Title: Still Life Author: Jo Series: Moments In Time, part 3 Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Viggo Mortensen Rating: PG13 Summary: Orlando sleeps, Viggo paints Disclaimer: Totally made up. Fiction. Not real. Didn't happen. Author's Notes: this follows "Moonlight Study" and "Juniper" but you don't need to read those for this one to make sense He looks so innocent and carefree lying there like that. I move my brush across the canvas, imagining the bristles are touching the lines and curves of his body. My eyes flicker to the flat surface briefly before returning to him. I don't need to watch the brush as I do this. I could paint him blindfolded. It wouldn't matter. A soft murmur passes his lips as he shifts, his tiny movement not enough to disturb the pose. I dip the soft, sable bristles into the white paint and then return them to the canvas, capturing the smooth feel of the pillow beneath his head with just a few strokes. He is beautiful in his sleep and I would think so even if I didn't love him. I can't hope to capture that beauty, not truly, so instead I aim for what can only be a pale imitation. His grace, his sheer aliveness don't translate well to a fixed medium, but I try. Again and again, I try. I watch as the brush glides across his body again, drawing the elegant line of that one arm flung over his head. A few swipes of paint and the silver moonlight-kissed planes of his chest are finished. A few more swipes, darker now, and a riot of rich, chocolate curls spread across the painted pillow. A dab here and there and those coal black lashes fan across his sculpted cheekbones. I don't do this often, painting portraits. My work is more abstract, less exacting. But his beauty begs for a tribute of some sort and my hands itched to hold the brush. So here I sit, in the dark, painting him. Trying to capture the elusive quality that is Orli. I won't succeed. But he'll love me for it anyway. The brush slides up the long span of his leg, shading the hollow of his hip, capturing the sleek muscles exposed by the covers. More white in soft swirls and bold strokes serves to catch the delicate folding and bunching of the sheet that drapes across one leg and hip, just barely hiding his most private self from my gaze. This will never be a painting that anyone else sees, but doesn't matter. He will see it and know. And that is all that matters to me. A few final touches and I'm through. My eyes move slowly back and forth between my painting and my slumbering, oblivious model. He will like it. That thought makes me smile as I clean the paint from my hands. Silently, gently, I turn the easel so the canvas faces the bed. He'll see it as soon as he wakes in the morning. Then sleep welcomes me as I slip under the sheet, and his warm, yielding body seeks mine out and molds against my side. ~fin~