done some stupid thing, he'd kick his ass from here back to England.
His heart was still racing. Fuck, it had to be the stairs. That stupid,stupid...
He halted on the doorway to Sean's bedroom.
Empty bedroom.
"Sean?"
He was about to turn and see if maybe Sean was downstairs after all, when the lights of a passing car lit the room for a second. Enough for Viggo to see the man sitting in a chair at the farther corner of the room.
His heart gave a thump, then for a second it was still.
Viggo had readied himself to expect a great deal of things – drunk,passed-out Sean had been the foremost in his mind.
What he saw had him cringing inside, realizing he had actually half-hoped Sean would be drunk. And unconscious.
But it was not so. Sean was sitting in the chair, in the dark. Looking the image of calm itself. Perfectly sober, at a first glance. And staring right at Viggo.
For some reason, Viggo felt ice running up his spine, crawling all over his body.
They remained like that, staring at each other, for a little eternity. Then another car went by, and Sean said, "I thought I had locked the doors."
Viggo just lifted his right hand, opening it, letting the keys dangle from their ring.
Sean said nothing.
Then, just as Viggo made to enter the room, he spoke again, still looking right at Viggo, still with ice in his voice, in his eyes.
"Just tell me, then go away."
Viggo remained where he was, feeling confused. And cold.
"Tell me," Sean clarified, and this was when Viggo finally noticed how hard Sean's hands were gripping the armrests, so hard his fingernails were positively digging into the leather, "how I fucked my career. How I fucked
my life." The ice seemed to spread, thin all over, cold all over. "Tell me what a fucking loser I am. And go the fuck away."
Viggo was thinking how he hated being cold. He fucking hated it so fucking much.
So he decided he wouldn't take any more of it.
In three long strides he was over to Sean, and looking down in the dim light filtering from outside, he saw Sean's eyes up close. Red-rimmed. Shiny. Haunted.
The same fucking look in them he had seen in the police photo.
Yes – he had wanted to yell at him. To ask what the fuck he'd been thinking. To kick his ass for having thought it. Stupid fucker.
He'd wanted to hold him so tight he wouldn't have to look into those empty,dead eyes anymore.
So he did just that – he sat down on the nearest armrest, dislodging Sean's arm, reaching out with a hand to draw Sean's head to his chest, his other arm circling around Sean's shoulders, to keep him against his side.
And without a struggle, Sean went.
Viggo lay his cheek on top of Sean's head.
"Stupid fucker," was all he said, just a whisper in the darkness all around them.
And when he felt Sean tremble slightly in his arms, the first tears falling onto his shirt, warming his chest just over his heart, he tightened his grip,and just held on.
Because they were warm. Hot. He liked heat, heat was what ice needed to break up and melt away. Viggo could work with that.
And he would.
Summary: Viggo needs to go somewhere.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: A Long JourneyChapters: 9 Completed: Yes
Word count: 30289 Read: 12242
Published: 31 Jul 2009 Updated: 31 Jul 2009