Walk on By - Part III
Type: RPS
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: PG-13 (R/NC-17 in later chapters)
Category: AU
Disclaimer: This is fiction, not based in reality - to the best of my knowledge Viggo Mortensen has never lived rough and Orlando Bloom was never part of the Constabulary.
Beta: Ana, my best girl and Queen of the Comma - she makes my writing so much better - thank you sweets!
‘Answer the phone, you great lummox.’
It was around 4am when Greg and Orlando were rudely awakened by the sharp shrill of the telephone. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, Orlando did as he was bid and raised himself, like a young earthquake, from under the duvet
‘Yeah?’ he rasped into the receiver.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir. It’s Sgt Troy here.’
‘Why the fuck are you calling me at,’ pausing to blink myopically at the clock. ‘Ten past fucking four in the morning?’
Sgt Troy cleared his throat. He hadn’t wanted to call the new addition to the drugs squad but had drawn the short straw.
‘It’s like this, sir...’
****
Earlier that evening, Viggo had settled himself down on the damp pavement, not far from his usual billet. The air was cool, not exactly cold, but the dampness left a raw feeling in the air. It was the worse sort of weather for Viggo. Over the years he had developed rheumatism in his joints and the damp exacerbated the aches that he had long since become accustomed to living with. The thin layer of cardboard he was lying on did little to protect him from the wet pavement; however, lying on his side, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible, he prepared to sleep.
He woke a while later to the sound of raised voices. Opening his eyes he saw two men, obviously in the throes of some dispute, standing a little way off from him. They were shouting at each other and one of them was waving his arms about. Without warning, he pulled something from his pocket. With a sinking feeling, Viggo recognised the flash of a small switch blade. He huddled further in on himself, praying to every deity he knew that the knife man wouldn’t notice him. For once his luck was in. As the dying man slid to the ground the guy with the knife ran off apparently without seeing Viggo. When the sound of his footsteps died away, the tired man rose to go. He didn’t want to be found in the vicinity of the murder scene. Unfortunately, at this point, his luck ran out.
****
When D. S. Bloom entered the nick they all knew he was not in the best of moods. His eyes sparked dangerously and every movement, every nuance screamed that he was one very pissed off guy.
Heading straight down to the cells, he called for the custody sergeant.
‘Sgt Troy, get your arse into gear and tell me what the fuck I’m doing here in the middle of the sodding night?
****
When the young WPC took a shortcut to Dean Street she never imagined that she’d be making her first big arrest. She literally tripped over the dead body of an unnamed IC1 lying in a pool of his own blood. Hurrying away from the murder scene was one of the many homeless men who frequented the area. Without further ado, she called for an ambulance and some back up before arresting Viggo.
****
‘The thing is sir, we arrested a murder suspect, name of Vic Moreton, he’s lived on the streets for years, I think. Got him back to the nick and he’s in such a state he can barely talk. We asked him if he wanted anyone and he kept saying ‘Dave Wood’.’
The sergeant was trying to avoid D. S. Bloom’s eyes as he spoke. He had a feeling that this was going down like a cup of cold sick.
‘Well one of the lads reckons that was the name you were using undercover. We thought it was best to call you in at once, sir. He won’t talk, he’s clearly terrified and he’s sitting in the corner of the cell, just rocking. Probably didn’t do it anyway. He was arrested by a rather over zealous young WPC who’s only just started here. Probably wasting our time, he was probably too pissed or stoned...’ Realising that he’d somehow overstepped the mark, the sergeant hesitated before continuing. ‘The poor old sod didn’t have any blood over him and there was no sign of a weapon, but obviously we want to know if he saw anything.’
Orlando cut in. ‘Yeah, okay, I get the picture, let me go talk to him and find out what the fuck’s going on.’
‘Well, just to warn you sir, he smells so bad that no one else will go near him.’
Orlando raised an eyebrow and growled. ‘Just get me a mug of coffee, for fuck’s sake, and I’ll go talk to him.’
Finally, armed with a big mug of liberally sweetened coffee, Orlando headed for the cells. The sight that met him made him wince.
Viggo was sitting on the floor, in the corner of the cell, curled up, his head on his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible. He was rocking gently and Orlando could see at a glance that he had been crying. He approached the distressed man quietly and knelt by his side.
‘Don’t send me back. I can’t go back. Don’t send me back.’ It sounded almost like a mantra. The frightened man raised his head and Orlando could read confusion and terror in the blue grey eyes that looked up at him.
‘Don’t send me back.’
Despite the filth that clung to him and the stench that filled the small cell, Orlando sat down on the floor next to Viggo and put an arm around him. For a moment every muscle in his body tensed but then he gave a great, shuddering sigh, buried his head in Orlando’s chest and burst into a flood of tears
Once he began to cry, Viggo found he couldn’t stop. He was terrified. One minute he had been asleep, the next he was witnessing a brutal stabbing. He had been arrested and manhandled to the police station, jeered at on account of his smell and locked away in the cells. Having spent time in jail, he was terrified of being sent back, equally terrified that someone would realise he had no right to even be in the country. When they had asked him if he wanted anyone, all he could think of was the young man who had been so kind and gentle to him the previous day, but hadn’t been able to believe his eyes when the dark haired guy had actually come to him. Now he was holding him and, in the deep recesses of his mind, Viggo tried to remember the last time anyone had touched him with such tenderness.
He became aware that Dave was talking to him.
‘Vic, I’m Detective Sergeant Orlando Bloom.’ He frowned as Viggo flinched and tried to back away, clearly nervous.
‘I didn’t do anything, I didn’t see anything, I didn’t do anything, I didn’t see anything, don’t send me back, I can’t go back...’
Orlando didn’t know what to do, but instinctively he held his hand out.
‘Ssssssh, it’s okay, no one’s gonna send you anywhere, you’re not in any trouble, we just need to know what you saw.’
‘Didn’t do anything, didn’t see anything, didn’t...’ He broke off and looked at Orlando. ‘You a cop then? Why did you tell me your name was Dave Wood?’
Orlando’s relief was almost tangible as Viggo spoke his first coherent sentence of the night.
‘I was working undercover. Things came to a head late yesterday morning and today I’m back here. It was sheer luck that someone remembered what name I’d been using. Anyway, let’s get you sorted out’ Viggo sighed and leaned against the other guy. He felt safe for the first time in many years. He looked at Orlando from the corner of his eye, looking but not looking at him.
‘I’m Viggo Mortensen actually, got fed up with repeating it so stick to Vic Moreton these days.’
Orlando smiled. ‘Hmmmm, I thought Orlando was a moniker and a half, maybe I was wrong. Viggo Mortensen, good name, I like it. What d’you want me to call you, Vic or Viggo?’
‘Viggo.’ Realising he was still being held, and aware that he didn’t smell exactly fresh, he begun to shuffle away but found Orlando just held him a bit tighter.
‘Do you wanna get a shower and a change of clothes, Viggo?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure we can find something that fits you. There are normally a pile of clothes hanging around the locker rooms, may not be exactly clean but they’ll be a damn sight better than what you’ve got on.’
Viggo looked him in the eye for the first time.
‘Why? What’s in it for you? I didn’t see anything, I didn’t...’ He started getting agitated again.
‘Ssssssh, I know, you already said you didn’t see anything, mate, although I find that very hard to believe. But I just thought you could use a little help before we let you go. You’re not in any trouble so just relax and let me help you, yeah?’
He stood up and held his hand out to help Viggo up. As he stood, it struck Orlando how frail this man was. Now exposed to the harsh light, it seemed to him that every day of bad weather, every ache, every pain, every kick, every curse were visible in the weathered, lined face that was looking at him with a sort of bewildered trust. He sighed again, he would mull this over later. In the meantime, he escorted Viggo to the showers, supplied him with soap and a towel, and when he was safely ensconced in the cubicle, set off to find some clothes.
Fifteen minutes later he came back to find a naked Viggo cowering on the floor as a uniformed constable stood over him.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ demanded Detective Sergeant Bloom. His tone didn’t conceal his towering rage.
The uniformed constable spun round; he recognised the dark haired guy from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place him.
‘I found this lowlife in our showers and you’re asking me what’s going on? We’ll have to get Rentokil in when he’s finished.’ He glared at Orlando. ‘And who the fuck are you?’
Orlando held out his warrant card as he introduced himself. When the constable heard his name and rank, he deflated visibly.
‘I’ll deal with you later, Constable, now piss off out of here and let the gentleman finish his shower.’
Curling his lip and sneering, the constable marched out, but not before fixing Viggo with a stare. He didn’t say anything, but it was obvious to Orlando that the man’s shaking was not just caused by the cold.
Tbc
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: PG-13 (R/NC-17 in later chapters)
Category: AU
Disclaimer: This is fiction, not based in reality - to the best of my knowledge Viggo Mortensen has never lived rough and Orlando Bloom was never part of the Constabulary.
Beta: Ana, my best girl and Queen of the Comma - she makes my writing so much better - thank you sweets!
‘Answer the phone, you great lummox.’
It was around 4am when Greg and Orlando were rudely awakened by the sharp shrill of the telephone. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, Orlando did as he was bid and raised himself, like a young earthquake, from under the duvet
‘Yeah?’ he rasped into the receiver.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir. It’s Sgt Troy here.’
‘Why the fuck are you calling me at,’ pausing to blink myopically at the clock. ‘Ten past fucking four in the morning?’
Sgt Troy cleared his throat. He hadn’t wanted to call the new addition to the drugs squad but had drawn the short straw.
‘It’s like this, sir...’
****
Earlier that evening, Viggo had settled himself down on the damp pavement, not far from his usual billet. The air was cool, not exactly cold, but the dampness left a raw feeling in the air. It was the worse sort of weather for Viggo. Over the years he had developed rheumatism in his joints and the damp exacerbated the aches that he had long since become accustomed to living with. The thin layer of cardboard he was lying on did little to protect him from the wet pavement; however, lying on his side, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible, he prepared to sleep.
He woke a while later to the sound of raised voices. Opening his eyes he saw two men, obviously in the throes of some dispute, standing a little way off from him. They were shouting at each other and one of them was waving his arms about. Without warning, he pulled something from his pocket. With a sinking feeling, Viggo recognised the flash of a small switch blade. He huddled further in on himself, praying to every deity he knew that the knife man wouldn’t notice him. For once his luck was in. As the dying man slid to the ground the guy with the knife ran off apparently without seeing Viggo. When the sound of his footsteps died away, the tired man rose to go. He didn’t want to be found in the vicinity of the murder scene. Unfortunately, at this point, his luck ran out.
****
When D. S. Bloom entered the nick they all knew he was not in the best of moods. His eyes sparked dangerously and every movement, every nuance screamed that he was one very pissed off guy.
Heading straight down to the cells, he called for the custody sergeant.
‘Sgt Troy, get your arse into gear and tell me what the fuck I’m doing here in the middle of the sodding night?
****
When the young WPC took a shortcut to Dean Street she never imagined that she’d be making her first big arrest. She literally tripped over the dead body of an unnamed IC1 lying in a pool of his own blood. Hurrying away from the murder scene was one of the many homeless men who frequented the area. Without further ado, she called for an ambulance and some back up before arresting Viggo.
****
‘The thing is sir, we arrested a murder suspect, name of Vic Moreton, he’s lived on the streets for years, I think. Got him back to the nick and he’s in such a state he can barely talk. We asked him if he wanted anyone and he kept saying ‘Dave Wood’.’
The sergeant was trying to avoid D. S. Bloom’s eyes as he spoke. He had a feeling that this was going down like a cup of cold sick.
‘Well one of the lads reckons that was the name you were using undercover. We thought it was best to call you in at once, sir. He won’t talk, he’s clearly terrified and he’s sitting in the corner of the cell, just rocking. Probably didn’t do it anyway. He was arrested by a rather over zealous young WPC who’s only just started here. Probably wasting our time, he was probably too pissed or stoned...’ Realising that he’d somehow overstepped the mark, the sergeant hesitated before continuing. ‘The poor old sod didn’t have any blood over him and there was no sign of a weapon, but obviously we want to know if he saw anything.’
Orlando cut in. ‘Yeah, okay, I get the picture, let me go talk to him and find out what the fuck’s going on.’
‘Well, just to warn you sir, he smells so bad that no one else will go near him.’
Orlando raised an eyebrow and growled. ‘Just get me a mug of coffee, for fuck’s sake, and I’ll go talk to him.’
Finally, armed with a big mug of liberally sweetened coffee, Orlando headed for the cells. The sight that met him made him wince.
Viggo was sitting on the floor, in the corner of the cell, curled up, his head on his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible. He was rocking gently and Orlando could see at a glance that he had been crying. He approached the distressed man quietly and knelt by his side.
‘Don’t send me back. I can’t go back. Don’t send me back.’ It sounded almost like a mantra. The frightened man raised his head and Orlando could read confusion and terror in the blue grey eyes that looked up at him.
‘Don’t send me back.’
Despite the filth that clung to him and the stench that filled the small cell, Orlando sat down on the floor next to Viggo and put an arm around him. For a moment every muscle in his body tensed but then he gave a great, shuddering sigh, buried his head in Orlando’s chest and burst into a flood of tears
Once he began to cry, Viggo found he couldn’t stop. He was terrified. One minute he had been asleep, the next he was witnessing a brutal stabbing. He had been arrested and manhandled to the police station, jeered at on account of his smell and locked away in the cells. Having spent time in jail, he was terrified of being sent back, equally terrified that someone would realise he had no right to even be in the country. When they had asked him if he wanted anyone, all he could think of was the young man who had been so kind and gentle to him the previous day, but hadn’t been able to believe his eyes when the dark haired guy had actually come to him. Now he was holding him and, in the deep recesses of his mind, Viggo tried to remember the last time anyone had touched him with such tenderness.
He became aware that Dave was talking to him.
‘Vic, I’m Detective Sergeant Orlando Bloom.’ He frowned as Viggo flinched and tried to back away, clearly nervous.
‘I didn’t do anything, I didn’t see anything, I didn’t do anything, I didn’t see anything, don’t send me back, I can’t go back...’
Orlando didn’t know what to do, but instinctively he held his hand out.
‘Ssssssh, it’s okay, no one’s gonna send you anywhere, you’re not in any trouble, we just need to know what you saw.’
‘Didn’t do anything, didn’t see anything, didn’t...’ He broke off and looked at Orlando. ‘You a cop then? Why did you tell me your name was Dave Wood?’
Orlando’s relief was almost tangible as Viggo spoke his first coherent sentence of the night.
‘I was working undercover. Things came to a head late yesterday morning and today I’m back here. It was sheer luck that someone remembered what name I’d been using. Anyway, let’s get you sorted out’ Viggo sighed and leaned against the other guy. He felt safe for the first time in many years. He looked at Orlando from the corner of his eye, looking but not looking at him.
‘I’m Viggo Mortensen actually, got fed up with repeating it so stick to Vic Moreton these days.’
Orlando smiled. ‘Hmmmm, I thought Orlando was a moniker and a half, maybe I was wrong. Viggo Mortensen, good name, I like it. What d’you want me to call you, Vic or Viggo?’
‘Viggo.’ Realising he was still being held, and aware that he didn’t smell exactly fresh, he begun to shuffle away but found Orlando just held him a bit tighter.
‘Do you wanna get a shower and a change of clothes, Viggo?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure we can find something that fits you. There are normally a pile of clothes hanging around the locker rooms, may not be exactly clean but they’ll be a damn sight better than what you’ve got on.’
Viggo looked him in the eye for the first time.
‘Why? What’s in it for you? I didn’t see anything, I didn’t...’ He started getting agitated again.
‘Ssssssh, I know, you already said you didn’t see anything, mate, although I find that very hard to believe. But I just thought you could use a little help before we let you go. You’re not in any trouble so just relax and let me help you, yeah?’
He stood up and held his hand out to help Viggo up. As he stood, it struck Orlando how frail this man was. Now exposed to the harsh light, it seemed to him that every day of bad weather, every ache, every pain, every kick, every curse were visible in the weathered, lined face that was looking at him with a sort of bewildered trust. He sighed again, he would mull this over later. In the meantime, he escorted Viggo to the showers, supplied him with soap and a towel, and when he was safely ensconced in the cubicle, set off to find some clothes.
Fifteen minutes later he came back to find a naked Viggo cowering on the floor as a uniformed constable stood over him.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ demanded Detective Sergeant Bloom. His tone didn’t conceal his towering rage.
The uniformed constable spun round; he recognised the dark haired guy from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place him.
‘I found this lowlife in our showers and you’re asking me what’s going on? We’ll have to get Rentokil in when he’s finished.’ He glared at Orlando. ‘And who the fuck are you?’
Orlando held out his warrant card as he introduced himself. When the constable heard his name and rank, he deflated visibly.
‘I’ll deal with you later, Constable, now piss off out of here and let the gentleman finish his shower.’
Curling his lip and sneering, the constable marched out, but not before fixing Viggo with a stare. He didn’t say anything, but it was obvious to Orlando that the man’s shaking was not just caused by the cold.
Tbc