just why the hell is spain popping up so often in my stuff lately?
Title: Madrid au Courant
Rating: PG-13 for language
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: VM/OB
Author's Notes: Written for the vacation challenge at contrelamontre.
Warning: A tad fluffy!
He's never been to Spain. The admission slips in the trailer between the removal of his wig and his makeup, and the question itself comes way the hell out of left field. Viggo's field of choice.
"I'll take you someday," he says casually, and smiles an unreadable smile. The very vision of leisure, Viggo closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. "We'll visit a goat ranch."
"What?" Orlando, startled, starts to hide his shy smile before the makeup girl swats his hand away.
Viggo snickers.
Recovering: "Yeah, well, I'm fine without a chaperone, old man," Orlando says. "Goat ranch, fuck."
"Would you prefer bull running?"
"I’m not thinking too far outside New Zealand right now, thanks."
"Oh no," Viggo reasons. Earnest-hell! "I think you need a vacation."
"Viggo," he says, in something like a grown-up voice. "One of us has to be, ah...prudent."
"You're sure?"
"Yes." No.
Next day he's ambushed on set, at the water jug, between takes. Between sips.
Aragorn swings an arm over his shoulders. Manly. "France?"
"Huh?"
"Wake up, Elfboy-Darkest France. Have you ever been?"
"Why?"
"Do you want to?"
"Oh, Jesus, not this again."
"It's just that I need to know whether I tell the ticket man one or two."
"Viggo."
"C'mon, think of it. You and me in the Latin Quarter, in obligatory striped shirts." He pauses, and then: "No goats." He says it like it’s an exceptional treat.
Orlando ducks under his arm, an elegant flash of silver. "Tempting," he says, laughing, "but sorry. I have other plans."
"Oh?"
"Mmhm. Hobbiton," he replies, sidling up to Elijah. SO NYAH, he doesn’t say.
Now three days have passed. Orlando is sitting cross-legged on Lij's counter and armed with a glass of red wine. It is a quarter to four in the morning (this is the party that never ends), which is roughly the hour furniture begins to move of its own accord. Even when he's not pleasantly drunk.
He closes his eyes and decides this is as fine a place as any to doze.
How much time passes he doesn't know, but somewhere in the middle of his maybe-dreams the air stirs. Orlando accepts the voice in his ear with an easy familiarity, the same with which he accepts the absurd in his dreams.
"America?"
"Vrrem?" (His mouth is sticky and his mind is lazy.)
"We should go there," the voice continues in a low drone. Reminds him of bees.
Orlando thinks he's awake now. "You again," he groans.
"I think the heartland would be good," Viggo continues. "Kansas, maybe. We'll go to a bee farm," which thoroughly scares the hell out of Orlando.
"You're fuckin' psychic," he says, and yawns in spite of himself.
"Really?" Viggo smiles. "Fascinating. Coming around yet?"
"Just why the hell d'you want to leave so bad?"
"I don't," Viggo says.
"No," Orlando argues, with much the same vigor most people use to dissect the mysteries of life, or complicated math proofs. "You do, you want to get outta here, man, I don't...."
Viggo waits. Then, "I'm exactly where I want to be." Their faces almost touch.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: VM/OB
Author's Notes: Written for the vacation challenge at contrelamontre.
Warning: A tad fluffy!
He's never been to Spain. The admission slips in the trailer between the removal of his wig and his makeup, and the question itself comes way the hell out of left field. Viggo's field of choice.
"I'll take you someday," he says casually, and smiles an unreadable smile. The very vision of leisure, Viggo closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. "We'll visit a goat ranch."
"What?" Orlando, startled, starts to hide his shy smile before the makeup girl swats his hand away.
Viggo snickers.
Recovering: "Yeah, well, I'm fine without a chaperone, old man," Orlando says. "Goat ranch, fuck."
"Would you prefer bull running?"
"I’m not thinking too far outside New Zealand right now, thanks."
"Oh no," Viggo reasons. Earnest-hell! "I think you need a vacation."
"Viggo," he says, in something like a grown-up voice. "One of us has to be, ah...prudent."
"You're sure?"
"Yes." No.
Next day he's ambushed on set, at the water jug, between takes. Between sips.
Aragorn swings an arm over his shoulders. Manly. "France?"
"Huh?"
"Wake up, Elfboy-Darkest France. Have you ever been?"
"Why?"
"Do you want to?"
"Oh, Jesus, not this again."
"It's just that I need to know whether I tell the ticket man one or two."
"Viggo."
"C'mon, think of it. You and me in the Latin Quarter, in obligatory striped shirts." He pauses, and then: "No goats." He says it like it’s an exceptional treat.
Orlando ducks under his arm, an elegant flash of silver. "Tempting," he says, laughing, "but sorry. I have other plans."
"Oh?"
"Mmhm. Hobbiton," he replies, sidling up to Elijah. SO NYAH, he doesn’t say.
Now three days have passed. Orlando is sitting cross-legged on Lij's counter and armed with a glass of red wine. It is a quarter to four in the morning (this is the party that never ends), which is roughly the hour furniture begins to move of its own accord. Even when he's not pleasantly drunk.
He closes his eyes and decides this is as fine a place as any to doze.
How much time passes he doesn't know, but somewhere in the middle of his maybe-dreams the air stirs. Orlando accepts the voice in his ear with an easy familiarity, the same with which he accepts the absurd in his dreams.
"America?"
"Vrrem?" (His mouth is sticky and his mind is lazy.)
"We should go there," the voice continues in a low drone. Reminds him of bees.
Orlando thinks he's awake now. "You again," he groans.
"I think the heartland would be good," Viggo continues. "Kansas, maybe. We'll go to a bee farm," which thoroughly scares the hell out of Orlando.
"You're fuckin' psychic," he says, and yawns in spite of himself.
"Really?" Viggo smiles. "Fascinating. Coming around yet?"
"Just why the hell d'you want to leave so bad?"
"I don't," Viggo says.
"No," Orlando argues, with much the same vigor most people use to dissect the mysteries of life, or complicated math proofs. "You do, you want to get outta here, man, I don't...."
Viggo waits. Then, "I'm exactly where I want to be." Their faces almost touch.