Fic: Rendez-vous Inattendu

Title: Rendez-vous Inattendu
Pairing: Viggo/Elijah
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I disclaim.
Summary: Elijah’s homesick during the holidays, and wonders if he is the only one.

A/N: I am soo sorry that this is so dreadfully late! This is my first attempt and who ever requsted this asked for “Viggo/Elijah smut.” It didn’t come out as smutty as intended, but I do hope at least you get a kick out of my first attempt with the pairing. I wish I knew who asked for this, but for some reason the name was never revealed to me. (Though I am not sure I am not at fault for that. ^.^) Once again, so so so sorry this took so long! The muse was in a corner pouting and didn’t come around until two hours ago while I was at work! Special thanks to fluttering_by for the uber-fast beta!


Mom used to say the holidays create unique partnerships, and until I started filming in New Zealand, I never was inclined to agree. But when I was on the other side of the world, thousands of miles away from any familiar sights, sounds, and smells (not to mention familiar weather), I found myself more homesick and eager for company more than ever.

I missed the sound of my mother’s off key singing, as she cooked ready made meals from Ralphs and then presented them to us as if they were her own creations. I missed my brother blasting the Peanuts Christmas Story, and pawing at the wrapped packages under our tree, until mom would catch him and shoo him away. I missed my sister’s squeal of excitement, as she ran down the hall and stairs with heavy feet, and skipped over to the tree come Christmas morning, to tear open her pile of gifts. I even missed the tense phone call from my dad, a man who was as allusive as a KGB member, but I only missed it because after the phone was passed around, and awkward words were exchanged, mom would pull us together in a brief hug, and for that moment, I felt loved and protected.

Armed with my raging case of homesickness, I would trudge to film every day, hoping that the cast and crew would be of some comfort to me, but I found that within the fellowship, the group was diverse in how they handled Christmas.

Some were little more than Santa’s Little Helpers without the badge, such as Astin and Orlando. They had families that came to see them and in Sean’s case, living with them, and they kept them in the holiday spirit. When the month of December rolled around, they dusted off their green, red and snow-flaked sweaters, and, if you cared to listen, would tell you who gave them the garish gift, their eyes shining with the secret thrill of knowing they were loved. They initiated Secret Santa Exchanges, passed out seasonal cards, and generally got on my nerves, when I think about it. I didn’t want to be reminded of the sap I was missing.

Now some were more reserved come December, a nice happy medium, such as Ian, Bean, and JRD. They passed out warm cards too, but in private, by mail, and you never saw Ian in a bright green Rudolph sweater (a personal favorite of Sean Astin’s). If they had one flaw, the one thing that stopped me from turning to them for comfort, it was that I felt I was burdening them, being too young and precocious for their nerves.

At the far end of the spectrum, we had the Grinch's, Dom and Billy, who were everything that Sean and Orlando weren’t come December. They chuffed at the lights strewn up in the trailers, ignored the small tree I brought for us in our own trailer (Dom complained that the spell of pine gave him allergies) and when asked to do the exchange, obliged, but only because Sean Astin made them so his numbers would be even and everyone would have a partner. As the weeks rolled by the two became increasingly crankier, until, as Christmas eve rolled around, they collected us up, for a pint of beer and a bit of moody drunken debauchery.

I readily agreed, partly because the gaping hole in my stomach was so potent I could scarcely think without feeling it, and in my sad state, an evening with the boys, (all degrees of cheerfulness) would do me good. I had spoken to my mother for thirty minutes, hoping it would cheer me up, but she mentioned Dad’s annual phone call, and the conversation dissolved in angry accusations and bitter remarks, and I hung up feeling even more miserable.

But now, in the haze of smoke and dust from shelled beer nuts, I felt comfortable, as the pub and the low grumbles of my friends lulled me into a state of half sleep, leaning against Viggo comfortably. The man hadn’t spoken much all evening, choosing instead to look off at the bustle of people with halt-lidded eyes that shone a pale blue. On occasion I would steal glances at the man, glad that the beer hid my flush, because in truth, I had always thought he was handsome in an old fashioned sort of way, like an old movie star. He even spoke like men from days gone by, even, strong tones, like a tuned cello, and rumbled against my shoulder where it connected to his chest. The musical volley of their voices soon began to break up, as men took their leave, until it was just Dom and Billy, along with Viggo and I, still slumped in the booth. I only half heard Dom’s slurred recollection of a lover who left him at his family’s Christmas party, but I managed to grunt a noise of sympathy, though Dom seemed more interested in the glittering green eyes that peered at him from across the table. Like a new bar in a symphony, his voice trailed off, and Bill’s picked up, muttering about how the holidays held nothing but half forgotten memories and misty dreams, and then he drained his glass, and led Dom out of the pub, and into the closest bed to chase their ghosts away.

Several moments later, I was still slumped against Viggo, suddenly aware of the expectant tension in the air. I felt I should do something, say something, but Viggo beat me to it.

"So what’s the program tonight, Doodle?"

I smiled. Yes, his voice was definitely like a tuned cello.

"Going home, alone, to watch TV."

"Sounds like a plan." He disturbed our position to drain his glass, and flashed me a sad smile.

"You going home to see Henry now?"

He shook his head "He’s with his mom. Won’t be back until New Years."

I closed my mouth, not knowing what to say, as I was used to dealing with the otherside of a divorce. I wondered for a moment, in a flash of compassion, if my own dad had ever sat with a friend, and had to tell them sadly that his children didn’t want to spend the holidays with him. But that compassion was fleeting, as I reminded myself that he never was around to offer to spend the holidays with me, and focused my attention back to Viggo. I imagined him going home, perhaps opening a bottle of wine and painting, and though it sounded very artistic, it also sounded very lonely. I suddenly welled up with the conviction that neither of us needed to spend this night alone, and voiced my thoughts.

"You-" I stopped and then started again. "Would you like to come to my place?”

And thus the board was set.

I don’t think I realized we would come together until he arrived at my place, and shrugged off his jacket. The air was arm and sticky, the exact opposite of what I was used to in December, and I snapped on the noisy fan, and pushed off my shoes. I opened my threadbare fridge, and offered him one of the last two beers I had to my name, and we settled comfortably on the couch, engrossed in an old black and white movie.

Hours later I woke, to fond another black and white movie on, and in our sleep we had turned to one another, partly from warmth maybe, because an unnatural chill had settled over the room, and the brown leather beneath me sent sharp chills on every inch of my exposed skin. I was struck at what a wonder it was, that he and I, two people who normally didn't speak much intimately, could fall into a state of comfortableness so easily, without the awkward silences and forced speech that normal.

"Guess it was meant to be,"he mumbled sleepily, as if answering my thoughts, though I was sure I hadn't said anything out loud, and then he looked up from his position on my shoulder, and his eyes were laid bare before me. I was both humbled and shocked to see that his eyes mirrored my own: loneliness.

It hit me then, like the proverbial ton of bricks, as our lips hesitantly gravitated towards each other. He had no one right now either: no wife (he had divorced), no family (Henry was gone), and no best friend or better half like Dom and Billy, to cling to when the dark poured in at night. And though we were separated by decades and background, we were one in the same, that sticky Christmas eve. Clothes were peeled off slowly, as I leaned back onto the still cold leather, and I let out a gasp in shock.

His kisses were foreign to me, but not unpleasant, and his tongue was warm and clever as he trailed kisses around my neck and shoulders, careful to avoid leaving marks that would be embarrassing later. His palms were chaffed from gripping a sword and dried from handling clay, but I treasured the abrasiveness, as if it was the first time I had felt anything in months. When he drove into me, my legs wrapped around a waist thicker, more sinewy than my own, I cried out with abandon, memorizing the friction of leather and sweat on my back, and the deep baritone his voice hit, when he found his release.

Hours later, we stirred, once again rising from a spontaneous nap on the couch, and when we looked at one another, our faces were devoid of regret and discomfort. I decided, around a yawn, that some breakfast was in order, after another quick nap, and he murmured that he'd never had breakfast at home with a hobbit, and was sure it would be a unique experience.

"And to think, I was going to spend the night with Invader Zim and scotch." He yawned, and dug his shoulder into the leather with a squeak.

"Ya well, we have the holidays to thank then." I remarked, as I tilted my head and pressed my lips against his warm temple.

"Why's that?"

"Because everybody knows that the holidays give birth to unique partnerships," I sighed, and we drifted off before he could reply.