In-His-Element-Marton (TM)


Craig might have a crappy memory, but it's not so bad that he doesn't remember that Marton's eyes are supposed to be brown. He doesn't know exactly why it comes as such a surprise to him when, the first day filming at Lothlorien, Craig calls out to Marton and dark, thick eyelashes sweep up to reveal eyes that aren't quite green but not quite blue, either. Hell, everyone on this set has had a cosmetic alteration of some kind, whether it be wigs, feet, ears, beards, noses, or, as in this case, contacts. Still, though, it takes Craig's mind a minute to process the difference, and he's a bit thrown off when he meets not-Marton's eyes.

"Yeah?" Marton asks when Craig doesn't say anything. And that soft, low drawl sort of makes something in Craig's stomach clench, which makes it even more difficult to speak.

"Um..." And yeah, coherent speech would be a good thing to rediscover right now, because Craig feels a mite uneasy under the unrelenting weight of not-Marton's eyes. Something, like "gee, that Peter Jackson sure is a fun guy to work with" or "I could really use some water, how about you?" Or maybe stating the obvious, like "my name's Craig" or "your eyes aren't supposed to be that color." Anything would be good right about now.

And then Orlando, bless him, breezes over, makes some crack about elves, blah blah blah. Craig couldn't care less what he's saying, just that something's being said.

"Why is it that they hire a bunch of dark-haired, dark-eyed blok! es to play the pale elves?" Craig catches that much of what Orlando's saying.

"It's obviously about torture," Marton replies, shrugging lazily. "Everybody has to go through some form of hell on this film, and the wigs, contacts, and ears -- those are ours. Besides, they're supposed to make us beautiful. Not that you need any help in that department."

Craig's eyes narrow. Is Marton coming onto Orlando Bloom? While Craig's still around? That's not in very good taste.

"Why, thank you," Orlando practically preens. "And you know, these contacts may inhibit my vision, but I'd say that you make quite a stunning picture yourself."

What, is Craig suddenly not there anymore? He certainly doesn't care to hear them drool all over each other, but that doesn't make him leave. Instead, he frowns minutely.

"Of course! ," Orlando continues, "I like the dark, exotic look much better on you. It's a shame to cover up your hair and eyes." Craig, facing Orlando's back, doesn't see the playful wink Orlando aims in Marton's direction.

And "Grrrr...Mine! Back off, kid!" Craig wants to say, but that wouldn't be too friendly. It wouldn't be very accurate, either. Add that to the fact that his vocal chords still aren't cooperating, and Craig's scowling darkly when Orlando glances his way. If he were a pretty boy, he could say that kind of stuff and get away with it, too.

"Awww, Craig! Don't pout. You look absolutely stunning as well. Of course, you're a lucky bastard to escape the contacts, but the blonde hair does look nice," Orlando says, beaming at him.

Craig wants to say something wonderfully cutting and sarcastic in reply, but then Marton's voice cuts in, honeyed and smooth.

"Indeed," he agrees, nodding. "And you're better built for the lean elven grace than I could ever hope to be," Marton says, and his gaze making its way down Craig's, that's kind of more predatory than envying, and the heat in not-Marton's eyes when they meet Craig's (which, he has a feeling, are much wider than is usual) makes Craig lose all hope of ever being able to find his voice again. Which, now that he thinks about it, is not really all that necessary. Who needs to talk, right?

But then the call comes for them to get in place onset, and Craig remembers that yeah, as an actor, speech certainly comes in handy. No such thing as a mute elf. But he doesn't have to speak in this scene, which is a good thing, considering that his voice when he clears his throat sounds all rough and rusty, like it's been trapped inside his chest for years rather than minutes.

Craig takes his place a few paces away from the Fellowship and faces ! the raised dais where Marton and Cate will make their entrance as Celeborn and Galadriel. Take after take of this scene is bound to get boring, especially since they'll do it over and over until they get the inflections and gestures just right. In a way, Craig's glad that all he has to do is stand there on the fringes and not really pay attention to what's going on. He's free to think about anything he wants, provided, of course, that he looks haughty and ethereal and elf-like while doing so. No problem.

Craig tries to look interested in what's being said while the cameras roll, and when a little distaste for Legolas shows through, well, Craig decides that it's probably okay. After all, he rationalizes, Haldir wouldn't be all that comfortable knowing that these interlopers had brought danger with them into Lothlorien. Staying focused on them is a good thing. But then his gaze starts to wander, settling on Marton's figure, and he decides that for Haldir to be staring with lust-filled eyes at Galadriel's trophy husband...well, that probably isn't exactly in character. For that reason, he tries to turn his attention back to Galadriel.

This one thing about Marton keeps catching Craig's attention, though, and it makes it almost impossible to look away. The mass of Christmas lights Andrew set up to highlight Galadriel's eyes is meant to make it look like she's filled with the light of wisdom. Right, Craig gets that. But from where he's standing, they aren't reflecting in Cate's eyes. Instead, they're making Marton's eyes glitter in an unearthly way that's enchanting and unsettling at the same time. The lights, as much as they distract him from the scene, do, however, register the fact that Marton's gaze has shifted, and Craig realizes that fact quickly enough to divert his attention to Viggo/Aragorn, who's speaking now. Hmm. Isn't he interesting? Craig does his best to look engrossed in the scene.

After a sufficient amount of time has passed, Craig's eyes slide right back over to catch a glimpse of Marton, whose eyes are still wrong. But they look kind of cool, the paler than usual color highlighted by the tiny reflections of lights. They go with Celeborn. They work with the long, blonde hair, with the elegant silver robes, with the ageless, unemotional expression.

Somehow, Craig is so caught up in his scrutiny that he doesn't notice when "Cut!" is called. He just stands there until, suddenly, Marton's eyes snap over in his direction, and Marton's lips part to bare his teeth. It could be considered a smile, Craig supposes, looking away guiltily. Not an amused or happy smile, though. Terms like "feral" or "tempting" or "cat that ate the canary" spring to Craig's mind. The smile, at least, is all Marton.

Craig thinks that a drink is definitely in order. He didn't ! allow his gaze or his mind to wander for the remainder of the day's shots, and he's quite proud of himself for resisting that temptation. So once he's out of costume and back in street clothes, he heads over to the cast and crew's favorite haunt, a friendly, out-of-the-way pub where he can have a few drinks and relax, not worrying about who he has to avoid looking at.

He's on his second scotch, absentmindedly tapping his toe to the music and picking glue from behind his left ear when someone slides into the unoccupied stool beside him and pulls his hand away from his ear.

Craig jerks around quickly, startled. Of course. Marton. And not just plain old Marton, no. Itís In-His-Element-Marton. That sounds so cheesy it could be the name of an action figure, but it's true. This isn't Marton playing Celeborn, with his hair and clothes and eyes all wrong. This is Marton being Marton, his dark hair curling as it dries, wearing all black (and nothing so obvious as leather, because Marton doesn't need a staple sexy item like leather to be sexy. No, a black pair of jeans and a black sweater do him fine. Very fine, indeed.), eyes the dark golden-brown that Craig remembers so well. And the dark, smoky atmosphere of the bar complements and merges with Marton's dark, smoky presence so well that it seems like this is Marton's natural environment, like a Polar Bear belongs at the North Pole. Or is it South Pole? Hell, maybe it's both. Craig's not overly concerned with mixing analogies right now.

"Craig," Marton murmurs, still grasping Craig's hand as he turns to order vodka from the bartender. When he turns back to Craig, who is staring down at their joined hands dumbly, he smiles that decidedly Marton smile again, and Craig remembers that it's his turn to speak.

"Hey, Marton," he replies belatedly, his voice coming out hoarse and gravelly. He takes a qui! ck gulp of his scotch, attributing the roughness of his voice to thirst. It has nothing to do with the man sitting beside him, fucking stroking the back of Craig's hand. Really. Nothing at all, Craig reassures himself as the bartender sets down Marton's drink and Marton's hand leaves his to reach for it.

"So, what are you doing here?" Craig asks, and gee, at least his vocal chords are back under his command. His voice came out clear and strong there, thankfully not cracking embarrassingly.

Marton takes a casual drink of his vodka, then levels his gaze at Craig's. "Seducing you."

Craig blinks. Now that was an unexpected but direct answer. "Ah, I see," he responds, nodding. Like, yeah, that's a completely reasonable thing for Marton to say.

Then Craig just watches Marton watching him, the look on his face slightly calculating. And, if possible, Marton's irises seem even darker when he asks, "Is it working?"

Craig could say something like, "Well, if you have to ask..." But the clever-response section of his brain seems to have shut down now momentarily, and Craig wonders what's next. Maybe he's falling apart one piece at a time. So maybe he simply sits there, staring in disbelief as Marton's eyes get larger and closer. And maybe, just maybe, he sees dark eyelashes start to sweep down, feels them feather-light against his cheek when Marton's lips meet his. And perhaps when the shock gives way to pleasure, his eyes close of their own volition, and he just goes with it. Because, really, thinking is overrated.