Slasha, Baby 2007
Coming, Returning, Revealing
Pairing: Cate/Miranda, Sean Bean/Viggo, Harry Sinclair/Karl
Summary: Just a collection of snippets during and after filming.
Author Notes: caras_galadhon gave me a lot of wiggle room to work with, and I jumped on it. I don't know if the particular arrangement works, but I hope so! I hope the time isn't too ridiculously fuzzy in this, as it does skip around a lot. If anyone's curious about when the parts take place they can ask!
Post-Reveal Notes: Britpick by rainbowcobweb
Cate is on her belly, Miranda pegging her from behind with a strap-on, and she feels just slightly guilty. Guilty because she fucking wants this, even though there's a little person in her belly, and kink is not for children. Guilty because this is so fucking incredible, and they do it more often than they did in New Zealand, and she doesn't think about her husband anymore when Miranda is inside her -- silicone or no, it's still Miranda that's inside. They still don't do it face-to-face, but even when Miranda has Cate over her knees, her hand rhythmically pinking up Cate's bottom, it's more intimate than simple sex could ever be.
She thinks back to New Zealand, where this started, and to the late night in her trailer when Miranda had shoved her against the wall face first, and her pelvis had scraped against the fake wood panelling as Miranda hiked up her skirt and lifted her thigh with one hand and pushed into her pussy from behind with a nice long one, making no pretence of foreplay. She thinks about how she banged against the wall with her fists, over and over again, as she came, and how she shouted Miranda's name and how she sank to her knees afterward and how Miranda shoved the harness down her thighs so that as Cate licked and licked and begged to get the other woman off a rubber phallus smacked rhythmically against her breasts. And Cate thinks about how when she left, Andy Serkis was standing twenty feet away with a cigarette in his mouth, his eyes meeting hers steadily for a long moment before she turned away and walked to the car park with as much dignity as possible.
Miranda is too young, and an enigma, but Cate is fucking hooked.
"She looks cheerful," Sean observes as he drops into a cloth director's chair placed almost undetectably closer to Viggo's than friends normally sit.
"Who, Cate?" Viggo asks, a little out of it, obviously deeply in his Aragorn head.
"Well, she does get to wear a really nice dress," Viggo says thoughtfully a couple of minutes later, after Sean's already moved onto another track in his mind. He laughs and gives Viggo a sidelong grin.
"Would you like me to buy you a really nice dress?"
Viggo's smile is wide and all himself for just a moment, and he nudges Sean's boot with his own. "Might wear it if you did."
Sean raises an eyebrow and dwells firmly on that image until Pete calls their names.
Viggo, of course, knew before Sean got anywhere near the airport that he'd be in a funk for the next few weeks. He retreats into himself predictably, hiding in his character, and doesn't invite others over on days off. He's only at this house party because the hobbits dragged him physically, and he sits quietly in a chair in the corner, drinking Newcastle Brown and thankful that no one has commented on the choice.
"Can I ask you a favour?"
Viggo turns, surprised, to his left. Harry Sinclair is sitting in a chair that matches his own, sipping from a local lager.
"What did you need?" he asks in his usual slow, measured tone, with an unidentifiable accent that has a bit more of an edge to it since he's been speaking as Aragorn so frequently. At least, that's the excuse he uses to explain the British inflections, as it's the more convenient of the two possibilities.
"I have a nephew, Roger. His twelfth birthday is coming up, and he's this really reserved kid, but he's quite an art buff. I was wondering if I might be able to commission something small from you?"
Viggo cocks an eyebrow. Harry's a local, he thinks, or maybe from Auckland, but he must know someone in New Zealand who could do this. Still, he agrees, and it's only later that he realises how nice it is to be needed, as he's lost in the thought of a new project, and he wonders if Harry already had a present for his nephew after all.
"You know, I've been thinking," Karl muses as Harry's teeth dig into a tendon in his neck. There's still a bottle of beer dangling between two of his fingers, and it's precariously close to dropping. "We tend to find ourselves in the most awkward situations."
"Why Karlsbad," Harry teases, using his most ridiculous nickname for his best friend. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Harry, we're in a fucking closet."
"Well I couldn't very well suck your cock in the middle of Pete and Fran's potluck, could I?"
Karl sucks in a breath, and Harry's fingertips whisper against his chest as his shirt buttons pop open one by one. "Yes, but it's a closet."
Karl can feel Harry's smile against his neck. "I think it's amusing."
"I hope Pete and Fran aren't too scandalized. I like my job."
Harry drops to his knees and pushes Karl back against the coats. One comes loose from its hanger and drapes over Karl's face, smelling slightly musty and otherwise of perfume.
"Pete and Fran are used to me."
"I'm thinking about a change," Viggo says quietly, slowly, his fingers tangled in Sean's hair whether protectively or simply to search for an anchor, Sean doesn't know. He's learned to wait it out, match Viggo's own patience and push aside his laddish temper, finding context slowly through mutual processes of discovery.
"What kind of a change?" Sean asks. They're wrapped around each other as much as two people could physically be, and though Viggo wasn't comfortable with it at first -- much less so than Sean, who was used to women and gives his heart away too easily, he knows -- they are now very much in love, and the spider-like merging of bodies makes sense.
"I don't like Los Angeles very much."
"No," Sean agrees. Viggo never much has, except that there are little pockets, niches where he fits in, and wonderful people and his son and his ex-wife and plenty of rich motherfuckers who will buy artwork and pitch film scripts.
"I like the house, but I can't get you out there enough."
Sean smiles and presses his mouth against the nape of Viggo's neck. "It's not that I don't want to go..."
"I know, I don't blame you. Those puddle jumpers are fucking scary, especially in winter. It's just... that's when I need you."
Sean nods; he knows. Viggo has some mild form of seasonal affective disorder, and he's at his worst in the colder months. He starts thinking of camping, and his father, and retreating into himself.
"Do you want to come here?"
Viggo nods. "More. I want to..."
"Move your stuff?"
"It isn't stuff, Sean."
Viggo's voice is quiet and slightly hurt. Sean nods and brushes his stubbled chin again Viggo's neck. "I know. I want you to."
Viggo curls in on himself slightly, and Sean follows the movement with his own body.
"Touch me," Miranda purrs. "Put your hand on my cunt."
"Oh," Cate gasps, and because she's not fast enough, Miranda grabs her wrist and does it for her.
"I want to do you here."
Cate lets out a strangled sound as she rubs Miranda's clit through her knickers, the folds of Miranda's girlish summer skirt resting on her forearm. The night is warm and the alleyway is tucked away but not really, not nearly far enough from the paparazzi for Cate's comfort. She can imagine it, the headlines tomorrow, the dip her future would take if Andrew and everyone found out that she'd been caught in an alley in Cannes with a female actress...
But Cate doesn't fucking care, because this isn't a female actress, this is Miranda, and she's been carrying a dildo in her purse all night and Cate laughs and she loves it.
Miranda smiles, brushes Cate's cheek with the back of her hand, and that alone is worth it.
Harry claps his hand over his mouth when he realizes the figure in his bed isn't Karl, that he's passed out with a friend after a few too many, and he only wishes it were his best friend, his confidante, the man with whom he's spent too many crazy nights in hotel rooms just like this, the man who puts the only marks on his skin that he doesn't want to fade away.
Fortunately, the man who is in the bed only rouses slightly, and then settles back into the dead stillness of slumber. Harry extricates himself from the position and finds his mobile, then slips out into the hallway.
"Jesus Harry, what time is it?"
Harry smiles and taps his fingers on the tacky moulding that divides one bad shade of wallpaper from the other. "Too early. I miss you."
"Oh." The smile is apparent in Karl's tone, and Harry slips down to the floor, sits with his back against the wall and doesn't really notice that he's wearing jeans and no shirt and in the hallway of the third floor of a cheap French hotel room. "How was your night?"
"Not particularly memorable. How's home?"
Harry smiles, because he knows Karl isn't elaborating to save Harry from details about the woman in Karl's life, details he'd been only too happy to give at night over beers but the morning is different. Harry likes that Karl knows this.
"I heard a cello piece the other day that made me think of you," Karl announces.
Harry laughs deep in his throat, his fingers tightening on the phone. "Where on earth did you hear a cello piece?"
"Fuck off. Mum was visiting, she got this CD for her birthday..."
"Oh, Karlsbad. You dig yourself into a deeper hole..."
"Fuck off, I say. Anyway. I thought of you."
Harry grins. "I'm glad to hear it."
"It looks nice," Sean says, wrapping his arms around Viggo's waist from behind. "I like it."
It's only four days before they separate, each to his own project, each to a different side of the world, but the top of Sean's TV cabinet now holds a melee of framed photographs -- his girls and Viggo's son and even his ex-wife and each of Sean's. It's all right like that, because the significance is the photograph in the centre, Sean and Viggo facing the camera but embracing, grinning widely, both with beards and hair a little too long, and ratty jackets because it had been about to snow.
Sean kisses Viggo's jaw, and Viggo turns to return it, a violent expulsion of emotion and desire against Sean's mouth that he is only too happy to reciprocate.
They fall to the bed in a mass of limbs and it is only the back of his mind as Viggo pushes into him that reminds Sean this -- this is our bed.
Harry's nephew has a big, raucous birthday party for his sixteenth, an odd mixture of teenaged friends and his entire extended family and Karl, feeling out of place but dragged into the incongruities of Harry's family by the man himself, laughing and much in his element, telling kids stories to frighten or amuse them with a beer in his hand and Karl practically joined to his hip.
"Is that one of Viggo's?" Karl asks, surprised, in one of the quieter moments, when they've gone to the den to find somewhere to deposit the big garbage bags of torn wrapping paper, somewhere out of the way.
Harry smiles at the small, framed picture on the wall, a burst of colour with no real endpoint but a swirling, very much in-focus figure of blue at the centre. "Yeah. I had forgotten about that."
Karl just smiles at him, a little confused, but kisses his cheek and goes back out to the yard, almost tripping over a little redheaded girl cousin on the way out.
"Need," Cate gasps. "Need."
"I love you."
It breaks the stillness, shatters, crashes, should be a foregone conclusion but Miranda has never said it and Cate arches, her mouth wide open and her eyes focused unerringly on the shape of Miranda's lips still forming the final "oo." She comes without being touched, and Miranda doesn't look surprised, exactly, but when they kiss messily all their limbs are intertwined to the point of not knowing one from the other, dark from light, dominant from submissive, Cate from Miranda, sated from coming and coming again.
Miranda presses herself to Cate's bosom, a frightened chaos in her gaze, as they lie still together and process the silence, gasping for breath.
The sun is setting and their time is almost up, but Cate does not look away. She cannot let her focus splinter here, for it is singular, and all is Miranda. In this moment, all is as it should be.