| Title: Bittersweet Author: Jo Pairing: Karl Urban/Viggo Mortensen, Karl Urban/Miranda Otto, Viggo Mortensen/Miranda Otto, Karl Urban/Orlando Bloom/Dominic Monaghan implied Rating: NC17 Summary: "Most people are lucky to find one real love. Karl has dozens." Disclaimer: Nope, never happened. And if you think it did, well...I suggest you go look up the word "fiction" in the nearest dictionary. Warnings: POV shifts, timeline hopping Notes: For the uberlovely, ubertalented goddess that is Cupiscent on the occasion of her birthday. *mwah* My sincere apologies that it's late, darling. Also for the Furor Scribendi Avarice challenge.
Lying in the darkness, Viggo wonders how he ever let himself get so tangled up in the man sleeping beside him. It started off simple -- going off for drinks together, hanging out during breaks in filming, taking a day trip up the coast -- and then it progressed to complex -- private dinners, lazy touches, looks that promised so much more. And now...god...complicated doesn't even begin to describe it. Viggo thinks the complications might have started about the time he started sleeping with Karl. Not that he wants to change any part of the last few months. He's just.... Feeling melancholy. And he doesn't know why. Maybe it's the birth of Karl's son last week. Viggo had been the one to take the giddy father-to-be to the hospital, the one to sit in the waiting room all night 'til Karl came out, all grins and bright eyes, to announce Hunter's arrival. He hadn't begrudged Karl one single second of that experience. He'd been the same when Henry was born, so many years ago. And, hell, he even knows that Karl is still seeing Natalie from time to time even though they aren't together. Not in the truest sense of the word. It never bothers him. They share a child together. What does bother him, though he'll never say it or even hint at it, are the nights when Karl isn't with him. The nights Karl is elsewhere with his cell turned off. Funnily enough, more often than not, Orlando and Dom go missing those same nights. In the back of Viggo's head, he knows what's going on. He'd have to be stupid not to. And he tries not to dwell on it, tries not to imagine Karl in between the two younger men, naked bodies pressed together, moving, moaning.... No. But he can't help wondering how long it's been going on -- if it's a recent thing or from the beginning, long before he came into the picture. He thinks it's likely the latter is true. So yes, melancholy. Maybe it's the fact that the end of filming looms close, just weeks away. It had seemed like forever when he first stepped foot onto New Zealand soil. Eighteen months, give or take a few. A lifetime. And now the end is here. And he has to ask himself what will happen when the wrap party is over and everyone starts to get on with their lives. He knows he'll see Karl again. They still have reshoots, and there are always the premieres. But it won't be the same. Not by a long shot. However.... He has no doubts that Orlando and Dom will be the same, though. There's something there. He knows that. He's known it for a long time. It's there in the dark looks that pass between the three of them, in the private, whispered conversations in the corners. It's there in the fleeting touches that are meant to look casual, the cryptic comments that always cause a tightening of their eyes. Suddenly, Viggo knows what's nagging at him, what's been nagging at him the whole time. Yes. It's been there from the very first, since the first day Karl appeared on set. The way Orlando and Dom had gravitated to him, like matter pulled into a black hole. The way Karl had focused on them, even as he was introduced to the others. It had all started then. And Viggo knows. From the beginning. Months before he started down the path of becoming an afterthought. Funny how he thinks of Karl as a black hole and himself as an afterthought. He'd laugh if he didn't think it would hurt. And then there's the whole "I love you" thing. Viggo's said it. Recently, in fact. Sure, Karl always says it back. But it's more a "Yeah, love you, too," thing accompanied by a bright smile. Doesn't have quite the same inflection. Doesn't quite carry the same meaning. There's always a fondness behind Karl's words, a real sense of yes, he does love. But not in the same way. Never in the same way. Viggo is slowly coming to the conclusion that Karl loves a lot of people. And that a lot of people love Karl. After all, there was Miranda.... Then Karl stirs, one eye cracking open. "Y'r 'wake," he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. "So I am," Viggo murmurs and slips down to softly kiss Karl's shoulder. "C'mere." A strong arm wraps around his waist, tugs him up against Karl's warm body. Then Karl's shifting again, pulling Viggo with him, and even warmer lips are sliding down Viggo's throat as Karl nuzzles him. As Karl catches Viggo's hands and pulls them over his head, Viggo realizes that he wants this, wants more. And if he can't have it all, well...he'll take what he can get. So why does that thought leave him feeling hollow? Miranda glances across the room, feels a shy smile stretch across her face when she catches Karl watching her. He smiles in response, makes a small gesture. Come over. No. She shakes her head, smiles again. He's with Billy and Orlando, and she isn't like Liv, able to slip into being "one of the boys" like Liv does. Miranda'd feel out of place there. So she turns, walks out of the room. Walks away from Karl's dark gaze staring into her soul. Time passes. Hours, maybe. Or it might be just minutes. Miranda's never sure, because she doesn't wear a watch. And the clocks, well...keep tracking of time has never meant much to her. Either way, she finds herself alone in Peter's back yard. It's quiet out tonight, and clear. She can see every star in the sky, it seems, and it fills her with a sense of tranquility. Then that peace is shattered when yellow light spears across the grass at her feet and vanishes just as quickly. Someone's joined her. And Miranda doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. The scent gives him away. Sage and sandalwood. She just stands there, waiting. "Nice night," he murmurs as he stops just behind her. "Yes," she replies, voice low in the darkness. She can feel the heat of his body against her back. She knows that if he were any closer, he'd be touching her. And, God help her, she wants that. She doesn't want to want it. He has a girlfriend. And so many other complications that she can't even begin to list. But it's Karl, and he has a way of getting under a person's skin, of making them burn and need and want. She wants him. The want is an almost physical ache deep inside her. Miranda has no doubts that he knows. The knowledge is there every time he looks at her, in every smile, every spoken word between them. He's known from the beginning. She used to be better at hiding things like this. But, again, it's Karl. "Too crowded in there for you?" Karl asks, and finally Miranda turns to face him. Just like she thought, he's standing almost close enough to touch her. Before she can answer, he steps forward. She retreats. Again. He's smiling now, hazel eyes glittering in the moonlight. "A bit," Miranda tells him, still retreating, trying to keep some distance between them. "I don't much like crowds." Karl nods as if he'd been expecting that answer. Another step, and another. And now Miranda has no place else to go. She's up against the wall, literally, and Karl closes the distance between them. "Not crowded out here," he murmurs, invading her personal space but not touching her. Not yet. "Just the two of us." "Y-yeah," she stammers, trying to melt into the wall. He's too close. Much, much too close. She can't think when he's this close, heat scorching her through the thin fabric of her dress, eyes burning into her. Already she can feel her body reacting to him, feel herself getting wet, and he hasn't even touched her. Yet. "Karl...." "Shhh." Then his hand is on her face, calloused palm cupping her jaw, long, blunt fingers splaying across her cheek. "Just us, Mir." She'd reply, but his lips are on hers, and coherency is no longer an option. His kiss is everything she thought it would be -- dark, devastating, soul-searing, tasting of smoke and whiskey. It turns her inside out, shakes her like a rag doll, leaves her breathless and craving more, craving everything. And Karl gives her more. He gives her all she can handle, and then pushes her farther, faster. Miranda doesn't remember how his hand got on her breast or where the intervening articles of clothing went, but she doesn't really care. Every inch of her skin is on fire; every nerve is shrieking for a cessation to the overwhelming pleasure surging through her. But Karl doesn't stop. She doesn't really want him to. There's no memory of how her dress got shoved up around her waist. No memory of the motions, the words, that brought them to this point. All she can concentrate on is his hand between her thighs, pushing her panties aside. A tiny voice in her head tells her she shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this. She ruthlessly squashes that tiny voice. Then Karl's inside her, thick and hard, filling, stretching, taking, as teeth rake over a taut nipple. She cries out from the sheer overload of sensation. His hips flex, moving against her thighs as she wraps her legs around his waist. Each deep thrust incinerates her, burns her to ashes only to remake her and do it all over again. She can't do much in response, pinned against the wall as she is. The brick is rough against her back as he slams into her, slams her against it. But that doesn't stop her from trying, body undulating against him. Every shift of his hips, every movement of his cock deep inside her, pushes her closer to the edge until she spins out of control. Her cry of release is muffled against his shoulder. Her nails dig into his back through his shirt, and only then does she realize that he's still dressed. The thought is burned from her mind when Karl continues to move, hips rotating in small circles, and his voice whispers in her ear. "Again." The stars continue to twinkle high overhead as Karl makes her come twice more before allowing himself release. "Why so glum looking?" Viggo looks up as Miranda settles onto the bench beside him. He only half-heard what she said, so he smiles and says, "What?" "This is supposed to be a party, Viggo," Miranda points out, returning his smile. "But you look like you just lost your best friend." "No, just...thinking, I guess." "About something heavy and deep, I'm sure." Miranda's laugh is warm, gentle, and Viggo can't help but respond to it. She's right, on both counts. His thoughts are entirely too heavy and deep for a party. Even if it is a wrap party. But he tries to play it off, still grinning as he drapes his arms along the back of the bench. "Just thinking about the relationships we've all made here," he says, eyes immediately drawn to the trio hovering around each other on the other side of the room. It shouldn't surprise him that Karl arrived with Orlando and Dom in tow. It shouldn't. But it does, just a little. It wasn't all that long ago that he was in bed with Karl. (Last night, but he won't think about that.) Somehow, Viggo had thought that Karl would show up by himself. And that maybe, just maybe, they'd leave together. He'd thought wrong. "Yeah, there've been some great ones," Miranda says, eyes following Viggo's. He can feel her go completely still beside him. "Oh. Oh, Viggo." He doesn't want to hear the sympathy, the commiseration, in her voice. Doesn't want to be reminded of the fact that Miranda was there before him. So he tries to ignore it, only to have his thoughts snapped into violent focus when her hand touches his knee. "It's not what you're thinking," he mutters, eyes still locked on Dom trying to wrestle Karl to the ground as Orlando looks on and laughs. He isn't going to think about how right they look together. "Isn't it?" Again, the sympathy in her voice. Only this time it's laced with a touch of bitterness. And it's matched by the knowledge in incredible blue eyes when Viggo looks at her. "No, it isn't." "Then why are you still holding on?" Miranda's hand finds his, gently squeezes. That gentle touch, so at odds with her words and tone, is almost his undoing. "He did the same thing to me, you know." Viggo nods. He can't deny the truth in her words. Hell, he was next in line after her. And he knew it at the time. Like a butterfly in a field full of blossoms, Karl flits from one to the next, unmindful of his affect on the last. Viggo shoves that last thought away. Karl's never been so casually, thoughtlessly cruel. He truly doesn't know how easily people fall in love with him. And that realization brings Viggo's thoughts to a screeching halt. Sure, he's loved Karl for a while, now. But, in love with him? Well, fuck. When did that happen? Viggo thinks it might have been somewhere between the camping trip two months ago, and Karl sucking him off in the restaurant men's room last week. Then he wonders when it happened for Miranda, and decides he doesn't really want to know. He watches as Karl wrestles Dom into submission. Then hazel eyes look up and meet Viggo's. There's a twinkle, and a grin. Then the eyes shift to take in Miranda sitting there. And Karl's grin alters just a little, and he flashes Viggo a thumb's up. Just like that, Viggo knows. The torch has been passed. He has been passed. His relationship -- fling, affair, romance, whatever it was -- with Karl is over, and they're back to being friends. The ironic thing is that Viggo can't even say he didn't see it coming, because he did. He watched the exact same thing happen with Miranda. And with Billy before her. The only constants have ever been Orlando and Dom. And, perhaps, Natalie. "Come on," Viggo suddenly growls, tugging Miranda from the bench over her startled protests. "Let's get out of here." "We shouldn't." Miranda's soft protest sounds weak, even to her own ears. It doesn't stop her from kissing him back as her hands roam over his back. "You really want to go back to the party?" Viggo asks, voice a soft hum in her ear, fingers tugging her t-shirt from the waistband of her jeans. "No." "You really want to be alone tonight?" "N-no." It's getting harder to think about anything other than his hands under her t-shirt. Then clever, agile fingers are pushing her bra up so calloused palms can cup her breasts, thumbs flicking over nipples that are rapidly growing taut. "You really want to think about him tonight?" The words are low, insistent, as they spiral through her brain. "No...." She breathes the word, back arching to push her breasts into Viggo's hands. "Neither do I," Viggo murmurs, tongue flicking her lobe. His knee insinuates itself between her thighs, lifts just enough to rub against her denim-clad center. Miranda tries so hard to stop thinking. Her body's already two steps ahead of her, responding to Viggo's touch, grinding down against his thigh as she seeks more friction. But thinking.... Her brain's not so easily shut off. Her thoughts are tangled, whirling around inside her skull, each one centered on the person neither of them is willing to talk about. And she can't help but wonder if they've been together in this room. Then Viggo's hand is down her jeans, fingers slipping easily over slick folds. Miranda's brain shuts down. Time enough for thinking, for regrets, later. "So pretty," Viggo murmurs, one hand still slipsliding over sensitive flesh as the other works to remove her clothes. Miranda tries to help him, but her own hands are clumsy, tearing at clothes more than undoing them. She opens her mouth to reply, but Viggo's tongue is there, invading, teasing, taking. And it's so much like another first time that Miranda has a hard time separating the two as Viggo pushes her, bends her backwards over the kitchen table. It's a little surreal, disconnected, as a flash of wicked hazel eyes superimposes over clear blue ones for a moment. Miranda shakes her head, tries to speak, but all that comes out is an incoherent moan when Viggo slides to the floor. Then his head is between her thighs, tongue licking over damp curls and wetness, and Miranda cries out, hips bucking even as his fingers dig into them to hold her still. Time seems to stop, stretching out into one fragile, sharp, crystal-clear moment. Then Viggo's standing over her, pushing into her. It's a slow, heavy glide that has her hips lifting to meet his. No matter how hard Miranda tries, she can't keep the thoughts of him out of her mind. And she knows damn well that Viggo isn't thinking about her any more than she's thinking about him. So it's no surprise, at least not to her, that they both breathe the same name at the end. "Did you ever think that maybe they've got something we didn't?" Viggo looks over as Miranda drops into the chair across from him. "Who?" "Them." She gestures, and Viggo turns to see. Oh. Right. Them. Orlando and Dom. Viggo studies them for a moment, taking in the way their heads are bent together with Karl's. It's a question he's asked himself over the long months since New Zealand. He thinks he might finally have an answer. "No," he says quietly, turning back to look at her. "No?" Miranda's forehead wrinkles a bit as she frowns. It's clear she doesn't believe him. Or doesn't understand. "They get him," Viggo says, shrugging. "We never did." And it's as simple as that. No matter how much they deluded themselves during filming, none of them really got Karl. Which is why none of them lasted. Except Orlando and Dom. "You think so?" Miranda asks, voice full of curiosity now. Now comes the hard part. Viggo knows he can't convince her. Not in the space of this one conversation. Not when it took him over two years to accept it himself. "I know so. He's a wild creature. We tried to cage him." "No, we didn't." The frown is more pronounced now, denial clouding her eyes. "Not consciously, no. But we did all the same," Viggo murmurs. For the first time, he's able to say the next words without wincing. "He's not meant to be with one person forever." Miranda shakes her head. "Sad way to live your life," she says, and it's plain to Viggo that she doesn't believe those words. "Not for him." "Oh?" "Most people are lucky to find one real love. Karl has dozens." And, regardless of how much he might want to deny it, Viggo knows it's true. "Affairs, you mean." Viggo doesn't think Miranda means the words the way they sound. Or perhaps she does. He'd thought, long ago, that she was over the bitterness, over the pain. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she's harbored it all this time. "No, loves," Viggo says gently, looking at her again. "In his own way, he loves them all. Us included. His life is richer and brighter for it." "Huh," Miranda says in disbelief. "That's one way of putting it." "Don't be bitter, Mir." Viggo watches her, wishes he could help her see what he does. Knows that he won't be able to when she looks at him with cynical eyes. "You trying to tell me you're not?" Miranda returns his look with a steady gaze as she waits for his answer. "I was," he replies, eyes drifting back to Karl. "And now?" She's quieter now. She seems to be honestly curious as to his thoughts and feelings. "I'm always going to love him," Viggo says, simply. "But you're not bitter?" She doesn't sound as if she believes him. Viggo can't blame her. He's not sure he'd believe himself if he was in her place. Not after what he knows she's been through. But all he says is, "No, I'm better." "Better?" She laughs, and it's not at all like her usual laugh. "I think you're going to have to explain that one to me." "He has that effect on people. He changes them." Viggo's eyes find hers again and hold them. He knows he can't convince her, but he's got to try. If only to give her a little peace of mind. "That's not always a good thing," Miranda says, and the bitterness has crept back into her voice. So Viggo decides to try another tactic. "Alright, I'll grant you that," he nods, taking a long swallow of his beer before twisting in his chair to fully face her. "But tell me how your life is worse for him being in it." "Well...." She trails off. The silence between them stretches out, thinner and thinner, and there's nothing to break it. After much too long a pause, Viggo smiles a little. "You can't." "...no." And Miranda looks like it pains her to admit that. It's nothing more than Viggo expected. "Neither can I," he tells her, reaching over the table to touch her hand. He can't say he's really surprised when her hand twists under his to curl around his fingers. "He touched me in a way no one else ever has. Not even Christine." More silence follows his words. But this time, it's comfortable, almost accepting. And Viggo can tell, by the expressions that flit over her face, that Miranda slowly comprehends the truth behind his words. She's always going to love Karl, much like Viggo is. And Karl's always going to love them both. He's just never going to be with them. Not like he was. Not like they both want. And nothing either of them can do, or think, will ever change that. Acceptance dawns gradually in Miranda's eyes, and Viggo lets out a slow, calm breath. "Have you ever wanted something you can't have?" she asks, searching his face for something. "Yeah," Viggo admits. "What about wanting more than is good for you," she continues, eyes moving back to the trio as Karl drapes his arms around Orlando's and Dom's shoulders, "even when you know it's not good for you?" "Every day, Miranda." Viggo's eyes follow hers and he smiles. He's finally at peace with the knowledge. "Every day."
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