Sekrit Slasha

Slasha, Baby is the LOTR RPS Fanfiction holiday fic exchange. This story depicts real-life public figures engaged in completely fictional, false and untrue activities. It never happened. This story is a work of fantasy and satire which in no way professes to express the truth about the life, thoughts, feelings, desires, opinions, beliefs, activities or sexual orientation of any person mentioned herein.

A Fine Vintage

Title A Fine Vintage
Recipient: Cesare (
Pairing: Viggo/Ian
Rating: G
Summary: Viggo appreciates many things.
Notes: Very gently inspired by some comments Ian McKellen has made about Viggo Mortensen and the LOTR experiences. In particular, he has referenced a book of Strindberg photography that Viggo gave him and he has also said this at his website: "Viggo wears his beauty so carelessly and deflects flattery with a wry head-on-the-side smile of modesty." I borrowed those things to make this fictitious tale meant only for entertainment and with no harm or offense intended to anyone. Also, within this story I also take huge liberties with who was where doing what when.

The Hobbits were all abuzz the night of the Weathertop shooting. In every wildly descriptive telling of the day's events - all steadily elaborated upon as generous amounts of alcohol kept reappearing at everyone's elbow -- it became quite clear that our new Aragorn had already won the support of the recently bereft Hobbits and the Elf. All of us certainly regretted the entire unfortunate mess made by Stuart being replaced but it had been a necessity. He was simply not right for the part. While we all knew it, it didn't help any among us feel better. On his last night in Wellington, the boys -- and at my age I am fine with referring to Hobbits and Elf alike as such -- took Stuart out for a night on the town and then he was gone. It was just a few days later that we were told that his replacement had arrived. While I knew they all still missed Stuart, it appeared as though our new cast mate might restore their sense of excitement and bring about an even more solid Fellowship. It certainly had encouraged a resurgence of general Hobbit/Elf mayhem, I thought, as I ducked an errant piece of discarded Elf ear.


By the next afternoon, I was filming in a hot and noisy studio in Wellington while others were scheduled elsewhere in the area. I'd not yet met our new Aragorn and although I usually am meddlesome enough to search out information about a new member of a production, I simply hadn't had the time in this case. It seemed almost as though one day we were told his name and the very next day, he arrived. I'm sure there was at least a slightly longer interval, but nevertheless, before he'd had a chance to get his feet under him, he practically disappeared into Costume and then was quickly abandoned to the stunt players and Bob to prepare for Weathertop. Unfortunately, he remained unknown to me despite my curiosity. Sean and Bernard had both met him briefly but had exchanged only a few words before he was sent off on his own to endure some sort of accelerated training in order to be thrown to the wolves -- or the Nazgul in this particular case - as expeditiously as possible.


Two nights after they'd all filmed Weathertop together, the Hobbits arranged a dinner -- at a rather civilized restaurant that actually served their beer in glasses - to welcome Viggo into the fold. There was a very large crowd as Peter and Fran, Philippa, Barrie, Richard and many others from the cast and crew joined. I heard a few raucous calls of his name as Viggo entered and was surprised at how close to embarrassed he appeared as he was quickly made the center of attention. Elijah and Dominic practically tackled him but it was Orlando who swung in and all but danced him off to the nearest corner. We laughed and then chatted amongst ourselves while the poor man extricated himself from our dear Elf's embraces.

"Sean. Bernard. Nice to see you again." Viggo approached our group with a small but genuine smile and relief written on his face. He looked at each man briefly -- he truly made eye contact which is quite a rare thing if one thinks about it -- and then he turned to me with a slight nod of his head. Holding out his hand, he introduced himself and paused, waiting for my handshake in return. I must say that I was a bit flustered as I returned his greeting, struck by both his startlingly light blue eyes and the manner in which he held my gaze for a second or two more than was comfortable.


Sean was due to leave early the following morning to deal with personal issues back in England and it was just the three of us -- Viggo and Bernard and myself -- left to savor a smooth cognac recommended by the chef, who had made a point of coming out to greet us. Orlando and the rest of the young crowd were moving off to a club where undoubtedly something of note would occur and we'd all hear about it in the morning. They stopped by to try to get any of us to accompany them but I begged off as did Bernard. I glanced at Viggo and assumed that he would go. Although halfway between my age and Orlando's, he could easily pass as one of their group. I realized I was studying his face -- all angles and shadows -- and hoping he would stay. With a typically impulsive movement, Dominic and Billy flung themselves at him and made quite a show of pulling him out of his chair and beginning to drag him along behind. Viggo wavered and glanced at Bernard before looking at me and, for the first time, I saw his spontaneous crooked grin. For a very brief moment, I felt as though he might stay if I asked, but I hesitated and that opportunity -- imagined or real - passed. He mumbled his apologies and a ėvery nice to meet you' and was gone in a cloud of Hobbits.

Bernard and I looked at each other and laughed, feeling unbearably old.


Over the span of the months the majority of us had been together, I'd seen the younger members of the cast struggling as they dealt with the realities of being far from home and, in several cases, responsible for themselves in the entirety for the first time. Off set, this was often amusing -- Elijah locking himself out of his apartment more than once, Orlando learning quickly that bleach should not be added to every load of laundry and Dominic failing time and again to remember where he'd parked his car. But on set, it threatened to take a more serious toll. These young men were unsure of themselves and it began to manifest itself in small missteps that grew into self-doubt, and self-doubt that progressed into frustration aimed both inward and outward. Nerves were fraying and, as quickly as he'd become Aragorn, Viggo became a leader within the cast. I never sensed that he meant for it to be so; it just was. Possessed of a natural humility and a blatantly ludicrous sense of humor all his own, he was a subtle reminder that we all playact for a living and what could possibly be easier than that?

By and large, the cast regained equilibrium although Dominic still rarely recalls where he's left his car. Over time, I've heard them describe Viggo in so very many ways -- he's amazing, mad, handsome and brilliant to name but a few -- but not once have I heard them ascribe to him the adjective that comes to me each and every time I see him or hear the soft rumble of his voice . For me, he is, at the most elemental level, simply beautiful.


Sundays were precious simply because they weren't marked by anything -- deadlines, lines to learn, people to please. In a manner that entirely avoided religion, I held them as holy. On one particularly satisfactory Sunday -- skies flashing with lighting and rumbling with thunder that always made me think of a very slight actor trying to pull a deep and dark voice from a chest not built to produce one -- I was contemplating going back to bed and doing nothing more than sleeping all day or finding my umbrella and making my way to the Wellington Botanic Garden, which I'd been wanting to see since I'd arrived.

I was just going back upstairs -- still unsure of what I'd do when I got there -- when there was a soft knock at the door. It was Viggo, quite breathless and soaked to the skin. However, he held a wrapped package safe and dry under one arm. I smiled at the oddness of the entire scene. It was very unusual to receive a visit at all on Sunday and that it was our Aragorn, looking much like a drowned rat, who stood and dripped on the mat spoke a great deal of what I'd begun to hear about Viggo's rather unconventional behavior. He didn't speak, just gave me that unabashed smile I'd come to look for, and took a half step toward the door. Laughing, I stepped aside and let him in.


I would never have imagined such a scene but there sat Viggo, bundled in one of Gandalf's grey robes as his clothes dried. We'd considered some of my own for him but once he'd seen the spare wizard's cloak in the closet, he'd grinned and asked if he might and I'd been helpless to say no.

He had explained that he often liked to walk in the rain and he'd decided to come this way not knowing if I'd be home or not. Had I not been in, he'd planned to leave the bundle on the porch.

So now Viggo sat while I made tea and rummaged for something to go with it. He was making all sorts of racket behind me as he peeled plastic away from the package he'd brought and muttered something about photography.

By the time I'd turned, he'd laid a beautifully bound book in front of my chair. The cover was marked only by the name Strindberg in a dark gold script. I looked up at him as I took my seat.

"You're familiar with him?"

"Yeah, but I like his photography as much as some of his writing. I thought you might enjoy them."

I raised an eyebrow. "I had no idea that he was a photographer. I only know his novels, his plays. I was in--"

"Dance of Death. With Helen Mirren. I know." He grinned and looked a bit embarrassed. "I saw you in it. Three times. Twice in New York and once in London."

My surprise must have shown on my face. He suddenly bowed over the book, thumbing through the pages, and I could see that his face was slightly flushed.

"There's a place in LA -- TASSLA -- that's all about Strindberg. I've been there a lot. I thought that maybe--. I guess--." He looked lost.

"Viggo," I interrupted. "It's wonderful. And very thoughtful. Thank you."

He leaned back in his chair, a very pleased look on his face. "It's okay then. Good."

I couldn't take my eyes off him. As beautiful as he'd always been, he suddenly seemed even more so. He finally looked down and away, focusing on the book again. "His photography is very interesting. Very unique." I watched his hands gently riffling through the pages as he looked for something. He found a small picture -- one of Strindberg's many self-portraits -- and turned it to me, a scraped finger pointing out a detail that caught his eye. I felt a great desire to touch his hand, still it with mine resting over it, but instead I nodded and smiled as he described having seen it at a museum in Copenhagen many years before.

Abruptly, he stopped talking and glanced first at me and then quickly around the room. "Did I interrupt you?"

Where I should have laughed at his very much delayed question, I nodded gently instead, pleased at his answering smile. Suddenly there was another rumble of thunder and the room seemed warm and altogether comfortable. "I like that you came. I'm very glad." I sipped at my tea and looked elsewhere, discomfited by how attracted to him I felt. "I think I'm the member of the Fellowship who has spent the least amount of time with you." He glanced up at me quickly, eyes wide, and I hastened to add, "Oh, not by my choosing, Viggo. Simply as a result of the schedule demanded by the demented creatures who are leading us on this adventure."

He laughed then and stood up, grey robe pooling a bit at his feet. "I'm going to check on my clothes, okay?"

"Let me. You're the guest after all."

"But you're the Wizard and I'm a mere Ranger."

I smiled and stayed where I was. "Then I shall wait here for the return of my robe."

After a bit of rustling and clanging about, Viggo came back into the kitchen, jeans on but shirt open. He handed me the robe and then went about buttoning his shirt. I could only stand still, doing my best not to let my jaw drop, as I took in the beauty of his smooth, tanned skin and well muscled chest. When I looked up, feeling almost guilty, he was watching me with the most extraordinarily direct look in his blue eyes. He stepped closer, buttons abandoned in favor of placing his strong hands in mine, holding tightly for a very long moment. I could barely respond before he stepped back and gestured toward the book. "I marked a page for you," he said in a low, warm voice as he reached behind himself for the doorknob.

Still not entirely in charge of my faculties, I nodded and mumbled another thank you as he slipped away. I watched him through the window as he loped easily across the street and disappeared past the trees marking the turn onto the main road. I gently thumbed through the book until I reached a worn photograph that had been inserted between the pages. Startled, I realized the picture was one taken of me as I sat in my chair in the makeup trailer. It quite clearly had been taken via the mirror in front of me as Viggo stood just out of focus behind and to one side. I'd never known he was there.

The page he'd marked had no picture of its own. It was simply black text against a stark white background. I traced the letters with my fingers as I read them slowly.

"I do not care about my own appearance, but I would hope that people could see into my soul, and that is presented better in these photographs than in others."

I looked again at the photograph with which Viggo had marked the page. The picture was a bit worn around the edges, one corner slight bent as though it had been carried about and not kept long inside the safety of the book. I felt pleasantly disquieted as I realized that, despite the gentle chaos of our trailer, he'd carefully, quietly focused on me.


I've watched beautiful men all my life. I appreciate strong features, honest eyes, life-worn hands... men who lack a need for artifice.

I quickly came to learn that Viggo embodies all of these things. He must have been told of his handsomeness -- his beauty -- many times in his life and yet, he seemed to not care in the least about how he appeared on the exterior. All that he seemed to value most lay in things far removed from his own appearance.

The tiny couch in the makeup trailer was always littered with his books -- of poetry, history, art, politics -- and the area all around his station was covered with a myriad of things of any manner. There were flowers in a tin can as often as they were in a proper vase, pictures and news clippings, ticket stubs...seemingly whatever struck his fancy.

After one particularly grueling day of shooting, I arrived home to find a beer bottle bristling with simple yellow gorse stationed in front of my door. It never even crossed my mind that it could have been from anyone else.


I'm too old to pretend that I didn't look forward to seeing Viggo more each day. Following an absence wherein he'd gone to see his son back to school in California, I allowed myself a trip to the stables with hopes of coming upon him there. It was no secret that he spent a great deal of his free time with the horses, sometimes riding but just as often doing nothing more than enjoying time spent with them.

It was late in the afternoon when I stood alongside the paddock rail and watched Viggo far across the field. He nudged Uraeus into a trot and then settled him into the most graceful floating canter I can recall seeing. From the backward tilt of Uraeus' ears, I knew that Viggo was speaking to him. With a crisp, clear jangle of tack, he turned the horse in a tight circle and let him take the lead out over the hills at the end of the pasture. In that moment, Viggo seemed so completely at ease and happy that I felt a small twinge of guilt for intruding. Reluctantly I turned away, disappointed, but before I'd gone ten steps, I was startled by a loud whoop and the pounding of Uraeus' hooves as man and horse came toward me at full gallop. Almost before I knew it, Viggo was pulling Uraeus to a stop along the rail, making soothing sounds when the horse fought against standing still. Viggo smiled and quickly slid down to greet me.

"Hi," he said simply. "I'd hoped to see you again."

I couldn't resist playing a bit coy. "We do work together after all so I suppose it was inevitable."

He blushed -- a trait of which I was becoming quite enamored -- but his momentary awkwardness didn't lessen the intensity of his gaze or stop him from pressing his hand next to mine on the wooden rail. Looking down, I was touched by the scraped knuckles that came from his hard work and, without a thought, I slid my fingers gently over his bruises. Sharply drawing in a breath, he waited until I glanced up into his blue-grey eyes before he turned his hand, nestling mine in his. He tilted his head to one side, met my eyes with a smile and then, soft and quiet as a breeze, he lifted my hand and I felt the touch of his lips against my palm.

"Yes," he murmured very simply and I have no idea if he or I knew precisely what he meant yet I nodded in return. His smile was radiant. "Good then."

"I've just come to see if you might like to join me for dinner." I wasn't sure what spurred me to ask that question so abruptly since I'd had no such plan but saying it made me feel a bit more in charge, a circumstance to which I am frankly accustomed. However, I was immediately abandoned by linear thought let alone improvisation or authority as Viggo insinuated his fingers between mine. I was utterly unable to cobble together even the simplest of sentences and there was quite a glimmer in Viggo's eyes as he realized it. He watched me start to speak only to stop more than once and I expect I looked rather like a guppy. Finally, with a slow and gentle caress the length of my forearm, he let me off the proverbial hook.

"I'd love to go to dinner but I'm afraid we may be overrun by the rest of the Fellowship, and, as much as I love them..." He made that delightful closed mouth grin and let his words trail away. "Maybe we could--" With an annoying rattle of his bridle, Uraeus impatiently nudged against Viggo's shoulder. He was ignored for a moment as Viggo continued to focus his attention on me and this made Uraeus fussier still. He champed at his bit and pushed harder until Viggo turned with soft words and a firm hand on the reins. Even so, the horse's fretfulness grew. As Viggo frowned and stepped alongside to check the bridle and saddle for a source of irritation, he suddenly yelped and tried to jump backwards, flailing awkwardly. I saw at once that Uraeus had taken a step and landed squarely on Viggo's foot. Almost immediately, the horse stepped aside and back, fidgeting nervously. Viggo dropped his lead, unable to pay attention to anything beyond his pain, and Uraeus bolted toward the barn. Seeing one of the handlers nearby, I waved him over and we helped Viggo carefully limp to a bench.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..." he was saying in a terribly painful monotone.

I could see blood staining the top of his leather boot and winced at the damage that must have been done. The stable hand quickly offered to call for a medic or an ambulance but Viggo shook his head, looking nauseous as he did so. The handler looked at me and waited, finally leaving with a nod as Viggo grabbed my arm.

"I don't need an ambulance. Just stay here." He was white as a sheet.

"Viggo. We need to get you to a physician. We need to call for someone." As always, I was very collected despite the emergency. Viggo, with a grimace, stretched forward a little to look down at his boot and squirmed in pain. I put on my sternest face and reached for my own cell phone. "Peter will know who to send," I said firmly and he glared up at me.

"Drive me to a doctor. No ambulance. And Peter doesn't need to know."


"No ambulance."

Cursing his American stubbornness, I pulled my car around and helped him into it. It was clear that every movement caused him great pain. He sat stiffly upright and didn't speak except to direct me to an emergency clinic.

Five stitches, a hefty bottle of pain pills, a protective boot and an ice pack later, we were on our way.


"I suppose dinner is out of the queshtion." Viggo's head lolled against the headrest a bit as he tried to focus on me. The pain medication he'd been given left him unable to speak clearly yet, ironically, seemed to have accelerated his need to talk.

"I suppose it is, Viggo. Another night then?"

"Yesh." He rolled his head away to look out the window as we drove through darkened streets. "Hope Uraeshush is okay..."

"I'm quite sure that your horse felt absolutely no discomfort as he trod on your foot, Viggo." Irrationally, I was annoyed at the animal for the harm he'd caused.

"Goodth." The car radio was suddenly fascinating to him although it appeared that being able to focus enough to pick a station didn't necessarily follow.

"Settle back, Viggo. I'll have you home in just a moment."

He looked at me a bit blearily.

"My home. You recall, don't you? For the night at least. There are plans for Gandalf to be elsewhere for the next several days so Sean will be by to help you home in the morning. Until then, I'll have you at my house and you'll have the guest room."

Viggo grinned a bit sloppily. "Can I stay in your throom?" He giggled and turned away again, hand on the window as though he could catch the streetlights.


Viggo is not a light man. He's thin and fit but sturdy with muscle. I found it difficult to help him out of the car and into the house, even with his crutches. Especially with his crutches. He slung them around in the same fashion as he did his sword. We made it as far as the lounge and then he wrestled away and slumped in a corner of the couch, nestling amongst the pillows. I sighed.

"Let me make you some tea and then we'll get you situated upstairs."

With an enormous yawn, Viggo nodded as he burrowed deeper into the pillows and gently lifted his injured foot onto the sofa.

Although I was only gone for a moment, Viggo was sound asleep when I returned. With another sigh -- half of relief and half of frustration -- I pulled a soft blue throw over him. He mumbled something and then dropped off again. I watched for a moment before I leaned over to kiss the warm skin of his brow and then I turned out the light and went upstairs to my own bed.


As much as I deeply regretted it, I had to turn Viggo over to the other Man in the cast. With morning came Sean and with Sean came a now awakened Viggo. And that Viggo most certainly did not react well to pain medication. He was groggy and unhappy and in clear discomfort but refused any more tablets. He glared at poor Sean who'd only come to help but, as one should have expected, dear Bean found this to be inordinately amusing. While careful of his physical wellbeing as he helped him toward the door, he was certainly happy enough to tease poor Viggo until I thought he might get clubbed with a crutch. I received a mumbled ėthank you' and a forlorn look and could only laugh while I listened to them squabble like old women as they got Viggo situated in Sean's car.


By the time I was back, Viggo was up and around, albeit with a bit of a limp. I'd watched from a distance as he filmed some very strenuous scenes involving Uruk Hai. I was more than a bit thankful as I watched him in motion -- all fluid muscle and determination. Enough to give one...well...very inappropriate ideas. But duty called and I moved away. I was in the makeup trailer waiting to be made up as Gandalf when Viggo burst in, dirty, sweaty and altogether stunning. He came to an immediate stop and said my name in surprise as he caught sight of me. Out of a corner of the trailer flew the projectile that was Orlando, nearly shoving Viggo off his feet as he gave him a loud kiss. Viggo smiled indulgently and ruffled Orlando's Mohawk, calling over his shoulder for Sean to come in and take the Elf somewhere to keep him out of trouble. Grumbling about having to stub out a perfectly good cigarette, Sean came in, looking first at Viggo and then at Orlando. With a mock scowl, he took Orlando by the ear and playfully pushed him in front of him and out the door. As he closed it behind him, he paused and smirked at both of us but left without a word.

Smiling at me in the mirror, Viggo gripped my shoulders and leaned down to kiss my cheek, lingering and murmuring a growly greeting that I will recall forever.


I made a very conscious decision to accidentally happen upon a poetry reading of which Viggo was to be a part. Sean had mentioned it to me with a glitter in the green of his eyes. I hung back in the shadows behind a small roomful of writers and listeners who hung on every word from the four poets, each seated in an appallingly shabby chair. Like the chairs, none of the poets matched. There was a very young woman who spoke quite seriously, each word a stroke of a hammer, a young man with lovely red-gold hair who read with a grin in his voice, and an elderly Maori man who spoke in a language that I did not understand but who made his feelings quite clear.

And then there was Viggo. He focused primarily upon his scraps of paper, tilting this way and that to cast light upon the pages and make out scrawled words. Reading something half-finished, he seemed surprised at where it ended and laughed softly at himself without even raising his eyes to the room. He fumbled for a pen and made quick notes on the edges of his document that then continued onto the thumb and forefinger of his free hand. Seemingly picking up at a point past the gap in his writing, he continued and the gentle and thoughtful rasp of his voice caused one to strain to hear.

I was transfixed by the words he'd chosen and the ways in which he'd put them together. Messy, unclear feelings were encapsulated in phrases alongside ones of simple clarity. The words themselves were intriguing but the manner in which he seemed to block out almost everything but his enjoyment of them -- the puzzle of them -- was brilliant to see.

I waited as the room began to clear and was approached by the red-haired man who knew me from a film he'd seen. We talked for some time -- he was quite likable -- but I tried to keep Viggo in my line of sight, hoping to break away and speak to him before he was gone for the night. As my new acquaintance asked for an autograph, I saw Viggo slip into his jacket and then out the side door, his arm around the shoulder of the young woman.

Caught off guard by the sight, I fumbled and signed my name automatically. I offered a swiftly created excuse and a brief handshake before breaking away from -- what was his name again? Marc. Yes, Marc with a ėc'. I walked steadily toward the front door, glad for the cooler air outside. Confused and embarrassed, I was eager to reach my car and be on my way home before Viggo could catch sight of me but there he was, holding a cab door open for the woman who'd read her poetry alongside him. Lightly grasping her hand, he watched as she stepped from the curb and slid across the seat. His back was to me and I was glad for it. I moved hastily in the other direction, sure that my car was parked at the next cross street. Just as I reached for my door, I heard the soft call of my name and turned to find Viggo right behind me. He laid his hand on my shoulder and looked at me, a frown crinkling his brow.

"Why didn't you wait?"

"You seemed-. You obviously had plans. I didn't intend for you to see me-."

His eyes were so intent upon mine that I felt lost in them and it made me feel vulnerable and uncomfortable. Panic almost overtook me and I fumbled for the right key, wishing that he would leave almost as much as I hoped he would stay. He stilled my hands and slid the keys into his own pocket before leaning close. I acquiesced when he pressed me against the cold, damp metal of my car door and finally felt that I was right where I was supposed to be when he brushed his lips softly against mine.

"She's a friend, Ian," he whispered. A street lamp fluttered dimly behind him and his face was cast in shadow where I am sure mine was open as a book to be read. The light emphasized the line of his jaw and fullness of his mouth.

"You're beautiful," I murmured without thought, charmed by the way he tilted his head to the side as though deflecting the comment.

With an unsteady hand, he touched my cheek and I faintly wondered if his fingers followed the curve of bone or the lines of age, but he smiled as he did so and then he kissed me again, properly and without hesitation.

"I..." he said softly and slowly, "never made it past the couch last time I slept over. Think I could try again?" His grin was beautiful and open as I nodded and slid my hand into his pocket after my keys.

slashababy was created by megolas, revised by yueni
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