Pairing: All of the LOTR Cast at some stage or another
Rating: PG13-NC17
Summary: Please read the AN below.
Warnings: Bad language, stereotypes, bad jokes etc. Angst in this one, so handkies ready
Author's Notes: A daytime soap opera mission/quest/thing. Being the day-to-day story of ordinary movie star folk in their run-of-the-mill luxury men only complex in LA. "Hamlet: The Musical" does not exist as far as I know.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No profit is made nor offence intended.

Episode Five
The One Where Elijah Reads A Poem and Harry Discovers The Truth

Scene: Billy's apartment, 11.00 am

Billy Boyd stretches in his William Wallace tee shirt and yawns. Sunlight streaming through his window reminds him he is no longer in rainy Glasgow but in sunny L.A. Hurrah!

He realises that he is not alone in the bed. Dominic's firm and luscious backside is nudging his groin.

"Monaghan, g'd morning," Billy squirms and nestles against Dominic. "House rule – guests always make the tea."

"Sod off..."

"Ach, you were much more romantic when you were my wee bit on the side!" says Billy, peevishly.

Elijah never told him to sod off. Elijah would have jumped out of bed and been back with a three course breakfast on a tray in three minutes flat. With a rose in a cut glass vase, and a bottle of baby oil. And Billy's slippers. And be naked. But Dominic has The Bottom and a cute chin...

"What are we doing today, anyway?" asks Dominic, rolling over to face Billy.

Big mistake, because now he can see Billy's hair. The Englishman focuses on the lilies in a cut glass bowl on the dresser. Yes, lilies; much safer than Billy's hair. Channel the lilies.

"I thought we could go shopping. And then go hire a carpet cleaner for my shag pile." Billy frowns, thinking of the damage to his new carpet. And, of course, poor Elijah. Life is so unfair. Why couldn't he have had them both, Elijah and Dominic? Why did he have to choose? He would have Elijah for giggles and squirminess and general usefulness, Dominic for rock hard rumpy pumpy.

"Get Stains R Us in, they'll sort out the carpet for you," says Dominic, leaning in for a kiss.

"Whaat? I am not paying their prices! No way, tsk," is the Scot's tetchy reply.

Scene: Elijah's apartment

In his study, Elijah Wood is busy.

On the desk lie numerous letters, fan mail presumably. One letter, in a creamy parchment envelope bearing the Mortensen crest, lies unnoticed beneath a pile of sample coupons for "LubeULike".

There are scripts to be perused. Elijah has his "Big Bird" yellow marker poised over one such script – "South: The Story of a Boy Who Likes Going Down (South)". But he has a natural aversion to any film title with a point of the compass in it. A week ago, Billy had insisted they watch the Hitchcock Season on Channel 69 and without warning, there it was. Horrible. "North By North West". Billy had to get him a stiff drink. And no amount of explaining that there was actually no such compass point would comfort him.

The telephone rings. With a sigh Elijah throws down the offending script and answers, brightly: "Hello, Elijah Jordan Wood here."

"Oh, hi Mom. Yes, Mom. I did. Yes, last night and this morning. The whitening kind, Mom. Yes, I know I need to prevent cavities... yes, but I want the whitening too. What? Mom! I cannot answer that question. Sheesh. You know why. It's personal. No, Mom. There is a limit, I am twenty one!" Elijah says, with a determined look on his face. He loves his Mom but there are times when a man must take a stand.

"I love you too. What? Mom, you know you can't come over here, its against the rules. I will meet you for lunch tomorrow, I promise," Elijah is squirming.

"I said I cannot answer that question, Mom. No. I said no, Mom. No. Don't cry, Mom. Okay already! Last night, okay!" Elijah sighs deeply.

"Yes, Mom. The prunes worked fine."

Moving out of the guest house into the complex has not had quite the liberating effect he thought it would have.

As he puts down the telephone, Elijah notices the creamy packet with the familiar crest. Viggo has sent him a letter. Now that is interesting.

Scene: The Pool

Harry Sinclair is a magnificent, sybaritic specimen. He has just completed his fiftieth lap of the luxury Olympic sized swimming pool and is barely out of breath. The busboy from the poolside bar is open mouthed with admiration.

Hauling himself expertly out of the water, he strides over to his lounger and towels himself off. Harry uses the fluffy towel to rub dry perfect, sculpted, mature skin. He thinks about the phone call. As he remembers, the air around the pool dissolves prettily and we see he is now in Sean Bean's apartment, earlier that day….

It had come out of the blue.

"Harry!" Sean had called from the lounge. Harry was in the guestroom, trimming his toe nails. It is a fact little known to his legion of fans that Harry Sinclair has hirsute toes, and nails that require clipping on a regular basis or they begin to resemble those of an Orc. In an otherwise perfect anatomy it is a flaw. And he hates it.

"Yes? What is it, Beany?" Distracted, Harry nicked the flesh of his little toe and a pinprick of blood oozed onto his skin.

Sean thought maybe there had been an earthquake. He had felt them before – this was L.A., after all. But then he realised the crashing noise emanating from the bedroom was, in fact, Harry. Crashing.

"Orlando, he will call you back," Sean said, scribbling a number down on the telephone pad and grinning.

In the guestroom, Harry was laid out on the floor, the toenail clippers still in his hand.

It is a fact little known to his legion of fans that Harry Sinclair faints at the sight of blood.

Sean had lifted Harry bodily off the floor, with much huffing and puffing, and onto the bed. As he did so, not for the first time, Sean considered Harry to be one hell of a hunk of man.

If Sean did not still harbour deep feelings for Sean, Sean would have acted. But Sean could not act whilst still so in love with Sean. It had been a heartbreaking time for Sean when Sean had broken it off. Sean had been devastated, and Sean had been riddled with guilt. Oh Sean!

"Who was on the phone, Beany?" Harry had opened one eye and was using it to fix his friend with a steely glare.

"Orlando," replied Sean, "and he sounded a wee bit fed up, sithee. I think mebbe he has summat he needs to get off his chest. I told him you'd call back."

Harry deciphered the Yorkshire speak and smiled. Ah. Orlando. He of the eyes like blobs of melted bonfire toffee and the frisky nostrils. Mmm.

"Any idea what he wanted?" Harry asked, aiming for cool.

"None at all, sorry. Oh, unless it's to tell you he's been madly in love with you for months and wants you to shag him `till his eyes pop out of his head. Just a thought, cos its what he told me last week," said Sean, grinning. He held out a slip of paper to Harry with a telephone number scribbled on it.

Harry had snatched up the guestroom phone and dialled the number in record time.

"Hotlips? Isildur here. Don't say a word, I want to meet with you and screw you until you faint, till your eyes roll up in your head like an overhead garage door, till your body is bent like a bowstring - and then I am going to start all over again, till you beg for mercy..."

Harry listened intently, watching Sean sidle out of the door.

"I am truly sorry. Yes. Wrong number. No, really, I am not that kind of man. I am flattered, but no. Many apologies," said Harry, replacing the receiver.

Back at the pool, Harry ponders events. He has discovered the truth.

Sean Bean is a tricky bastard.

And Oprah Whinfrey likes to hear men talk dirty.

Scene: Elijah's apartment

Elijah reads it again. For the third time.

Oh.

Viggo wants to shag him. Viggo.

Vig-oh.