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Jul. 31st, 2010 03:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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wordsontongueTitle: The Observer
Author:koulagirl666
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Beta:j_ryder448
Request: Humor, guys being guys, contemporary AUs, big fan of blokish!Orlando, Karl and/or Bernard as supporting characters
Disclaimer: This didn't really happen, and I don't mean to pretend it did, or for this to reflect on Viggo and Sean in any way.
Summary: AU - If Viggo and Sean had never met. Viggo's a never-quite-made-it indie actor, among other things, and Sean is an enigma.
Everyone has their story. His is probably more complex and nuanced than most - people tend to go about their day, looking for their next meal, their next job, their next purchase, with little thought or complication. He seems to have taken a side trip; he's never in at the same time every week, and sometimes I miss him, or he doesn't stop even to drink his coffee before leaving. He's never well-dressed, exactly, though he isn't unkempt or dirty; he tends towards loose sweaters and jeans, which look worn but aren't ragged. I suspect he works in the industry, like so many of us around here, because he's often carrying a sheaf of paper which, I have seen, is tagged and usually layered with colour - a script, still in development, perhaps, or altered on the fly. I don't recognise him; this is not unusual to me, though it is intriguing that he seems familiar to me.
Today he seems to want to sit; maybe he has a rare afternoon to himself, or he needs to work but his home is too loud, like mine. It is summer, and it is school holidays, so the café is rather more full than usual. There are seats outside, but the wind is cool and the way he holds his papers says that they aren't bound; I have a table to myself in the back, where the light is artificial and dim, and the seats are cushioned. I like to sit here, because few people notice me watching them, and I'm usually undisturbed. He stands, a little awkwardly, with his head tilted, and his voice is foreign - English, but I don't know more than that. He asks if the seat furthest from me is free; I smile, and clear my own script out of his way.
His name is Sean; he's in talks for a television pilot, and they're serious enough that he wanted to meet the creatives before letting his agent talk for him. Today's script is what they have so far; whether his role changes depends on whether he agrees to sign. He's not sure; he doesn't want to be the rough and ambiguous soldier, and he doesn't want to be typecast. I ask how much of that kind of work he has done, and he laughs. He says he is sharp, and it feels like a role he's spent his life playing. I would never have cast him as a warrior, a soldier, a fighter. A lover, perhaps; now that I see him closely, I can see how his easy smile and crinkled eyes would appear earnest, or seductive, depending on the light. His face has character. It is not lined so much as textured; he would be a good model, if I painted people, and perhaps it would not be so criminal to hide his green eyes behind black and white film. He knows much, too; he knows I am distracted, and he wants to know what I do. I tell him I am an artist. We talk about art, a lot of which he thinks is pretentious, and then we talk about sport, because it interests him.
He finishes his coffee and thanks me for sharing my table; he is gone and he did not ask my name. Orlando laughs at me when I pay for my pastry and afternoon's refills, and he asks whether the story I had made for Sean matched. I do like Orlando, even though I had him cast as a dancer before he told me about his accident, and I am not usually as wrong as he expects me to be after that revelation. I tell him that Sean's story isn't complete; he never talked about himself. Orlando knows; he has tried to ask Sean to the club he likes, but Sean doesn't answer.
**
Some time passes before I see Sean again; I have laid out my book to be published, and I don't deny that there is some of Sean in the words I have chosen for my pictures. I wonder whether he signed the contract for the pilot; if he is filming then I would not see him, or if he went home. The weather is starting to turn; it isn't much cooler, but there is more rain and the sun is more often hidden behind clouds that mute its rays to a soft glow. I have made many lives for Sean in my thoughts; I give him a girlfriend, a wife, a family, a dog.
Today, I have a nut Danish, which is one of Bernard's secret specialties. Bernard has owned this café for as long as I have been coming here; he says it is something to fall back on when nobody wants him for their movies. I think he likes to have something to do when he is not on a project, because he pays Karl to bake every morning, but comes in himself when he can, and more than once has Karl come to my table to wait until he is allowed back in the kitchen.
Sean comes in when I have only begun to eat; he smiles at Orlando and his coffee is ready quickly. He asks again if he can sit with me, but this time he sits next to me and asks why I am always here. I tell him about my son, and how I used to like to read without loud music and game noises. He says it must not be much quieter here, but his face relaxes, the wrinkles near his eyes even out, and he stops turning the paper cup around in his hands. He has children, I see, and he understands. He says he doesn't see them much; three girls, and the youngest still in school. They are back home, and live with their mothers. He says we do what we have to so we can give them as much as possible. I agree. He wonders whether it's worth it, or if a good talking to and a night without dinner would be just as good, but he smiles like he doesn't mean it when the sadness in his voice means he does wonder. I tell him it is.
He drinks his coffee and asks what I am eating. I share, because he's never heard of a Danish without custard. It feels intimate, as if we have been friends for a decade rather than weeks. Orlando brings him a mug and pours him coffee too, and then kicks me as he leaves. Sean is telling me about the television pilot, and how different it is to working on a film. He is wearing a shirt, white and Prussian blue, and his hair touches the collar. He still does not look like a soldier, but I can see what he will use to drive him; he wants to protect, and he loves as if his life were an epic. He tells me I am a fool dreamer, and I ask him if I can take his picture. "As long as you let me buy you a proper dinner," he says. I wonder what he means, but Orlando grins as I give him my money and wishes us a profligate evening. It is not the kind of word he uses, and I hear Karl telling him to pipe down as Sean and I leave, together. It is the kind of word Karl uses. I revise my story for them both; they are closer than I had realised. I always have much to learn about everyone I make stories for, and usually only a small amount of time to refine them.
Sean tells me to stop thinking and start walking; I offer my car, but he waits patiently for me to catch up to him. I do not make him wait long, for even if he gives me all the time in the world to know his story, this may be a time when it is better to play a part than to watch from a shadow.
Author:
koulagirl666Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Beta:
j_ryder448 Request: Humor, guys being guys, contemporary AUs, big fan of blokish!Orlando, Karl and/or Bernard as supporting characters
Disclaimer: This didn't really happen, and I don't mean to pretend it did, or for this to reflect on Viggo and Sean in any way.
Summary: AU - If Viggo and Sean had never met. Viggo's a never-quite-made-it indie actor, among other things, and Sean is an enigma.
Everyone has their story. His is probably more complex and nuanced than most - people tend to go about their day, looking for their next meal, their next job, their next purchase, with little thought or complication. He seems to have taken a side trip; he's never in at the same time every week, and sometimes I miss him, or he doesn't stop even to drink his coffee before leaving. He's never well-dressed, exactly, though he isn't unkempt or dirty; he tends towards loose sweaters and jeans, which look worn but aren't ragged. I suspect he works in the industry, like so many of us around here, because he's often carrying a sheaf of paper which, I have seen, is tagged and usually layered with colour - a script, still in development, perhaps, or altered on the fly. I don't recognise him; this is not unusual to me, though it is intriguing that he seems familiar to me.
Today he seems to want to sit; maybe he has a rare afternoon to himself, or he needs to work but his home is too loud, like mine. It is summer, and it is school holidays, so the café is rather more full than usual. There are seats outside, but the wind is cool and the way he holds his papers says that they aren't bound; I have a table to myself in the back, where the light is artificial and dim, and the seats are cushioned. I like to sit here, because few people notice me watching them, and I'm usually undisturbed. He stands, a little awkwardly, with his head tilted, and his voice is foreign - English, but I don't know more than that. He asks if the seat furthest from me is free; I smile, and clear my own script out of his way.
His name is Sean; he's in talks for a television pilot, and they're serious enough that he wanted to meet the creatives before letting his agent talk for him. Today's script is what they have so far; whether his role changes depends on whether he agrees to sign. He's not sure; he doesn't want to be the rough and ambiguous soldier, and he doesn't want to be typecast. I ask how much of that kind of work he has done, and he laughs. He says he is sharp, and it feels like a role he's spent his life playing. I would never have cast him as a warrior, a soldier, a fighter. A lover, perhaps; now that I see him closely, I can see how his easy smile and crinkled eyes would appear earnest, or seductive, depending on the light. His face has character. It is not lined so much as textured; he would be a good model, if I painted people, and perhaps it would not be so criminal to hide his green eyes behind black and white film. He knows much, too; he knows I am distracted, and he wants to know what I do. I tell him I am an artist. We talk about art, a lot of which he thinks is pretentious, and then we talk about sport, because it interests him.
He finishes his coffee and thanks me for sharing my table; he is gone and he did not ask my name. Orlando laughs at me when I pay for my pastry and afternoon's refills, and he asks whether the story I had made for Sean matched. I do like Orlando, even though I had him cast as a dancer before he told me about his accident, and I am not usually as wrong as he expects me to be after that revelation. I tell him that Sean's story isn't complete; he never talked about himself. Orlando knows; he has tried to ask Sean to the club he likes, but Sean doesn't answer.
**
Some time passes before I see Sean again; I have laid out my book to be published, and I don't deny that there is some of Sean in the words I have chosen for my pictures. I wonder whether he signed the contract for the pilot; if he is filming then I would not see him, or if he went home. The weather is starting to turn; it isn't much cooler, but there is more rain and the sun is more often hidden behind clouds that mute its rays to a soft glow. I have made many lives for Sean in my thoughts; I give him a girlfriend, a wife, a family, a dog.
Today, I have a nut Danish, which is one of Bernard's secret specialties. Bernard has owned this café for as long as I have been coming here; he says it is something to fall back on when nobody wants him for their movies. I think he likes to have something to do when he is not on a project, because he pays Karl to bake every morning, but comes in himself when he can, and more than once has Karl come to my table to wait until he is allowed back in the kitchen.
Sean comes in when I have only begun to eat; he smiles at Orlando and his coffee is ready quickly. He asks again if he can sit with me, but this time he sits next to me and asks why I am always here. I tell him about my son, and how I used to like to read without loud music and game noises. He says it must not be much quieter here, but his face relaxes, the wrinkles near his eyes even out, and he stops turning the paper cup around in his hands. He has children, I see, and he understands. He says he doesn't see them much; three girls, and the youngest still in school. They are back home, and live with their mothers. He says we do what we have to so we can give them as much as possible. I agree. He wonders whether it's worth it, or if a good talking to and a night without dinner would be just as good, but he smiles like he doesn't mean it when the sadness in his voice means he does wonder. I tell him it is.
He drinks his coffee and asks what I am eating. I share, because he's never heard of a Danish without custard. It feels intimate, as if we have been friends for a decade rather than weeks. Orlando brings him a mug and pours him coffee too, and then kicks me as he leaves. Sean is telling me about the television pilot, and how different it is to working on a film. He is wearing a shirt, white and Prussian blue, and his hair touches the collar. He still does not look like a soldier, but I can see what he will use to drive him; he wants to protect, and he loves as if his life were an epic. He tells me I am a fool dreamer, and I ask him if I can take his picture. "As long as you let me buy you a proper dinner," he says. I wonder what he means, but Orlando grins as I give him my money and wishes us a profligate evening. It is not the kind of word he uses, and I hear Karl telling him to pipe down as Sean and I leave, together. It is the kind of word Karl uses. I revise my story for them both; they are closer than I had realised. I always have much to learn about everyone I make stories for, and usually only a small amount of time to refine them.
Sean tells me to stop thinking and start walking; I offer my car, but he waits patiently for me to catch up to him. I do not make him wait long, for even if he gives me all the time in the world to know his story, this may be a time when it is better to play a part than to watch from a shadow.
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