vigorli

Title: Out of the Darkness...Light (5/?)
Author: DS
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Orlando undergoes a terrible, life-shattering experience, but
will
find a light at the end of the tunnel
Warnings: Mentions of rape and violence; extreme emotional suffering
Disclaimer: I have no affiliations with any of the actors, only the
plot is mine.
Feedback: I'd love to hear what you think.
Note: I originally began writing and posting this story several years ago,
but was sidetracked by real life and had to put the story on the shelf.
I'm
back now and want to finish it, so I'm going to post it once again. I'm
starting at the beginning, for those who missed it the first time:)

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CHAPTER FIVE

And now, hours later—seemingly a lifetime, Viggo was finally able to see the young man who had been uppermost in his thoughts lately. It had taken much persuasion and some minor threats on his part, not to mention finger waving and foot stomping, but it had worked and he’d been informed that he could see “the patient” for ten minutes, no more. The rest of the Fellowship had watched him trot off after the nurse, none of them quite used to seeing this assertive side of Viggo Mortensen.

The Intensive Care Unit was still and quiet, a peaceful haven compared to where he’d just come from. Viggo padded silently after the nurse as she led him to the farthest cubicle. As she moved the curtain aside for him to enter, Viggo surveyed the multitude of machines and equipment and listened to the steady beeping which indicated that this patient was alive and resting. Amidst all of this, but totally oblivious to it, Orlando Bloom lay still and silent. Fresh out of surgery, he was still being fed oxygen, still hooked up to various equipment, each doing its job to monitor his condition and to keep him well. To Viggo, he looked almost lost in the hospital bed. Walking up to the side of the bed, he reached out and grasped one of the limp hands, almost relieved to find it still warm.

The doctor had told them that Orlando had been very lucky. Viggo wanted to laugh. Lucky! The kid had been beaten and raped. No, not just raped—gang-raped! But because his injuries—the physical ones anyway—could be repaired, he was considered lucky! In what universe was that lucky? He did admit to himself, however, that it was very fortunate that they had gotten Orlando to the hospital when they did. When he’d arrived in the Emergency Room, he’d been bleeding internally. Had he been alone when he’d collapsed, he might not have made it—he might not have survived. For that, he was fortunate. And Viggo was very, very grateful.

He didn’t quite understand why, but he almost felt the need to make things up to the young man. And he was ashamed of his uncharitable thoughts the night before when the boy hadn’t shown up for the poker game. He mentally flogged himself for automatically jumping to the conclusion that Orlando had found something better to do—a better offer. Deep down, he knew Orlando Bloom was not like that. Oh, he gave the appearance of playing around and being a tease, but Viggo had always believed that to be an act—not the true Orlando. So why—kicking himself again—had he allowed himself to believe the worst of this young man? Once again, shame flooded his entire being, down to his very pores.

Squeezing the hand he held softly, he waited for a response, not really expecting one, but hoping nonetheless. And then, as he gazed down at the pale, bruised face, peaceful now in sleep, it hit him. While he had been sitting home castigating Orlando in his mind and vowing to never again give the young man an opportunity to stand him up—to hurt him—Orli was being beaten and brutilized and raped. While he was sitting home acting like a child who hadn’t gotten his way, Orlando was being hurt terribly. This realization made Viggo go weak in the knees and he grasped the bed with his free hand to help him remain standing. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to regain his equilibrium. But it was difficult. Once again, he felt as if he was going to explode. His mind was a whirling mass of chaos.

He didn’t know what to do, so he focused, really focused on the young man in the bed. Orlando, here, now. That’s all he was going to think about, concentrate on. Bruises, horrible, dark, splotchy, look-like-they-hurt bruises covering almost every visible area. The hospital gown covered the bandaging binding the broken ribs, but Viggo knew it was there, nonetheless. Various tubes running in and out from under the blanket; nutrients in, waste out. Several IV’s.

Dr. Meadows might think that Orlando was lucky in terms of injuries, but the way Viggo saw it, the young man was lucky to be here at all. This happy, carefree boy with the forever smile and the winning personality could very well have been lost to them forever. Viggo vowed, then and there, to watch out for this young man, to be there for him, as he wasn’t there last night—when he was needed the most.

Viggo’s reverie was cut short by the sound of quiet footsteps approaching. Looking up just as the curtain surrounding the cubicle was pulled back, Viggo saw the cherubic face of their director poke through, it’s normally pleasant expression replaced by one of concern and worry. Peter stepped closer to the bed, his wife directly behind him. Fran looked like she’d been crying, the tear tracks and smudged mascara on her face mute evidence to her concern for the young man before them.

Viggo watched as they moved to the other side of the bed, nodding to him, but saying nothing. He watched as they stopped—and stood—and simply looked. And as he glanced over at them he realized that he was not the only one dealing with feelings of guilt. It was written all over Peter’s face. Guilt for pushing Orlando that morning. Guilt for criticizing him. Guilt for exiling him. Guilt for not knowing he was hurt. Guilt for not realizing he needed help. The list went on.

A tap on his shoulder caused him to divert his attention momentarily to the nurse, who was gesturing for him to leave. Shaking his head in the negative, he whispered, “I’m staying.”

“But sir,” she whispered back, “only two visitors at a time. Those are the rules!”

“I’m not going,” he replied, returning his eyes to the young man in the bed. He knew Peter and Fran were looking at him and he could sense the nurse stalking away, but he didn’t care. The phrase ‘bloom where you are planted’ flitted through Viggo’s mind for some ridiculous reason. Well, he might not bloom, but he was definitely planted—he was putting down roots—right here in the intensive care unit. Right now, he didn’t care what the rules stated. He knew that he should have left when Peter and Fran arrived, but he just wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t going to leave Orlando’s side. He still didn’t understand why, but it was suddenly very important to him to stay here, with this young man.

A sob from across the bed broke his reverie and he raised his eyes to meet those of Fran and Peter. Fran’s, damp and swollen, were dark with worry. Peter’s, well, Peter’s were filled with sadness and disbelief—a deep abiding sadness and disbelief that something like this could happen to one of their own. Neither of them blinked an eye at Viggo’s presence, or at the fact that he was clutching one of the pale, limp hands on the bed. Viggo felt a rush of proprietary warmth as he realized how much Fran, Peter, everyone, cared for this boy. Casting his gaze down to the pale face once again, he squeezed the hand he held, hoping for a response, but getting none. Inhaling deeply, he waited.

Rolling his head back and forth while attempting to crack his neck, Viggo tried to loosen his stiff muscles. Glancing at his watch for what must have been the hundredth time, he realized it was after 11:00 at night. Orlando had been in intensive care for six hours now. Six hours and Viggo had not left his side. The other members of the Fellowship—and Hugo—had all come and gone. Most of them had simply stood and observed, watching the sleeping form, stroking an arm gently, squeezing a shoulder lightly. Just observing. It was almost as if they all wanted to simply reassure themselves that Orlando was, indeed, here. He was alive and—God willing—he would be well again. They would all see to that. Orlando’s mother and sister had also been notified and were on their way.

And now Viggo was alone with the young man. He’d withstood the glares and threats—veiled and blatant—from the medical personnel, but he’d refused to budge. He was here to stay. Actually, he was a little surprised that they hadn’t pressed the point and escorted him out forcibly. But he sure wasn’t going to question his good fortune.

Yawning, Viggo stretched his arms up over his head in an effort to loosen his muscles, which were becoming cramped from inactivity. It was as he was arching his back in a painfully wonderful stretch that he heard it. A sound. Coming from the bed.

Leaning over the still figure, Viggo reached out and smoothed the unruly curls back and away from the bruised forehead, before reaching down to grasp one of the young man’s hands. A tiny, slight pressure was returned when he squeezed.

“Shhh. Orlando. Shhh. It’s alright. It’s okay, Orli. You’re safe.”

As the older man watched, the eyelids began to twitch and flicker, as Orlando began to fight his way to consciousness. The young man’s breathing pace increased slightly and a small moan escaped through the dry lips.

“It’s alright. Don’t worry.” Viggo tried again, but his words had no effect. He watched as confused brown eyes opened and trembling lips attempted to form words, to convey something. “What is it? What do you want to tell me?”

Taking a harsh, unsteady breath, Orlando looked into Viggo’s eyes. “Wi…”

“What?” Viggo asked in confusion. “I don’t understand.” He watched in dismay as tears began to form in the beautiful brown depths. He observed in silence as one escaped to trickle down a bruised cheek. The young man made another attempt, this time more successful. Barely audible, Viggo heard still heard it.

“Wine….”

“What?” The older man looked down at his friend in confusion, not quite understanding what he was trying to convey.

“Wi…wine. I’m sorry.” Viggo watched in confusion as Orlando’s eyes fluttered closed once more, his energy evidently depleted.

Leaning close, he whispered quietly into the nearest ear, “I don’t know what you mean, but you have nothing to be sorry for.” He squeezed the hand he held once more, but there was no response.

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