Title: Extempore
Author: Jill ([email protected])
Summary: It's true; good things come to those who wait.
Pairing: Dom/Viggo
Disclaimer: ESP tests came back negative. This is not true, nor am I trying to imply that it is, nor am I making any profit from spinning my web of lies. A few references come from "The Lord of the Rings" by JRR Tolkien, and all real people contained within belong solely to themselves.
Feedback, good or bad, is always highly appreciated.
Rating: NC-17
Notes: This wouldn't be seeing the light of day without the wonderful help of Zarah, so many thanks to her. Within you will find a wantonly inaccurate shooting schedule, a Viggo who laughs quite a bit, and a Dom who likes girls, too. Consider yourself warned.

ex�tem�po�ra�ne�ous -- 1 a (2) : carefully prepared but delivered without notes or text

For a few days right around the beginning, Dom thinks Viggo might not like any of them very much, and he wonders once or twice if this guy is going to make it any longer than Stuart did. Viggo doesn't talk much, doesn't do much at all besides throw himself headfirst into the movie.

Then it's like the dam breaks to reveal a manageable current behind it. Viggo lets pieces of himself seep out in scattered patterns of growing comfort. He sits with Elijah and talks about photography. He develops a goading rapport with Orlando, has long, steady conversations with Sean while he tries to learn chess. And he listens carefully to Dom's quirky jokes and is always the first to get them, to laugh, low half-reluctant chuckles with amused shakes of his head.

It's not like Dom ever consciously plans for those laughs to become important, to become high points in his day. They just do, and he lies in bed at night and racks his brain to recall old witticisms that he can carefully drop into conversation later. He looks forward to something he hasn't yet identified; what he tells himself is that Viggo is it, their Aragorn, and he might as well put some effort into making it work.

------------------------------

The first time makes him think that Viggo might be a stoner and he just hadn't noticed before. It wouldn't surprise him, except for how he's never seen Viggo be anything other than clear-headed and on top of his game, and weed doesn't seem to fit. He laughs to himself later, thinking that the man could be a speed freak for all he knew. They aren't exactly close.

But he gets home one night and sighs at the piles of unorganized junk that are waiting to be sorted, to be arranged into something resembling a temporary home, and he listens to his messages and thinks, God, the man must be wasted. In the course of one minute and twenty-seven seconds -- he times it later, the eighth time he listens -- he learns that the moon is waning and is three days from being new, that Viggo cut himself while trimming his beard, that prime numbers are fascinating, and that, oh yes, Viggo would like to know if he was serious about learning a few things about photography.

The novelty of amusement wears off after a few times, but he keeps listening. Viggo's voice -- not Aragorn's, not subtly adjusted to hint at nobility -- is lazy and true, and for some reason makes Dom think of old record players, of the lull of static after dropping the needle into place. He listens so many times he forgets to call Viggo back. When he realizes it the next morning and apologizes, Viggo shrugs and smiles. They agree to talk about camera basics over dinner.

------------------------------

Henry comes out in the spring on a school break longer than their few days off, and Viggo isn't around as much. With the hours they work, it isn't a very drastic change, but Dom notices. Those small bits of time, the in-betweens, they seem somehow emptier when Viggo isn't there staring out at the landscape, or joining in on Sean's relentlessly friendly torment of Orlando, or just laughing occasionally with them all.

Until one night, a familiar hand on his shoulder, pressing weight as Viggo leans over his shoulder to order a drink. He slides into the seat next to Dom, pushes hair behind his ears, smiles. "How are we tonight, my dear hobbit?"

Dom raises an eyebrow. "We're doing just fine. *Our* heads are getting a might full of the royalty notion, aren't they?"

Viggo just laughs. "I knew I missed you for a reason."

"Been around."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah." Dom sips his beer slowly. "How is Henry?"

"On his way home. School starts again soon."

"Ah... sorry."

"Yeah." Viggo shrugs, pays the bartender. "Listen. Next Sunday, fishing. How's it sound?"

"We've discussed how I don't really like fishing, haven't we?"

"So you can sit there while I fish."

"Yes, because that's much more interesting." Viggo glares until Dom laughs and relents. "Okay, all right. Sunday. Fishing." He feels a flush under his skin and glances away, hoping it's hidden in the dim bar lighting, the haze of smoke in the air, the shadows that surround them all.

------------------------------

He's been cataloging moments all along. The first day Viggo looked over at him and shook with laughter at a small shared expression. The first time -- surely not the first, but the time he really noticed -- Viggo laid a casual hand on his shoulder and left it there for several minutes as they listened to Peter go over last-minute details. The early morning phone call asking him to go fishing, and the possible hint of disappointment he heard in Viggo's voice when he didn't immediately agree. The solid, grounding, familiar sounds of a camera, Viggo grinning when he asked if his "ugly mug broke the lens yet."

Now it's becoming wrapped up in something more, something he can no longer think of as merely highly valued friendship. More like that, blended with a touch of troubling and obsessive desire. Worse, he can't ignore it when the reminder is always right there. Viggo catches him in a headlock and knuckles his head and he slips away to go jerk off; Viggo runs a weary hand across his chin and he thinks about that hand on his own skin, feeling the pressure of those fingertips.

And he slips away to go jerk off. He's starting to feel like he, his hand, and Viggo have a very dysfunctional relationship.

------------------------------

Everything about the situation is strange. He feels conspicuously young during the days when they film around Edoras. Billy and Elijah and Sean are gone, and Orlando would be a comfort but he's being pampered through the beginning symptoms of the flu that's going around. He's put in a hotel room with John, also ailing, to reduce the chances of others getting sick.

Not that it will actually help, Dom thinks in several moments of a foul mood, not when they're on set and Orlando is queasy-looking his way around everyone. Then he feels guilty for blaming Orlando for his own sense of being a punk kid amongst many adults. For blaming Orlando for his own unease at being temporarily roomed with Viggo.

It's a strange situation, especially since the walls are pretty thin and he's never been the quietest when he comes.

Viggo glances up at him as he emerges from the shower one night, using a hand towel to scrub water from his hair. A rather placid glance, as usual, but something -- amusement? -- makes him stop. He thinks about testing out the mind over body thing and attempting to conjure up a decent blush, but then simply shakes his head. "Don't look at me like that, Vig. You were in your twenties once."

Viggo cracks a grin. "I wouldn't dare judge. Just thinking it's a shame."

"Yeah, what is?"

"That you took care of it in there alone when there was really no need."

He really does wonder if Viggo is saying what he hears and meaning what he thinks, to the point of staring suspiciously, ready for the burst of laughter, that occasional sign that Viggo has a heart as light as any of them, can be just as amused by tasteless jokes. But Viggo isn't even smiling anymore, just watching him steadily. Dom feels pretty naked all of a sudden, but it isn't exactly an uncomfortable feeling. More of a sense that there's an air of appreciation and invitation and *offering* in the room, and he doesn't have the first clue what to do with it. "We're not talking about this," he says, more of a question actually.

"Talking about what?"

"Viggo."

"Dom."

The trouble with Viggo, Dom thinks suddenly, is that he's too kindred. A thing about the lifestyle, he's looked at far too many pictures of himself in every kind of mood, always a camera clicking and offering a new angle, always having to learn what he can do with his own features. He recognizes the look on Viggo's face. He recognizes a lot of looks on Viggo's face, is always seeing something that reminds him too much of himself, and it's the last thing he wants to see right now.

Or, just the thing. Blunt truth and a will of steel, challenge all in the eyes. He's fond of Viggo's eyes. He's fond of Viggo. All of which has him standing in a towel in a tiny hotel room, cool clammy chill of air-dried water droplets on skin giving him the goosebumps, and thinking fixedly -- *obsessively* -- about the promise of warmth that Viggo is dangling in his "these are my thoughts on the matter" way.

He waits a second too long. Viggo sets his book aside and gets up. "I'm going to get some photos while the light's still good." With a friendly smile, he's gone, and Dom's left, wet and cold and horny all over again, with the feeling that his luck or his timing or both just suck.

------------------------------

It's a warm day when Viggo finally kisses him. Or when he finally kisses Viggo. Or really, without the help of clarity to exactly define the moments leading up to it, he can only say for sure that it's a hot day, and that one second he's standing and adjusting his wetsuit, and the next Viggo's cheek, smelling of sun and salt and the musty scent of the beach, is close to, then against his nose, and Viggo's fingers are firm in their hold on his chin.

He shuts his eyes. He's kissed girls who are just soft all over except for the edges to their personality, kissed guys who are hard in body and either cautiously hesitant or recklessly eager about being with another guy. What's more, he's kissed young guys before, guys who still retained a childlike smoothness, who weren't yet worn from so many more years of life. Like Elijah, one early night in the corner of a bar, the scent of alcohol almost sickeningly strong between them. Elijah's skin could have been silk, judging by his memory of it.

But he's never kissed anyone like Viggo, whose skin has roughened to the texture of carefully aged leather, who knows exactly what he's doing in this situation. Who holds Dom's chin at just such an angle and keeps it brutally shallow, keeps it all about short, almost closed kisses, until Dom is straining forward, trying to get close enough to get control, to get tongue.

It's all futile. Viggo laughs against his mouth, licks slowly just beneath his lower lip, and then Dom forgets to think for the duration. He latches onto the rough velvet sensation of taste buds against each other and follows that through as a focal point, something to ground him -- something to keep him from coming in the heavy wet confines of his wetsuit.

And at some point it's over and later he will remember staring at Viggo, who stares at him, and they don't say anything at all. Within ten minutes Viggo is kneeling in the foamy sand of the shore line, grimacing and gingerly touching his face to check for blood, and the afternoon fades into ice packs and aspirin and wondering just how dead Peter is going to make them.

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It's nothing he can pinpoint, but there comes a time when they're not just working, they're working towards the end. It's on everyone's minds, and Dom starts feeling anxious. Two months, one, a few weeks. He doesn't care for the feeling, for the sense of waiting for everything to be different -- *less* -- than it has been for over a year.

He doesn't like the sense that he's letting his only opportunity pass him by.

So there comes a night when he leaves Billy and Orlando to their relaxed discussion at the pub and walks back to the current week's hotel. Viggo's door is three beyond his own and he finds himself there, not really thinking about knocking but doing it anyway. Viggo answers in thin cotton pants and a T-shirt, and he smiles at Dom. "Hello. Forget your toothpaste?"

Dom grins. "As usual, but there're free tubes in the bathrooms. I was, ah. Hoping we could talk about this thing we haven't been talking about."

Viggo pauses, regards him silently. "Sure," he finally says. "Come in."

The room is warm, just above a comfortable temperature, and Dom shrugs out of his jacket. "So we're understanding each other," he says without turning around, "you know that by talk I mostly meant something along the lines of me saying okay, yeah, let's shag, and you saying, yes, let's."

Viggo's low laugh comes right after the click of the door lock. "We are men of few words, aren't we?"

"I tend to think so." Dom turns, tells himself he's flushed because the room is too warm, raises his eyebrows. "So, Vig. Wanna shag?"

Viggo's face looks ominous and chill in the shadows, behind the dark frame of his hair, and his tone almost matches but is really something else entirely. "Yes, let's."

Dom has wondered if he was remembering it wrong, if Viggo's mouth couldn't be all that he brought to mind most nights. The memory has seemed too good, too sharp, but the brush of beard against his chin, the catch of initially gentle lips, the slick heat of tongue is exactly as expected. Even the gradual roughening, deepening, Viggo's fingertips at the base of his skull, pressing a steady rhythm of a massage.

Brief pause, words muttered against his mouth. "No shoes on my bed." It's all the cue he needs; no sooner has he kicked them off are they moving, Viggo's knees striking his in staccato beats and driving him backwards.

It's warm, getting warmer. Dom is fumbling with Viggo's shirt even as he falls back and he's sweating already, wants to get out of his clothes and just sweat, just let it go. Viggo's on the same wavelength, flipping the buttons on Dom's shirt with deft and steady skill. He falters with the belt buckle, curses softly, and Dom laughs and does it himself. "So, Dominic, tell me," Viggo says, thumbing his own pants over his hips. "What changed your mind?"

"Nothing, exactly." It doesn't seem as strange as it should to see Viggo naked in front of him, to be sitting naked and reaching to catch Viggo's hip and pull him back down. "Guess I'm sick of trying not to do what I want, anyway.034;

"Mm." Viggo touches his lips to Dom's neck, his collarbone, his sternum. "Shall we discuss that questionable strategy later?"

Dom opens his mouth to answer, but Viggo's thumb, fingers, palm, all curl around Dom's dick in a slow squeeze and he just gasps, fights for breath. Definitely too hot in there. "Yeah," he finally chokes out. He arches up, spine curved and stomach caved in the effort of breathing, and Viggo's tongue follows the lower curve of his ribcage. "Whatever y--you say, Vig."

He used to know a girl named Emily who gave what he thought were the best blowjobs ever; he used to thank God for letting him be so lucky every time she slid the very tip of her tongue up the length of his dick. No more. God's not on his mind now, nothing holy and sacred at all, so it's just by rote that he whispers, "Jesus." He thought the room was hot; Viggo's mouth is worse -- better -- and when he draws back Dom feels a current of air that quickly cools saliva. "Fuck," he adds. "Do that again."

Viggo obliges, and again, and again, his hand moving in some blessing of a rhythm along with his tongue until Dom is letting loose more curses than he has over the last year entirely and then coming through it all. "Viggo," he says after a few minutes, "fuck me, okay?"

Calm eyes meet his. "I don't think so."

"What?"

"You're pulling a pretty startling about-face here, Dom. Forgive me for being concerned that you're not *that* sure."

034;For the love of -- Viggo. Vig." He sits up and kisses a trace of come from Viggo's lip, kisses long after it's gone and there's only the sweet bitter taste of himself left, shared between them. "It was never the guy thing."

"No?"

"No. It was -- it was a you thing."

"In that case, by all means," Viggo says sarcastically.

"Don't get bent out of shape. You're the only one with the honor of having any sort of thing. What I mean is -- you're intimidating. You were, at first. Intense, too much like the part of me that I don't always like. But then you were cool and it was great, great getting to know you and getting to be on the inside of your walls, and why fuck with that?"

"I'll ask again. What changed?"

"The fucking calendar changed. Every fucking day and you know, I finally felt like fucking with it instead of never knowing."

He's trying so hard to explain, to make it clear, that he misses it when Viggo accepts, misses the opening expression and the movement that takes Viggo's lips to his neck. "Shut up already, will you?"

"Okay," Dom mumbles.

"Still not gonna fuck you."

"But -- "

"Shh. Later." And Viggo's catching any further words of protest in his mouth, working his fingers right behind Dom's balls and easing him into another erection. "Young," he says softly, and a shadow seems to pass over his face for a moment, but then he fits himself over Dom and grips his hips close. Dom tries to find similar purchase for his fingertips but Viggo is slick, wet, too slippery to get a hold of. So he just focuses on Viggo's tongue, lips, soft groans, on matching the pace of rutting thrusts that are getting faster and bolder and more desperate.

Viggo comes with a choked gasp and lies still for a long moment before reaching between them and bringing Dom off quickly. And then they're quiet; Dom thinks Viggo might be asleep, until long after their breathing has slowed to normal he lifts his head and holds Dom's gaze. "You wanna sleep here?"

"Is it okay?"

"More than."

"Good. If you expected me to be able to move so soon after that, we'd have to have words."

"Mmm." Viggo shifts a few inches away and pushes sweat-drenched hair from his forehead. "Words can come later."

Dom yawns, sleepy and sticky and sated and reasonably sure he's never felt so amazingly good after sex before. The heat in the room is getting less comfortable, though, more stifling, until Viggo stands with a groan and cracks the window before going into the bathroom. He comes back with a wet cloth and tosses it to Dom, flicks off the lamp in the corner and eases himself back down on the bed.

Dom cleans himself off, throws the rag. Fresh air is sweeping over his body as he settles comfortably, his arm just barely grazing Viggo's, and goes to sleep.

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He wakes up cold while the room still has the gray darkness of nighttime, no light behind the half-open curtains. Viggo is on his stomach beside Dom, one hand palm-down under his cheek, one knee propped against Dom's thigh. He shifts when Dom moves, then comes awake with a shuddering jerk. "Wha--"

"Cold," Dom whispers. He doesn't bother with the window; instead, he nudges Viggo and tugs at the blankets under them. With clumsy maneuvering they succeed, Viggo pulling Dom close as they settle back in, kissing him with lazy, already half-asleep abandon. It's all very sloppy and full of heavy breathing, and Dom's dick starts to stir but sleep wins out before he thinks any more of it.

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And the next time, the palest light of dawn is seeping in and he shuts his eyes against it. Enough minutes pass before he feels Viggo stir and move that he thinks he may have gone back to sleep and started dreaming. Lucidly, granted, but dreaming all the same. In the dream that isn't a dream, he hears Viggo moving around, hears the sounds of the toilet and the bathroom sink, hears rummaging in a bag and the dull sounds of something hitting the table very close to his head.

Still thinking it could be a dream, he feels Viggo crawl back into bed and curl around him, feels a heavy and solid leg press between his. He feels Viggo's mouth against his ear, wet and hot and moving in teasing patterns of lips and tongue, and saying "Dom. Time to wake up" in that voice that's even slower, rougher, better first thing in the morning.

"I'm awake," Dom says, and he is. "S'early, isn't it?"

"Very," Viggo mumbles against his neck. Viggo's hand is moving randomly over Dom's stomach, petting, soothing, exploring, occasionally pressing into Dom's side to hitch him even closer.

"Later yet?"

"Was thinking so."

Dom really is awake now. He opens his eyes and moves, pressing Viggo onto his back and staring down at him. "Rather early for later, don't you think?"

Viggo shrugs, obviously suppressing a taunting smirk. "Aren't you the one who wanted later earlier?"

Narrowing his eyes, Dom tells himself that if he kills Viggo, he most definitely will not be getting any sex this morning. "You're a smartass bastard, Vig," he mutters, and lowers his head to kiss every trace of amusement away. Viggo says something that gets lost in his mouth, and he doesn't care anyway, not after he feels Viggo's hands sliding across his ass.

What he's had in mind is passion and recklessness, more heat and sweat and loud noises and hard, frantic thrusts. He's imagined something wild and desperate and fast. What he gets is Viggo as Viggo sometimes is, intense and careful and focused. He gets an agonizingly blissful amount of time sprawled on his back while Viggo grabs a tube from the table and slicks his fingers and then slowly tortures Dom under the guise of preparation, adding insult to injury by murmuring encouragement to "relax, Dom, stay relaxed" against innumerable spots on his body.

He gets Viggo on his knees between Dom's legs, looking dangerous and intent as he rolls on a condom. He gets arms and then shoulders under his knees, gets Viggo catching his mouth and keeping his attention there until the first slow nudge makes it all but a done deal. He gasps; his stomach curls in and clenches and Viggo stills. "Breathe," he says softly. 034;Breathe and let yourself relax."

Dom closes his eyes and tries, and he must succeed at least some because Viggo presses in further, and then a little further, continuing until he's flush against Dom. And he pauses and Dom hears himself growl something about getting a move on because the burn is considerable, but overshadowing that is the way that every time Viggo shifts the slightest bit, there's a hint of something straining to crawl up Dom's spine and scorch his brain. He can feel the edges of it, lying in wait, and he opens his eyes and nods and growls and Viggo's laugh only makes it worse. The vibrations shudder through Dom's body and he nearly chokes on a small cry.

Then Viggo really does move, slow and purposeful, and Dom is suddenly acutely aware of every nerve ending in his body. It makes a strange sort of sense to him, seeing as they're all on fire. He feels the very moment he breaks out in a fine sweat, feels heat flooding his limbs. Viggo is just barely rocking against him, but gaining momentum with each almost-thrust, easing a larger fraction of the way out every time and then sliding back.

Dom appreciates the care, he really does. But he also has the distinct impression of being teased, of having mind-blowing sensation dangled right in front of him and then pulled away like string from a cat. "Vig," he manages to get out through clenched teeth. "If you don't hurry up and fuck my brains out, I might kill you. I swear to God, I really might."

Viggo laughs again, says, "all right, okay." He stills and moves Dom's legs from his shoulders to his sides, tells him to keep them as high as he can, and then props himself on his forearms and kisses Dom roughly and --

-- fuck. Dom groans; he was right, there was some red-hot insect struggling to get to his brain and it's finally succeeded. He digs his heel into Viggo's spine and opens his eyes and -- "again." -- Viggo grins at him, hair a damp mess around his face, and pulls back and slams in again. Dom grabs himself, less to assist than to try not to come so soon, but Viggo's steady and even and hard movements are letting the insect burn through whatever portion of his brain could have controlled it, and he jerks once, twice, without even thinking of it, and Viggo kisses him again as he comes and speeds up and this, this is what Dom imagined.

This is what he'd thought it would be. Viggo fucking him into the mattress, Viggo biting carefully soft on his shoulder as he comes with a shudder and a low "Dom," Viggo staying right there, damp and sticky and still, softening inside Dom, face pressed into his neck, wrapped in the shell of Dom's arms and legs as their breathing slows.

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Viggo eventually pulls him into a long shower and they dress in silence, go to work, because that's how it has to go. If Dom notices that Viggo is even freer with the light touches, if he feels fingertips grazing across the back of his neck where usually the hand stayed still, he tells himself that of course, things are a little different, and he can't help but revisit the worries that made him wait in the first place.

Time is still passing. December arrives; every night Viggo fucks him, or he fucks Viggo, or they just fall asleep in a tangled mess of limbs, and every morning is another part of a final dwindling month. He starts to ask once, forces himself to say, "Viggo, what about after -- "

But Viggo cuts him off with a slight shake of his head and a kiss, and Dom lets the matter go. He's not sure what Viggo is thinking until his birthday, when Viggo hands him an envelope and he finds a small print of himself and the negative that goes with it. ";I took it last year," Viggo says, "right around the beginning."

He looks carefully at the picture much later, after he goes home, and thinks he remembers it. Elijah is out of focus and laughing in the background, and Dom is leaning against a table, chin in the palm of his hand, eyes closed against sunlight that's splashed a thin bar across his face. He remembers hearing the camera and looking up, squinting until Viggo moved to block the sun with his body. "Get a good shot?" he'd asked, and Viggo shrugged.

"I might have. We'll see."

Now he turns the picture over and there are words in Viggo's cramped handwriting. 'A good shot after all. We've always done well when we wait and see.'

Dom understands. The next day, he tells Orlando and Billy that he can join them for surfing after filming wraps. He feels good after that, after knowing that there's no pressing need to know for sure.

He feels good, just letting this thing be.

fin