Summary: Viggo needs to go somewhere.

Rated: NC-17

Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo

Warnings: None

Challenges:

Series: A Long Journey

Chapters: 9 Completed: Yes

Word count: 30289 Read: 12255

Published: 31 Jul 2009 Updated: 31 Jul 2009

*****

"So, if you're mad get mad,
Don't hold it all inside,
Come on and talk to me now."

*****

That first day at Viggo's place in Idaho passed quite unremarkably. Sean got up at some hour in the afternoon, took a shower, shaved, had some coffee and bagels, then wandered for a time through the cottage, which was smallish but lovely, all wood and glass and stone, solid and cozy all in one. Sean decided he liked it. Quite a lot.

The place had 'Viggo' written all over it.

After a while, he joined Viggo in his studio, silently handing him a cup of tea, which was accepted with a smile and a nod of thanks. Sean settled himself on a black and white futon near the glass window, and tried to decide if he should look at the awesome landscape outside, beautiful and majestic and sort of wild in the pouring rain, or at Viggo's works, strewn all over the place, mostly unfinished, bright splatters of colors and nervous flashes of handwriting everywhere Sean looked.

Difficult choice.

He had seen some of Viggo's paintings before, of course; but being actually in the forge where they were created felt quite different, and Sean found himself mesmerized by the sheer amount of the canvas, shapes and colors so brilliant he could stare at them for hours and actually think to know what they all were meant to say.

Viggo didn't seem bothered by his presence while working. He was writing in one of the notebooks scattered everywhere, once in a while muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Sean wondered if it was Danish--sometimes Viggo had spoken Danish while they were in New Zealand, and even if he always translated afterwards, Sean had always maintained it was a bunch of crude words and he just liked to call Sean names to his face and get away with it.

He had used to say that just to see the sly twinkle in Viggo's eyes, of course.

He passed a hand over his face, and concentrated on thinking about something else. Anything else.

While watching him scribbling, it occurred to Sean that he had never really questioned why Viggo had come to him in the first place, nor why he had taken Sean to his beloved Idaho cottage, the very one Viggo had always talked so fondly about, his 'special place'. Why Viggo had felt the need to do all that for Sean, to just drop everything else and...

And how well Viggo had known how to take care of him.

Then Sean thought about what *he* would've done, had their places been reversed. And he found that there was no need to ask, after all. For some reason, he felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fighting to come out.

Viggo just then looked up from his writing, glanced at Sean. An answering smile lit up his pale blue eyes. He put down the pen.

"I think it's dinner time."

*****

The rain started to ease just about when they finished eating. Viggo had been talking about his exhibition at the Track 16 Gallery in L.A., how it had gone and all the people who had been there. Sean had regretted not being able to make it to it, remembered having said as much to Viggo on the phone, the night before the opening. He said it again now, because it was true.

To his surprise, Viggo grinned.

"Yeah, well--you were there in spirit, as they say." He lifted his glass, taking a sip of wine, his eyes alight with some kind of sparkle as they fixed on Sean. "I never had the chance to thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful."

For a second, Sean was at a loss for words: he had actually forgotten about the flowers. Two dozens red roses, he'd had them delivered at the gallery, had even seen them in some of the photos in the reviews the day after--and had felt damn pleased with himself.

"I still have the card," Viggo quietly added.

For a while, they were silent. Sean could tell Viggo's thoughts had gone back to New Zealand, to the small pub they used to go to after shooting. Back to a lazy winter night and an animated discussion--actually, more a joke than a real argument--about whether or not romance was dead. Viggo had insisted it was *so* dead. Sean had been convinced of the opposite--mostly because arguing with Viggo and getting him all hot and bothered was fun. They had never reached an agreement, and never really talked about it again, after that night. Just one of the hundreds of little discussions they had had over the year of Sean's permanence on the set.

It had been just a weird impulse that had made Sean send the roses, well over two years after a meaningless, inane, slightly drunken conversation in a pub at the other end of the world, and write "Told ya so!" on the card accompanying them, with just a simple 'S.' as a signature.

But of course, he'd been right. Viggo had understood at once--like Sean, Viggo had not forgotten.

"So," said Viggo now, "thank you."

And at that, the most remarkable thing happened--Sean forgot, actually forgot, why he wasn't supposed to feel happy or to laugh ever again. "You're welcome," he said. And just like that, he laughed.

Viggo lowered his wineglass on the tabletop, and stared at Sean with such an intense look that Sean couldn't help but stare right back, a little bemused. And in the end, "Better," Viggo said, with the strangest expression, almost as if talking to himself.

Sean couldn't resist asking, "What?"

Viggo just reached across the table, brushing slightly the back of his fingers across Sean's eyelids, making them flutter close, then open again.

"Better," he just repeated, still looking so intently into Sean's eyes. And he seemed satisfied.

Sean decided not to investigate further. Viggo could be right, after all, even if about what, he wasn't sure. He smiled again. Because yes--he did feel a little better.

*****

The rain had long ceased by the time Sean stepped out onto the porch, inhaling deeply the cool mountain air: it was the first days of October, and the woods were already starting turning yellow and red. He could just imagine how the little valley would look just in a few weeks.

"Heaven," he stated.

Viggo, sitting behind him onto a wooden chair, his feet up on the railing, made a contented sound. "It is," was all he said. Then, after a while, he added, "I'd like to show you around, tomorrow."

Sean nodded, but didn't bother to speak. It was peaceful all right, here--yet he felt his fingers trying to dig into the wood of the railing, and with an effort released their grip. It was peaceful, but he wasn't really in the mood to appreciate it at its full. He knew himself well enough to know, now that he'd begun to relax, and the shock was wearing off, he would soon start to feel trapped, helpless. Then he would get in an awful mood, and start biting heads off out of frustration. He just hoped Viggo could cope with that, too.

The trill of the phone pierced the quiet of the night. Viggo let his head drop back for a minute against the wall, with a loud sigh, before getting to his feet and going back into the house. Sean heard him picking the phone up, and smiled a little when Viggo said, "Hey, Ian. No, of course you don't disturb."

He took the place Viggo had vacated, lifting his feet on the railing in his turn, laying back and trying to calm down. Now that the rain had stopped, there was a fresh, clean smell of earth and grass in the air, and it was pleasant. The wind was scattering the clouds, stretching them as thin as cow-webs, tearing them apart, and here and there he could see a few stars blinking down at him from a jet black sky, so sharply bright he could almost feel their light prickling his skin.

Viggo was moving around inside the cottage. Sean could hear his voice growing louder then fainter on occasion. At some point, he heard him snort and say, "Yeah, I know that, *Serena,*" and couldn't help but snort himself, shaking his head. Viggo and Ian had been like that almost since the day they'd met, he thought: seeing them argue was always a show worth the price of the ticket.

Bitchy sods.

After a little while, Viggo came back onto the porch, not at all bothered by finding Sean on his chair. He nudged Sean's legs back down and climbed instead to sit on the railing, facing him. "Ian gives you his love," he announced. He sounded somewhat subdued. Sean drew his eyebrows together, but didn't comment. He did not reply, either.

"He was wondering..." Viggo began.

"I am *not* going to become a gay rights activist," Sean stated with finality, cutting him off; and that pretty much killed that line of conversation. Just as he had hoped it would.

"Hm," Viggo said, noncommittally. They stayed like that for a few minutes more, just enjoying the night. Then Viggo rubbed his palms against his thighs, got up and announced he was going to sleep. Sean just nodded, and didn't turn to watch him going back inside.

He was already feeling awful.

*****

The day after dawned bright and sunny--Sean could tell, since he'd been awake to see it rise. He trailed after Viggo around the woods after lunch, and tried his best to look properly awed... which he would've surely been, on any other day. The place was wonderful, in its own way as beautiful as New Zealand has been, and just as wild. He really regretted not having come there sooner.

Most of all, though, he regretted being such a poor company to Viggo... who, being the bright guy he was, caught up early on Sean's frame of mind and just let him be, walking quietly beside him, not making any idle chatter. They got back quite early, and with a light, understanding slap on Sean's shoulder, Viggo left him to his own devices, going into his studio to work on his art. Or whatever he did in there.

Sean grew quickly bored, but he didn't fancy always being in Viggo's hair, as if he was some bloody toddler attached to his Mum's skirts. So he took another look around the house, and spotting the DVD collection near the TV set in the living room, decided he would be best off watching a movie, distracting himself before coming around to call his lawyer in L.A.

But, for what morbid reason he couldn't tell, instead of choosing a tape or a DVD he turned on the TV, and began to flip around the channels.

Until he found it.

At first, it was just his own face, a whirlwind of images from his various movies (Fellowship of thr Ring was the most prominently featured, he noted dryly) and public apparitions. He could even tune out the speaker, just concentrating on remembering which was what. For a fleeting moment, he even thought about P.J., wondering how he was taking all this: he probably was thinking of it as free promotional material. Sean couldn't really blame him.

Then, just as he knew it would, there *he* was.

The man from the other night.

His name was news to Sean, just as much as for the audience in the small TV studio. He had never bothered to ask, nor had the guy offered to tell. Sure, Sean had had his suspicions the guy knew exactly with whom he was leaving the club, but hadn't cared.

Now, Sean looked back at him for the first time since they got separated at the police station.

It wasn't really how he looked, Sean thought again--pale blue eyes, a little distanced. A small dimple on his chin. Blond, longish hair--no, that was close, but not nearly enough. The colors were all a bit off. Better was the way the man moved--long limbs, elegant motions--yes, close enough, but still not really near. But most of all, above all else...

He turned up the volume, just one notch, when he saw the man was about to speak.

Yes.

The voice was wrong, of course. Not even close, the less close of all. Too high-pitched, too sweet. Yet... He closed his eyes for a second, just taking in the sound, how it rose and fell, that peculiar speech-pattern he couldn't say he was really familiar with.

He muted the TV again while the interpreter translated from Danish.

It was just then that he heard the soft intake of breath behind him; and of course, when he turned, Viggo was right there, staring at the screen--at the man on the screen--and in his eyes, Sean saw what he had feared the most since the very moment of the arrest, what he had known would surely happen but prayed to God, against all reason, that it wouldn't, for he hadn't the first fucking clue how to deal with it.

Well. No use, of course.

Viggo knew.