FIC: London, July 7, 2005
Jul. 7th, 2005 08:01 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
arieltachna.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorliFor the past 21 years, I have dealt with things too big for the moment through fiction, through putting my characters of the moment into the situation and watching them handle it. I am not doing this to make light of the terrible tragedy that occurred in London today. I am not doing this to suggest to anyone else how they should deal with what occurred. I wrote this story so I could deal with it. If it helps you as well, I am doubly grateful.
Title: London, July 7, 2005
Author: Ariel Tachna
E-mail: arieltachna@gmail.com
Author’s LJ: www.livejournal.com/users/ariels_fics
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: PG
Warnings:
Beta: kayem and namarie120
Archive: none, right now. Maybe later.
Disclaimer: I don't know them. I make no claims about them. I just want to have fun.
Feedback: Don't be gentle. Just be honest.
Summary: After the bombings in London, Viggo worries for Orlando’s safety.
Viggo stared at the TV screen in shocked silence.
London.
Bombs.
Four bombs. In London.
Where Orlando was for a photo shoot.
Oh, God! Orlando was in London for a photo shoot! With images of rescue workers outside the King’s Cross station burned into his mind, Viggo scrambled for his phone, frantically punching in Orlando’s cell number. Breathe, he ordered himself. Orlando’s fine. Just because he loves the King’s Cross area doesn’t mean he was anywhere near it when the bombs went off.
The phone rang, once, twice, and then an automated message kicked in, telling Viggo that the number he was calling was in an emergency zone and that due to the number of calls, it could not be processed. Viggo slammed the phone down. He knew it was an emergency. That was why he was calling. If it weren’t an emergency, he’d be outside, working in the barn, waiting for evening when Orlando would call him.
Breathe, he ordered himself again, trying frantically to recall Orlando’s schedule. The photo shoot was supposed to last two days, but Orlando had decided to stay a few extra days to visit with friends from Guildhall. He had pleaded and cajoled, trying to get Viggo to come with him, but Viggo had refused. He was tired after filming Alatriste, and he wanted nothing more than to relax on his ranch and stare at the mountains. Orlando had understood – he always did – and had gone off to London alone with a promise to call every evening.
Concentrate, Viggo said to himself, gathering his scattered thoughts and trying again to remember Orlando’s schedule, but he had paid too little attention. He knew when Orlando left and when he was coming back, but the days in between were a blur. Cursing himself for his lapse, he grabbed the phone again.
He got the same message.
He looked at his watch, noting the time. He would call again in fifteen minutes. Maybe it would be better then.
He paced the room, back and forth, back and forth, arms tight around his waist as he tried to shut out the horrendous images. He was aware enough of politics that, in other circumstances, he could have calmly and rationally discussed the various reasons for such an attack. Not that he condoned terrorism, because he hated violence on principle. Not that he would justify this or any other terrorist act, because nothing could justify the taking of innocent lives. But he could have intellectualized the political and social causes, perceived or otherwise, that led to those acts. That was why he was so politically active: to help draw attention to the issues that, unresolved, led to violence on such a scale. None of that mattered, though, when faced with this specific attack that may well have endangered someone he loved.
He grabbed the phone again. Forget fifteen minutes. He needed to talk to Orlando. He got the same message.
Putting the phone back down, he turned to the TV again. He didn’t even know why he had turned it on that morning. He never did. The only reason he had the damn thing in the house was because Orlando and Henry had ganged up on him. Unable to bear seeing the same images over and over again, with nothing new, he flipped it off, leaving the screen black.
Behind him, the phone rang. He grabbed it. “Orlando?” he cried.
“Dad?” Henry’s voice asked, sounding strained.
“Yeah, Hen?”
“Turn on the TV, Dad.”
“I did.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah”
“Tell me Orli’s safe.”
Viggo forced back a sob. “I don’t know, Henry. I haven’t been able to get through yet. Don’t panic, though. The lines are clogged because everyone’s trying to check in with their families and friends. It’s just a matter of time till I get through.”
“Are you sure, Dad?”
“I’m sure,” Viggo replied, investing his voice with far more confidence than he could possibly feel.
“Okay. Let me know when you hear from him, yeah?”
“I will, Henry. I’m going to get off the phone now, in case he calls.”
“Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, Henry. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.” And the line went dead. The sob Viggo had been holding back escaped, along with a lone tear.
“Stop it,” Viggo said aloud. “This is pointless. Get something done, and try again later. Orlando will call as soon as he can get through. He’ll know you’re worried.”
He went into the kitchen and started cleaning up his dishes from breakfast, his eyes flitting to the phone every few seconds as he willed it to ring, willed Orlando to call and assure Viggo that he was safe.
He put up the last dish and reached for the phone. He knew what he would hear. He knew not enough time had passed for there to be any clearing of the lines, but that made absolutely no difference to his pounding heart. He dialed the number and waited for it to ring. Again, he got the same message.
Hours passed that way, calling every five minutes, maybe a little longer, if he could distract himself that long, trying to settle into something productive, to write or paint or compose, but nothing came out. The paint dried on his brush, the pen stayed motionless on the page. He was frozen in his fear.
One by one, the rest of the Fellowship checked in, letting Viggo know they were okay and making sure he and Orlando were well. He assured them that he was safe, but told them that he had not heard from Orlando.
Stunned silence had greeted his statement each time, followed by rushed assurances that Orlando was sure to be fine, that the phones were clogged or down, that he would check in soon. Viggo accepted their words as the comfort they were meant to be, though they could offer no solace while Orlando was unaccounted for. He promised to call as soon as he heard anything, and hung up as quickly as he could.
Images flashed through his head as he held vigil by the phone, waiting for a call that did not come and did not come, trying every few minutes, always getting the same unhelpful recording. The first time he met Orlando, still in costume, and more beautiful than any creature had the right to be. The first time they kissed, in a smoky bar in Wellington. The night in Malta when he asked Orlando to marry him. The quiet ceremony in Amsterdam because that was the closest place, at the time, that would allow it. Images of Orlando laughing, dancing, riding, crying. Teasing. Flirting. Lost in thought. Lost in passion. Happy, sad, even mad. One beautiful image after another, running through Viggo’s head in quick succession. Had he told Orlando often enough that he loved him? Had he spent enough time showing the younger man how special he was, how blessed Viggo was to have him? Had he devoted enough energy to their relationship? They had spent so much time apart, with their respective careers… Did Orlando know that all he had to do was say the word and Viggo would leave it all behind? Did he know that nothing was more important to Viggo than him and his happiness? Had he made all that clear in actions and in words?
He grabbed the phone and tried again. The recording did not pick up after the second ring. Rather, the ringing continued. Viggo held his breath. Was he about to get through? Pick up the phone, Orlando, he prayed. Where are you, damn it?
“Leave a message,” Orlando’s voice said at the other end.
“Orli, it’s Viggo. Are you all right? Call me, angel. I need to know you’re safe,” Viggo babbled into the phone. “I love you.”
As soon as he hung up, the panic hit again. Why had he gotten Orlando’s voice mail? Why would the cell phone be off? Even if he were doing the shoot today, surely he would have turned his phone back on when he heard the news. Surely, he was trying as hard as Viggo to get through. Maybe he was calling someone else, his mum or Sam. He grabbed the phone and dialed Sonia’s number.
“Have you heard from Orlando?” he asked when she answered the phone.
“No, I haven’t,” she said sadly, “but a lot of mobile networks are down and the land lines are overwhelmed. He’ll call, Viggo. We’re not going to lose him now.”
“Call me as soon as you hear anything,” Viggo pleaded.
“I will. You do the same.”
Viggo hung up again and resumed his pacing. Orlando had not called his mother. If he had called any of the Fellowship, they would have called him already. If he wasn’t calling out, then why was his phone off? The only answers Viggo could come up with was that Orlando could not turn it on or that the phone was too damaged to be turned on. Neither one reassured Viggo at all.
He reached for the phone again just as it rang. “Hello?”
“Viggo?”
“Orlando!” Viggo shouted with relief. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, love. I’ve been trying and trying to call you, but I couldn’t get a line. I got your message. I think you must have gotten through as I was calling you because I got a busy signal.”
Viggo laughed because it was either that or cry tears of relief. “I love you,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be audible.
“I love you, too.”
“I was so scared,” Viggo admitted hoarsely.
“I know. Me, too. Why do people do shit like this?”
Viggo knew it was a rhetorical question, one for which there could be no answer, but he spoke, nonetheless. “Because some people don’t value the lives of others.”
“I’m coming home,” Orlando said. “Screw the photo shoot. I’m getting on the first plane and coming home. I need you.”
“I need you, too,” Viggo replied. “Tell me when you’ll get here and I’ll be at the airport waiting for you.”
“I will. I love you.”
“And I love you. Come home to me safely. I couldn’t stand to lose you.”
“You won’t lose me. I’ll be there in a matter of hours. I’ve got to go if I’m going to get a flight.”
“I know. Call me when you know something.”
“I will. I love you. Let everyone know I’m safe, will you? You’ll have more luck getting a line.”
“I’ll call Lij. He’ll make all the calls so I can leave my line open for you to call.” Viggo was loath to hang up the phone. Even hearing Orlando’s voice only barely eased the panic that had gripped him. It would take seeing Orlando to completely soothe his soul.
“I don’t want to hang up,” Orlando admitted.
“Neither do I,” Viggo agreed.
“It’s selfish to stay on the line. Other people need to call, too.”
“I know. Make your arrangements and call me back. I love you.”
“I love you, too. I’m hanging up now.”
“I know. So am I. I love you.”
“I love you. See you soon.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
It took Viggo a long time to put the phone back on the cradle, and even longer before he picked it back up again to call Elijah with the news that Orlando was safe. Elijah promised to call the others in the Fellowship and even to call Orlando’s mother, leaving Viggo with hours to fill, once again, until he got Orlando’s flight information, and even more hours until he could hold his lover in his arms once more. The thought that he should do something productive crossed his mind, but he did not get up from his seat by the phone. He knew what he would do with those hours. He would spend them thinking of ways to show Orlando how much he loved him, all over again so that the next time Orlando left, Viggo would have the answers to all the questions that had haunted him while he worried for Orlando’s safety. The next time Orlando left, Viggo would not have to ask himself those questions. He would know that the answer was yes.
If this story touched you, take a moment to remember the families who didn’t have the good fortune that Viggo did, the families whose loved ones never picked up the phone, particularly my friend Joyful, whose cousin's fiance, Stephen, was among those who died.
Title: London, July 7, 2005
Author: Ariel Tachna
E-mail: arieltachna@gmail.com
Author’s LJ: www.livejournal.com/users/ariels_fics
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: PG
Warnings:
Beta: kayem and namarie120
Archive: none, right now. Maybe later.
Disclaimer: I don't know them. I make no claims about them. I just want to have fun.
Feedback: Don't be gentle. Just be honest.
Summary: After the bombings in London, Viggo worries for Orlando’s safety.
Viggo stared at the TV screen in shocked silence.
London.
Bombs.
Four bombs. In London.
Where Orlando was for a photo shoot.
Oh, God! Orlando was in London for a photo shoot! With images of rescue workers outside the King’s Cross station burned into his mind, Viggo scrambled for his phone, frantically punching in Orlando’s cell number. Breathe, he ordered himself. Orlando’s fine. Just because he loves the King’s Cross area doesn’t mean he was anywhere near it when the bombs went off.
The phone rang, once, twice, and then an automated message kicked in, telling Viggo that the number he was calling was in an emergency zone and that due to the number of calls, it could not be processed. Viggo slammed the phone down. He knew it was an emergency. That was why he was calling. If it weren’t an emergency, he’d be outside, working in the barn, waiting for evening when Orlando would call him.
Breathe, he ordered himself again, trying frantically to recall Orlando’s schedule. The photo shoot was supposed to last two days, but Orlando had decided to stay a few extra days to visit with friends from Guildhall. He had pleaded and cajoled, trying to get Viggo to come with him, but Viggo had refused. He was tired after filming Alatriste, and he wanted nothing more than to relax on his ranch and stare at the mountains. Orlando had understood – he always did – and had gone off to London alone with a promise to call every evening.
Concentrate, Viggo said to himself, gathering his scattered thoughts and trying again to remember Orlando’s schedule, but he had paid too little attention. He knew when Orlando left and when he was coming back, but the days in between were a blur. Cursing himself for his lapse, he grabbed the phone again.
He got the same message.
He looked at his watch, noting the time. He would call again in fifteen minutes. Maybe it would be better then.
He paced the room, back and forth, back and forth, arms tight around his waist as he tried to shut out the horrendous images. He was aware enough of politics that, in other circumstances, he could have calmly and rationally discussed the various reasons for such an attack. Not that he condoned terrorism, because he hated violence on principle. Not that he would justify this or any other terrorist act, because nothing could justify the taking of innocent lives. But he could have intellectualized the political and social causes, perceived or otherwise, that led to those acts. That was why he was so politically active: to help draw attention to the issues that, unresolved, led to violence on such a scale. None of that mattered, though, when faced with this specific attack that may well have endangered someone he loved.
He grabbed the phone again. Forget fifteen minutes. He needed to talk to Orlando. He got the same message.
Putting the phone back down, he turned to the TV again. He didn’t even know why he had turned it on that morning. He never did. The only reason he had the damn thing in the house was because Orlando and Henry had ganged up on him. Unable to bear seeing the same images over and over again, with nothing new, he flipped it off, leaving the screen black.
Behind him, the phone rang. He grabbed it. “Orlando?” he cried.
“Dad?” Henry’s voice asked, sounding strained.
“Yeah, Hen?”
“Turn on the TV, Dad.”
“I did.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah”
“Tell me Orli’s safe.”
Viggo forced back a sob. “I don’t know, Henry. I haven’t been able to get through yet. Don’t panic, though. The lines are clogged because everyone’s trying to check in with their families and friends. It’s just a matter of time till I get through.”
“Are you sure, Dad?”
“I’m sure,” Viggo replied, investing his voice with far more confidence than he could possibly feel.
“Okay. Let me know when you hear from him, yeah?”
“I will, Henry. I’m going to get off the phone now, in case he calls.”
“Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, Henry. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.” And the line went dead. The sob Viggo had been holding back escaped, along with a lone tear.
“Stop it,” Viggo said aloud. “This is pointless. Get something done, and try again later. Orlando will call as soon as he can get through. He’ll know you’re worried.”
He went into the kitchen and started cleaning up his dishes from breakfast, his eyes flitting to the phone every few seconds as he willed it to ring, willed Orlando to call and assure Viggo that he was safe.
He put up the last dish and reached for the phone. He knew what he would hear. He knew not enough time had passed for there to be any clearing of the lines, but that made absolutely no difference to his pounding heart. He dialed the number and waited for it to ring. Again, he got the same message.
Hours passed that way, calling every five minutes, maybe a little longer, if he could distract himself that long, trying to settle into something productive, to write or paint or compose, but nothing came out. The paint dried on his brush, the pen stayed motionless on the page. He was frozen in his fear.
One by one, the rest of the Fellowship checked in, letting Viggo know they were okay and making sure he and Orlando were well. He assured them that he was safe, but told them that he had not heard from Orlando.
Stunned silence had greeted his statement each time, followed by rushed assurances that Orlando was sure to be fine, that the phones were clogged or down, that he would check in soon. Viggo accepted their words as the comfort they were meant to be, though they could offer no solace while Orlando was unaccounted for. He promised to call as soon as he heard anything, and hung up as quickly as he could.
Images flashed through his head as he held vigil by the phone, waiting for a call that did not come and did not come, trying every few minutes, always getting the same unhelpful recording. The first time he met Orlando, still in costume, and more beautiful than any creature had the right to be. The first time they kissed, in a smoky bar in Wellington. The night in Malta when he asked Orlando to marry him. The quiet ceremony in Amsterdam because that was the closest place, at the time, that would allow it. Images of Orlando laughing, dancing, riding, crying. Teasing. Flirting. Lost in thought. Lost in passion. Happy, sad, even mad. One beautiful image after another, running through Viggo’s head in quick succession. Had he told Orlando often enough that he loved him? Had he spent enough time showing the younger man how special he was, how blessed Viggo was to have him? Had he devoted enough energy to their relationship? They had spent so much time apart, with their respective careers… Did Orlando know that all he had to do was say the word and Viggo would leave it all behind? Did he know that nothing was more important to Viggo than him and his happiness? Had he made all that clear in actions and in words?
He grabbed the phone and tried again. The recording did not pick up after the second ring. Rather, the ringing continued. Viggo held his breath. Was he about to get through? Pick up the phone, Orlando, he prayed. Where are you, damn it?
“Leave a message,” Orlando’s voice said at the other end.
“Orli, it’s Viggo. Are you all right? Call me, angel. I need to know you’re safe,” Viggo babbled into the phone. “I love you.”
As soon as he hung up, the panic hit again. Why had he gotten Orlando’s voice mail? Why would the cell phone be off? Even if he were doing the shoot today, surely he would have turned his phone back on when he heard the news. Surely, he was trying as hard as Viggo to get through. Maybe he was calling someone else, his mum or Sam. He grabbed the phone and dialed Sonia’s number.
“Have you heard from Orlando?” he asked when she answered the phone.
“No, I haven’t,” she said sadly, “but a lot of mobile networks are down and the land lines are overwhelmed. He’ll call, Viggo. We’re not going to lose him now.”
“Call me as soon as you hear anything,” Viggo pleaded.
“I will. You do the same.”
Viggo hung up again and resumed his pacing. Orlando had not called his mother. If he had called any of the Fellowship, they would have called him already. If he wasn’t calling out, then why was his phone off? The only answers Viggo could come up with was that Orlando could not turn it on or that the phone was too damaged to be turned on. Neither one reassured Viggo at all.
He reached for the phone again just as it rang. “Hello?”
“Viggo?”
“Orlando!” Viggo shouted with relief. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, love. I’ve been trying and trying to call you, but I couldn’t get a line. I got your message. I think you must have gotten through as I was calling you because I got a busy signal.”
Viggo laughed because it was either that or cry tears of relief. “I love you,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be audible.
“I love you, too.”
“I was so scared,” Viggo admitted hoarsely.
“I know. Me, too. Why do people do shit like this?”
Viggo knew it was a rhetorical question, one for which there could be no answer, but he spoke, nonetheless. “Because some people don’t value the lives of others.”
“I’m coming home,” Orlando said. “Screw the photo shoot. I’m getting on the first plane and coming home. I need you.”
“I need you, too,” Viggo replied. “Tell me when you’ll get here and I’ll be at the airport waiting for you.”
“I will. I love you.”
“And I love you. Come home to me safely. I couldn’t stand to lose you.”
“You won’t lose me. I’ll be there in a matter of hours. I’ve got to go if I’m going to get a flight.”
“I know. Call me when you know something.”
“I will. I love you. Let everyone know I’m safe, will you? You’ll have more luck getting a line.”
“I’ll call Lij. He’ll make all the calls so I can leave my line open for you to call.” Viggo was loath to hang up the phone. Even hearing Orlando’s voice only barely eased the panic that had gripped him. It would take seeing Orlando to completely soothe his soul.
“I don’t want to hang up,” Orlando admitted.
“Neither do I,” Viggo agreed.
“It’s selfish to stay on the line. Other people need to call, too.”
“I know. Make your arrangements and call me back. I love you.”
“I love you, too. I’m hanging up now.”
“I know. So am I. I love you.”
“I love you. See you soon.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
It took Viggo a long time to put the phone back on the cradle, and even longer before he picked it back up again to call Elijah with the news that Orlando was safe. Elijah promised to call the others in the Fellowship and even to call Orlando’s mother, leaving Viggo with hours to fill, once again, until he got Orlando’s flight information, and even more hours until he could hold his lover in his arms once more. The thought that he should do something productive crossed his mind, but he did not get up from his seat by the phone. He knew what he would do with those hours. He would spend them thinking of ways to show Orlando how much he loved him, all over again so that the next time Orlando left, Viggo would have the answers to all the questions that had haunted him while he worried for Orlando’s safety. The next time Orlando left, Viggo would not have to ask himself those questions. He would know that the answer was yes.
If this story touched you, take a moment to remember the families who didn’t have the good fortune that Viggo did, the families whose loved ones never picked up the phone, particularly my friend Joyful, whose cousin's fiance, Stephen, was among those who died.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thankyou
Date: 2005-07-08 07:39 pm (UTC)Re: thankyou
Date: 2005-07-08 11:39 pm (UTC)