Fic: Glitter Canyon - Misha, Viggo (Gen), PG-13
Title: Glitter Canyon
Pairing: Misha (Viggo) (gen)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: erm, pot?
Summary: Misha and Viggo one night in LA.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
A/N: A ficlet written for the wonderful azewewish for her birthday who requested Misha and Viggo getting high. Enjoy, hon! For those from either side of the equation - this could be considered gen CWRPS or gen LOTRPS. This kind of fills me with glee. Thanks to cupiscent for her patience and beta, as always. Also - as will become painfully obvious, I do not live in LA and all geographical errors are apologised for in advance ;)
Canyon Glitter
Misha is fidgety, not quite comfortable in his own skin. He plucks his t-shirt away from his skin where it’s sticking emerald-green to the V of his chest in the heat. Fuckin’ LA heat wave.
Partly though, it’s the weed. It’s always made him antsy as he’s getting high.
Not that it stops him from partaking, because when Viggo Mortensen offers you his joint, mid-musing on the nature of creation versus execution of the same, well, Misha figures you don’t say no to that.
Viggo doesn’t seem like the type who goes around offering weed to just anyone. He’s just sayin’, ya know? The man is ridiculously generous, but also almost uncomfortably circumspect.
“So it’s really how you go about knowing yourself that you’re also creating when you’re performing someone else’s words…that it’s all part of the same process of filtering life into art,” Viggo is saying, his body leaning forward conspiratorially, head bent closer to Misha’s than would normally be considered comfortable with a person whom you’ve only just met.
Apparently they’re best friends, a clap on the shoulder from Jensen and a “This is Misha Collins, you’ll fucking love him,” enough to make Viggo cock his head with a glint in his eye. Two hours later, sitting out on the deck watching the lights glitter down in the Valley, people coming and going around them in stop-motion parody, they’re practically family.
Misha inhales, a bright orange flare of fire dancing in the night, holds the acrid smoke in his lungs. He passes the joint back on the slow exhale, tan fingers threading around each other in relay. He watches the smoke dissipate, melding in his vision with the smog-red line of sunset dipping over the horizon.
Viggo is looking at him, eyes focused and head tilted toward him, apparently waiting for an answer or reassurance to something that Misha hasn’t heard. Instead of asking for clarification he simply nods earnestly and says, “That’s a valid point.”
It must have been somewhat close to an appropriate response, because Viggo’s face splits into a ridiculous grin and Misha finds himself grinning back with equal force.
Sometimes, life is pretty damn good.
He lets his mind wander from the conversation, swimming happily in the lukewarm thoughts his brain kicks up.
Viggo reaches over and places a hand on Misha’s knee to emphasise his point. Misha has no idea what it is though. The pot has definitely kicked down from antsy to mellow (thank god) and while Viggo seems to be completely at ease with following the same line of thought he began while sober, Misha has lost the thread completely.
But that’s okay. He’s happy to just be, caught up in the metronomic soft spoken intensity that sprawls out of Viggo’s mouth. The low gravel burr that threads through every other word.
Misha’s more than happy to feed off the intensity that radiates in contradictorily sweet-shy insistence from the man beside him. He’s missed the recharge that such people give him. He’s needed it.
The cooler night air begins to filter into the canyon, easing some of the congested heat. He could swear he even hears the lone call of a coyote from somewhere down in the pass. It could just be that he’s stoned.
He wipes the condensation from his beer off on the edge of his t-shirt.
Lets it all soak in.
Pairing: Misha (Viggo) (gen)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: erm, pot?
Summary: Misha and Viggo one night in LA.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
A/N: A ficlet written for the wonderful azewewish for her birthday who requested Misha and Viggo getting high. Enjoy, hon! For those from either side of the equation - this could be considered gen CWRPS or gen LOTRPS. This kind of fills me with glee. Thanks to cupiscent for her patience and beta, as always. Also - as will become painfully obvious, I do not live in LA and all geographical errors are apologised for in advance ;)
Canyon Glitter
Misha is fidgety, not quite comfortable in his own skin. He plucks his t-shirt away from his skin where it’s sticking emerald-green to the V of his chest in the heat. Fuckin’ LA heat wave.
Partly though, it’s the weed. It’s always made him antsy as he’s getting high.
Not that it stops him from partaking, because when Viggo Mortensen offers you his joint, mid-musing on the nature of creation versus execution of the same, well, Misha figures you don’t say no to that.
Viggo doesn’t seem like the type who goes around offering weed to just anyone. He’s just sayin’, ya know? The man is ridiculously generous, but also almost uncomfortably circumspect.
“So it’s really how you go about knowing yourself that you’re also creating when you’re performing someone else’s words…that it’s all part of the same process of filtering life into art,” Viggo is saying, his body leaning forward conspiratorially, head bent closer to Misha’s than would normally be considered comfortable with a person whom you’ve only just met.
Apparently they’re best friends, a clap on the shoulder from Jensen and a “This is Misha Collins, you’ll fucking love him,” enough to make Viggo cock his head with a glint in his eye. Two hours later, sitting out on the deck watching the lights glitter down in the Valley, people coming and going around them in stop-motion parody, they’re practically family.
Misha inhales, a bright orange flare of fire dancing in the night, holds the acrid smoke in his lungs. He passes the joint back on the slow exhale, tan fingers threading around each other in relay. He watches the smoke dissipate, melding in his vision with the smog-red line of sunset dipping over the horizon.
Viggo is looking at him, eyes focused and head tilted toward him, apparently waiting for an answer or reassurance to something that Misha hasn’t heard. Instead of asking for clarification he simply nods earnestly and says, “That’s a valid point.”
It must have been somewhat close to an appropriate response, because Viggo’s face splits into a ridiculous grin and Misha finds himself grinning back with equal force.
Sometimes, life is pretty damn good.
He lets his mind wander from the conversation, swimming happily in the lukewarm thoughts his brain kicks up.
Viggo reaches over and places a hand on Misha’s knee to emphasise his point. Misha has no idea what it is though. The pot has definitely kicked down from antsy to mellow (thank god) and while Viggo seems to be completely at ease with following the same line of thought he began while sober, Misha has lost the thread completely.
But that’s okay. He’s happy to just be, caught up in the metronomic soft spoken intensity that sprawls out of Viggo’s mouth. The low gravel burr that threads through every other word.
Misha’s more than happy to feed off the intensity that radiates in contradictorily sweet-shy insistence from the man beside him. He’s missed the recharge that such people give him. He’s needed it.
The cooler night air begins to filter into the canyon, easing some of the congested heat. He could swear he even hears the lone call of a coyote from somewhere down in the pass. It could just be that he’s stoned.
He wipes the condensation from his beer off on the edge of his t-shirt.
Lets it all soak in.