Oct. 11th, 2011 11:17 am
Ficlet: Hold the Morning (Hobbit_RPS)
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fox_confessorTitle: Hold the Morning
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
escribo
Pairing: Martin and Ian M.
Rating: PG
Notes: More an ode to coffee than an ode to Bilbo, I suppose.
It was still dark when Martin shuffled through the trailer for feet, two coffees in hand. As practically the only hobbit to a bevy of dwarves, Martin shared the space and the morning with Ian as Ian was be-nosed and be-whiskered. They both preferred it on the whole as the dwarves were a rowdy lot and mornings were meant for quiet contemplation. Or rather, simply for quiet.
Martin was careful not to let the door slam and set the spare coffee--five sugars and cream until the liquid turned the milk chocolate color of a bar of Kinder Riegel--next to Ian's elbow. Ian gave a low rumble that could have meant thanks or good morning or a formal expository on the world's market--it was sometimes hard to tell. It was all in the intonation, he'd been assured by a laughing Richard one day early on, and after a year of feet he'd likely have it down.
The make-up artist working on Ian this particular morning was a brilliant fellow if taciturn enough to curdle the cream in Ian's coffee until they were all properly and perfectly kitted out to do the day's battle in Middle Earth. He tapped Ian's shoulder and Ian dutifully settled still and quiet beneath him, giving a rather Gandolfian hrumph hrumph. Martin could see Ian was giving the coffee a side-eye but they both knew it would sit cooling until his nose was in place. By then they'd be ready for their proper "good mornings" and "did you read in the paper?" and "you won't believe who I talked to last night." As it was, Ian's hair was pushed back from his forehead with a skull cap as a thick pair of eyebrows were applied with spirit gum, the astringent smell tickling Martin's nose as he settled into his own chair for his own hobbiting.
Martin's make-up artist was a dear and lovely woman who would wait patiently at his side until he pried open the lid to his cup, careful not to spill a drop, and breathed deeply at the faint but fragrant steam still rising up. An hour from now, catering would bring a hot breakfast and more coffee but this first cup was important, was paramount. In London, it would have come before a shower and long before a slow ride to a cold set. It would have been sipped from his favorite mug, a chipped thing given to him (unchipped) by his great aunt the Christmas before he'd met Amanda. Archie would have been snuffling at his slippered feet, searching for crumbs. Here it was a cardboard cup from a cash and carry three miles from his bed, his damp hair curling around his still human ears.
That first sip was bliss, as it always had been--even Ian would agree when he was finally allowed to drink what had to be a cold syrupy mess by the time he got to it. It made five a.m. calls to make up bearable. It made him human (or hobbit, rather) and he found by his last bitter swallow that he couldn't be happier to be in New Zealand with bad coffee but excellent company. As Martin crumbled the cup and toss it into the bin, he would declare them the luckiest men in the world, and Ian, awake and nearly unrecognizable, couldn't help but agree.
Author:
escriboPairing: Martin and Ian M.
Rating: PG
Notes: More an ode to coffee than an ode to Bilbo, I suppose.
It was still dark when Martin shuffled through the trailer for feet, two coffees in hand. As practically the only hobbit to a bevy of dwarves, Martin shared the space and the morning with Ian as Ian was be-nosed and be-whiskered. They both preferred it on the whole as the dwarves were a rowdy lot and mornings were meant for quiet contemplation. Or rather, simply for quiet.
Martin was careful not to let the door slam and set the spare coffee--five sugars and cream until the liquid turned the milk chocolate color of a bar of Kinder Riegel--next to Ian's elbow. Ian gave a low rumble that could have meant thanks or good morning or a formal expository on the world's market--it was sometimes hard to tell. It was all in the intonation, he'd been assured by a laughing Richard one day early on, and after a year of feet he'd likely have it down.
The make-up artist working on Ian this particular morning was a brilliant fellow if taciturn enough to curdle the cream in Ian's coffee until they were all properly and perfectly kitted out to do the day's battle in Middle Earth. He tapped Ian's shoulder and Ian dutifully settled still and quiet beneath him, giving a rather Gandolfian hrumph hrumph. Martin could see Ian was giving the coffee a side-eye but they both knew it would sit cooling until his nose was in place. By then they'd be ready for their proper "good mornings" and "did you read in the paper?" and "you won't believe who I talked to last night." As it was, Ian's hair was pushed back from his forehead with a skull cap as a thick pair of eyebrows were applied with spirit gum, the astringent smell tickling Martin's nose as he settled into his own chair for his own hobbiting.
Martin's make-up artist was a dear and lovely woman who would wait patiently at his side until he pried open the lid to his cup, careful not to spill a drop, and breathed deeply at the faint but fragrant steam still rising up. An hour from now, catering would bring a hot breakfast and more coffee but this first cup was important, was paramount. In London, it would have come before a shower and long before a slow ride to a cold set. It would have been sipped from his favorite mug, a chipped thing given to him (unchipped) by his great aunt the Christmas before he'd met Amanda. Archie would have been snuffling at his slippered feet, searching for crumbs. Here it was a cardboard cup from a cash and carry three miles from his bed, his damp hair curling around his still human ears.
That first sip was bliss, as it always had been--even Ian would agree when he was finally allowed to drink what had to be a cold syrupy mess by the time he got to it. It made five a.m. calls to make up bearable. It made him human (or hobbit, rather) and he found by his last bitter swallow that he couldn't be happier to be in New Zealand with bad coffee but excellent company. As Martin crumbled the cup and toss it into the bin, he would declare them the luckiest men in the world, and Ian, awake and nearly unrecognizable, couldn't help but agree.
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