| Title: Speculation Author: Jo Pairing: Hugo Weaving/Mark Ferguson Rating: PG13 Summary: Hugo wants nothing to do with Mark's speculation. Disclaimer: Nope, didn't happen. 100% fictional. That means I made it all up. Notes: For sarcasticchick on her birthday. *mwah*
"Speculation?" Hugo asked, almost missing the sidelong glance from Mark -- and that glance was a sure indication that Mark was up to something. "Them being lovers." Hugo blinked, then blinked again. Did Mark just say.... Giggles from the make-up girls brought Hugo's head up, and he looked into the mirror. His eyes collided with Mark's twinkling gaze. Yep. That clinched it. He was definitely up to something. Fucker. "They were not." "They may have been." "They weren't." "Are you sure?" "Mark." Hugo gave his half-transformed co-worker a level look. "They weren't." "How do you know?" The urge to throttle Mark was strong -- almost too strong to resist. Hugo contented himself with sitting on his hands (a gesture that required enough movement on his part to dismay his make-up girl as she tried to work) and glaring. At Mark. Who just grinned in response. Fucker. It was too damn early in the morning for this. "How do you know?" Mark repeated the question and seemed delighted when Hugo growled. "Because I'm Elrond." The answer was short and sharp, drawing yet another grin from Mark. "Gil-Galad was a better king." Hugo almost managed to ignore the obvious jibe in the murmured comment. Almost. Until he caught a glimpse of Mark's smirk in the mirror. "Wanker." "So...about that speculation...." Hugo groaned at the familiar voice. Even in the damn pub, there was no escape. It seemed, to Hugo's tired mind at least, that Mark was determined to torment him until Hell froze over. Or until Hugo killed him, whichever came first. And Hugo was fast deciding that, yes, he was indeed capable of murder. Maybe he could plead insanity. "Shut up, Mark, and go away." Mark, of course, didn't. Instead, he flipped a chair around and straddled it, arms folded over the back. "C'mon, mate. You have to admit the notion has some validity." "I don't have to admit a damn thing," Hugo said, hunching over his beer. "They weren't lovers." Sitting across the table, Viggo and Ian raised their eyebrows, looked at each other, and calmly sipped their drinks. Catching both looks -- how could he not? -- Hugo began a silent countdown. He made it all the way to two before Viggo spoke up. "Who wasn't?" "No one," Hugo said at the exact same second that Mark said, "Elrond and Gil-Galad." "O-kay," Viggo drawled in that tone of voice that Hugo was positive had converted more than one person to the school of Viggoism. Whatever the hell that was. But Hugo was sure there was one. And that quite a few people had converted on the basis of that tone of voice alone. The word was accompanied by more raising of the eyebrows. Ian merely arched one brow and continued sipping his drink. Nothing, it seemed, flapped the unflappable Mr. McKellen. Fuckers. The lot of 'em. Hugo waited. And counted. This time, he made it to four before Ian leaned forward and winked. "They might have been." "They weren't! And he doesn't need your encouragement," Hugo growled, much to the obvious delight of his companions. "It is possible, Hugo." Viggo smiled at the dark look Hugo shot him. Didn't seem to faze him at all. Of course it didn't. Nothing fazed the artsy fucker. "They weren't lovers." Damn. The words sounded petulant even to his own ears. So Hugo contented himself with giving them what he hoped were dark, fuck-off-and-die-and-go-to-hell looks. "Look at the facts, mate." This from Mark, who was grinning like a bloody hyena. He was enjoying this entirely too much now that he had an audience. "Gil-Galad never married. Elrond didn't marry 'til after Gil died. They were constant companions, traveled extensively together. Gil even gave ol' Ronnie a ring." "It was Vilya!" Another dark look. That did it. They had to be yanking his chain. "It was still a ring," Mark pointed out with a smug look. "He makes a strong case," Ian murmured helpfully. "Oh, shut up." "You're a right bastard, mate," Hugo muttered through clenched teeth while shoving Mark up the porch steps. Correction...make that a very drunk bastard. Hugo'd had no idea that Mark weighed this much until he'd offered to drive him home. Mark certainly didn't look that heavy. "Ah, y'love me f'r it," Mark crowed in drunken glee, swayed into Hugo once more. "Jesus...would you help me out here?" "Not Jesus, but I'm more than willing to help you out." Hugo barely had time to blink at the sudden transformation before his back was introduced to the door. Odd...hadn't realized he was still that close to it. "What --" "You talk," Mark murmured, quite plainly as sober as a...well, as sober as someone who's only had a drink or two, "entirely too much." Before the words registered in Hugo's befuddled brain, there were lips on his. Warm lips. And a warm, wet tongue snaking past his teeth. And the tongue was doing.... Whoa...wow. What was that, anyway? Hugo didn't know, but he was determined to find out. Didn't matter that it was Mark kissing him. Didn't matter at all once Hugo decided to become an active participant in the kiss. Not if he could get Mark's tongue to do that thing...again...oh, yes...there it was. That was it. Hugo decided he was in love with Mark's tongue. Especially as it was currently involved in doing that thing along the roof of his mouth. And was that.... It was. Hand. Clever, nimble hand, sneaking under clothes, stroking bare skin, seeking and finding every erogeneous zone on Hugo's body. Including a few he hadn't realized existed. Not that he was complaining. No, not him. Besides, he couldn't rightly complain. He mouth was too busy doing other things that involved Mark's tongue. Then.... Oh, hello. Bed. When the hell had that appeared? Hugo supposed he had better start paying attention unless he wanted to end up shagging one of his castmates. A male castmate at that. And he didn't. Shag his castmates. Or something. He was sure the something was an important something. Shame he couldn't remember it. Of course, it was hard to remember his own name with Mark's tongue doing that thing down the side of his neck. And didn't that feel just heavenly? Granted, it started Hugo's mind working again, only this time, his brain was pondering the -- quite delightful if you asked him, though Hugo was sure no one would -- possibility of how the tongue doing that thing would feel on other parts of his body. Hugo decided he was going to find out. Soon. Immediately. Not like Mark was protesting. Of course he wasn't. Fucker had started this, after all. Then, somehow, they were both naked, a fact that startled Hugo a bit. But only a very little bit. Miniscule, even, one might say. And since it was such a little bit, he shrugged it off and dove back in with tremendous enthusiasm. Which Mark certainly seemed to appreciate. There followed a rather long period (several hours if Hugo was any judge, but then he was also positive the earth had stopped spinning several times) of moaning and grunting, gliding, pushing and pulling, a lot of thrusting -- mustn't forget the thrusting by any means -- some talking to God (on both parts) in soft whispers and rather loud, hoarse shouts, and quite a lot groping. Limbs tangled and untangled, slick skin slipped and slid into new positions, fingers and mouths explored and suckled greedily. And Mark's tongue did that thing all over Hugo's body. More than once. Repeatedly, in fact. Later -- much later, probably around fourish in the morning, though Hugo was too tired to roll over and look at the clock -- they lay together in a tangled heap. A tangled, hot heap. Actually, it was a tangled, hot, sticky, breathless heap, but Hugo didn't mind. Mark didn't seem to, either. Which was good. Hugo shifted, tugged the rumpled sheet from beneath him, and flopped an arm across Mark's waist. And didn't bat an eyelash when Mark grunted a bit. Instead, Hugo just closed his eyes. Only to have them fly open a few seconds later. "Now...about that speculation...."
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