Ewan/Hayden, by me at long last
Nov. 25th, 2005 11:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
culuyetilleToday I sat down and typed up most of my SW scribblings. I found some E/H things quite old and that I really like; I've also decided to group all the 'small ideas' under a single series of drabbles/ficlets rather than trying to have them fit together for a longer fic. I'll leave that to the Ani/Obi bits ;) So after some polishing, I have something to present:
The first one is part of Random and vile cosmic disorder (love), the part I of which can be found here.
Title: As much normalcy as he could carefully craft
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lorielen
Pairing: Ewan/Hayden
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 396 words. ...only so many evenings of mentoring and ‘real beer’ coaching and over-pint confessions until the slow costar-friend transition is completed and Hayden Christensen is effectively a part of one’s life. Ewan’s started to catch himself storing tales and jokes to share with him, and what is he, fucking sixteen years old?
As much normalcy as he could carefully craft
Life’s really keen on blowing smoke up his Scottish arse today. The optimist in Ewan points out that it’s barely four in the afternoon and he’s home with the rest of the day off, which doesn’t change the fact that he’s thoroughly pissed off because a restless night has piled atop an ill-nursed hangover to give him a bloody awful, blinding headache and it’s no fucking use being home if one must keep watch of the sodding icebag on one’s sprained ankle, lest one wants iceburns. He sourly wonders why the fuck else would Jedi wear boots if not to conceal the occasional bloody iceburn so that they needn’t be stuck at the sofa with Seinfield reruns.
His insufferably one-track mind remarks that it’s impossible to tell whether Hayden has tried to shield at all; it was likely he’s put a great effort in it even, but past teenaged hormones, one just knows these things. One can only spend so many hours a day twirling lightsabers and sharing personal space with a young man one’s supposed to convince the world (and bloody George Lucas) that one loves to pieces, only so many evenings of mentoring and ‘real beer’ coaching and over-pint confessions until the slow costar-friend transition is completed and Hayden Christensen is effectively a part of one’s life. Ewan’s started to catch himself storing tales and jokes to share with him, and what is he, fucking sixteen years old? But he’s pretty sure Hayden’s never tried any truly decent Scotch in his life so Ewan has unceremoniously spent an obscene amount of euros in a bottle and left it lying around in his apartment with as much normalcy as he could carefully craft. Not that it’s difficult to believe that he’d ordinarily have a bottle of gold-priced Scotch, but the point here was that he has purchased it thinking of Hayden and that is becoming a disturbing constant. In his bloody breath pattern. But that’s something else entirely.
He reaches under the cushions, where he has, dog-like, concealed his treasure, only to be frustrated by the realization that he’s out of Hayden’s cigarettes. Without giving him time to recover, cable TV informs him that he may acquire by phone order a pen that writes on virtually anything, from wood to glass.
It is positively a shitty day. Ewan limps to the kitchen for more ice.
-*-
The second one is the beginning of a series made of first-timers and entitled A handful of ways in which it didn’t happen. Here's hope you like it :)
Title: Treasure
Author:lorielen
Pairing: Ewan/Hayden
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 875 words. It was a Monday afternoon and Ewan had simply called and started going on about tourism or other whatnot, and they had yet to have a proper conversation after that premiere and Hayden spent so long thinking about what was certainly a casual kiss that it was bordering on obsession, really
Treasure
When Hayden picked up the phone on a sunny, idle afternoon, he was unsuspecting of the forces set in motion. He endeavoured to say “hello”, simple like that, not bothering to look up from what he’d been trying to be busy with.
“Tourism organisers don’t know shite, Hayden.”
He rose so fast he knocked the phone base to the floor.
“Ewan?!”
The thing had this little red light and it was blinking fucking erratically and pleasedon’tletthecallbelost.
“All they ever do is point you to clichéd postcard spots and carefully conceal the treasures.”
“Ewan, what the fuck are you on about?” Ok, perhaps not very tactful, but Ewan, Ewan had once called him from Morocco at 4 a.m. to say that the stars were really beautiful and he just had to tell Hayden that because he didn’t think Hayden could see those stars at home – which proved to be complete bullshit because Morocco was on the north hemisphere, just like Canada and dear ol’ Scotland, for that matter. They’d talked nonsense and Hayden had given Ewan the number of the line he was getting for his place in L.A., just because he knew the Scot was too pissed to remember and he probably didn’t have a scrap of paper to write on. That path of thought had led Hayden to carefully picture Ewan in a state of undress and he’d guiltily palmed and rubbed himself through his sleeping pants to the sound of the older man’s voice. In the end, Ewan was so far gone that he fell asleep on the phone and must’ve paid a small fortune for all those minutes during which Hayden just listened to him breathe across the ocean. “Is everything ok? Are you on some god-forsaken hole somewhere or-“
“Hold on, there’s a helicopter passing by.”
Hayden nodded in confusion, oblivious to the fact that the other man couldn’t actually see this response. It was a Monday afternoon and Ewan had simply called and started going on about tourism or other whatnot, and they had yet to have a proper conversation after that premiere and Hayden spent so long thinking about what was certainly a casual kiss that it was bordering on obsession, really, and, all things considered, how was he not to worry like a girl? At least Ewan didn’t sound sloshed or anything. Though the Scotsman could talk straight after what looked like entire barrels of alcohol, but that was beside the point. Then again, Hayden hadn’t known what the point was with Ewan for so fucking long that it infuriated him; he supposed that a conversation on which Ewan was thinking coherently could be a very fair start, but he was beginning to believe that he feared that more than anything else in the world because, were Ewan in possession of his senses, he would be heartbreakingly earnest and remain a happily married man with children. And Hayden wasn’t sure he could cope with things going back to what they were, and he wished that goddamn chopper would do him a favour and just explode, he couldn’t hear his own fucking thoughts for fuck’s sake.
It was then that Hayden’s eyes widened as he experienced a minor epiphany and he nearly tripped on one stray shoe as he rushed to the front window. Sure enough, a slick black helicopter was fading into distance but the young Canadian missed it, entirely too busy staring down at one Ewan McGregor, who stood in front of his gate, cellphone and a colourful piece of paper in hand.
“..Ewan?”
His voice betrayed his utter disbelief. Hayden feverishly wished that it was anatomically possible to kick himself.
“It’s gone now. As I was saying, complete pillocks. I got myself this effing Map to the Homes of the Stars,” the little Ewan brandished the piece of paper annoyedly and Hayden started chuckling, “but I think it’s two years old and they don’t have your address in it.”
“Thankfully.”
The last thing he needed was a pack of fangirls camping on his porch.
“You say that because you didn’t have to call Natalie for your address.” Far down, Ewan put a hand on his hip in a show of distress and Hayden learned that he was beaming like a fool. “You don’t want to know the promises I had to make to keep her from ruining the surprise.”
Granted, Hayden didn’t want to know. Natalie Portman was overwhelmingly creepy for such a small woman – it was embarrassing really, she was half his size and often had Darth Vader cower when she brought up her scary knowledge of what was going on inside his head. She had all but metaphorically extended her foot to have Hayden trip and fall atop Ewan, though, so he thought a thank-you call and dinner were long overdue. And would continue so for a while because right now, Hayden was all warm and gushy inside, with this huge goofy grin plastered to his face. The Scot had a smile of his own, delicious and full of promises.
“You’re insane, Ewan.”
Ewan took a bow.
“From another continent, at your service. Can I come up?”
And he did. Which resulted in a little talking, a lot of kissing and a mushy ending.
-*-
**cross-posted to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ewan_hayden.
=] I'll also link to a Obi/Ani drabble I've posted recently atewan_hayden but not at my LJ.
Pairing: Obi-Wan/Anakin
Rating: PG
Word count: 285
Unbeta-ed.
( fake cut )
-*-*-
PS: NIN concert, and I'll also see Iggy Pop & the Stooges and Sonic Youth. Whee!!!!
The first one is part of Random and vile cosmic disorder (love), the part I of which can be found here.
Title: As much normalcy as he could carefully craft
Author:
lorielenPairing: Ewan/Hayden
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 396 words. ...only so many evenings of mentoring and ‘real beer’ coaching and over-pint confessions until the slow costar-friend transition is completed and Hayden Christensen is effectively a part of one’s life. Ewan’s started to catch himself storing tales and jokes to share with him, and what is he, fucking sixteen years old?
As much normalcy as he could carefully craft
Life’s really keen on blowing smoke up his Scottish arse today. The optimist in Ewan points out that it’s barely four in the afternoon and he’s home with the rest of the day off, which doesn’t change the fact that he’s thoroughly pissed off because a restless night has piled atop an ill-nursed hangover to give him a bloody awful, blinding headache and it’s no fucking use being home if one must keep watch of the sodding icebag on one’s sprained ankle, lest one wants iceburns. He sourly wonders why the fuck else would Jedi wear boots if not to conceal the occasional bloody iceburn so that they needn’t be stuck at the sofa with Seinfield reruns.
His insufferably one-track mind remarks that it’s impossible to tell whether Hayden has tried to shield at all; it was likely he’s put a great effort in it even, but past teenaged hormones, one just knows these things. One can only spend so many hours a day twirling lightsabers and sharing personal space with a young man one’s supposed to convince the world (and bloody George Lucas) that one loves to pieces, only so many evenings of mentoring and ‘real beer’ coaching and over-pint confessions until the slow costar-friend transition is completed and Hayden Christensen is effectively a part of one’s life. Ewan’s started to catch himself storing tales and jokes to share with him, and what is he, fucking sixteen years old? But he’s pretty sure Hayden’s never tried any truly decent Scotch in his life so Ewan has unceremoniously spent an obscene amount of euros in a bottle and left it lying around in his apartment with as much normalcy as he could carefully craft. Not that it’s difficult to believe that he’d ordinarily have a bottle of gold-priced Scotch, but the point here was that he has purchased it thinking of Hayden and that is becoming a disturbing constant. In his bloody breath pattern. But that’s something else entirely.
He reaches under the cushions, where he has, dog-like, concealed his treasure, only to be frustrated by the realization that he’s out of Hayden’s cigarettes. Without giving him time to recover, cable TV informs him that he may acquire by phone order a pen that writes on virtually anything, from wood to glass.
It is positively a shitty day. Ewan limps to the kitchen for more ice.
-*-
The second one is the beginning of a series made of first-timers and entitled A handful of ways in which it didn’t happen. Here's hope you like it :)
Title: Treasure
Author:
lorielenPairing: Ewan/Hayden
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 875 words. It was a Monday afternoon and Ewan had simply called and started going on about tourism or other whatnot, and they had yet to have a proper conversation after that premiere and Hayden spent so long thinking about what was certainly a casual kiss that it was bordering on obsession, really
Treasure
When Hayden picked up the phone on a sunny, idle afternoon, he was unsuspecting of the forces set in motion. He endeavoured to say “hello”, simple like that, not bothering to look up from what he’d been trying to be busy with.
“Tourism organisers don’t know shite, Hayden.”
He rose so fast he knocked the phone base to the floor.
“Ewan?!”
The thing had this little red light and it was blinking fucking erratically and pleasedon’tletthecallbelost.
“All they ever do is point you to clichéd postcard spots and carefully conceal the treasures.”
“Ewan, what the fuck are you on about?” Ok, perhaps not very tactful, but Ewan, Ewan had once called him from Morocco at 4 a.m. to say that the stars were really beautiful and he just had to tell Hayden that because he didn’t think Hayden could see those stars at home – which proved to be complete bullshit because Morocco was on the north hemisphere, just like Canada and dear ol’ Scotland, for that matter. They’d talked nonsense and Hayden had given Ewan the number of the line he was getting for his place in L.A., just because he knew the Scot was too pissed to remember and he probably didn’t have a scrap of paper to write on. That path of thought had led Hayden to carefully picture Ewan in a state of undress and he’d guiltily palmed and rubbed himself through his sleeping pants to the sound of the older man’s voice. In the end, Ewan was so far gone that he fell asleep on the phone and must’ve paid a small fortune for all those minutes during which Hayden just listened to him breathe across the ocean. “Is everything ok? Are you on some god-forsaken hole somewhere or-“
“Hold on, there’s a helicopter passing by.”
Hayden nodded in confusion, oblivious to the fact that the other man couldn’t actually see this response. It was a Monday afternoon and Ewan had simply called and started going on about tourism or other whatnot, and they had yet to have a proper conversation after that premiere and Hayden spent so long thinking about what was certainly a casual kiss that it was bordering on obsession, really, and, all things considered, how was he not to worry like a girl? At least Ewan didn’t sound sloshed or anything. Though the Scotsman could talk straight after what looked like entire barrels of alcohol, but that was beside the point. Then again, Hayden hadn’t known what the point was with Ewan for so fucking long that it infuriated him; he supposed that a conversation on which Ewan was thinking coherently could be a very fair start, but he was beginning to believe that he feared that more than anything else in the world because, were Ewan in possession of his senses, he would be heartbreakingly earnest and remain a happily married man with children. And Hayden wasn’t sure he could cope with things going back to what they were, and he wished that goddamn chopper would do him a favour and just explode, he couldn’t hear his own fucking thoughts for fuck’s sake.
It was then that Hayden’s eyes widened as he experienced a minor epiphany and he nearly tripped on one stray shoe as he rushed to the front window. Sure enough, a slick black helicopter was fading into distance but the young Canadian missed it, entirely too busy staring down at one Ewan McGregor, who stood in front of his gate, cellphone and a colourful piece of paper in hand.
“..Ewan?”
His voice betrayed his utter disbelief. Hayden feverishly wished that it was anatomically possible to kick himself.
“It’s gone now. As I was saying, complete pillocks. I got myself this effing Map to the Homes of the Stars,” the little Ewan brandished the piece of paper annoyedly and Hayden started chuckling, “but I think it’s two years old and they don’t have your address in it.”
“Thankfully.”
The last thing he needed was a pack of fangirls camping on his porch.
“You say that because you didn’t have to call Natalie for your address.” Far down, Ewan put a hand on his hip in a show of distress and Hayden learned that he was beaming like a fool. “You don’t want to know the promises I had to make to keep her from ruining the surprise.”
Granted, Hayden didn’t want to know. Natalie Portman was overwhelmingly creepy for such a small woman – it was embarrassing really, she was half his size and often had Darth Vader cower when she brought up her scary knowledge of what was going on inside his head. She had all but metaphorically extended her foot to have Hayden trip and fall atop Ewan, though, so he thought a thank-you call and dinner were long overdue. And would continue so for a while because right now, Hayden was all warm and gushy inside, with this huge goofy grin plastered to his face. The Scot had a smile of his own, delicious and full of promises.
“You’re insane, Ewan.”
Ewan took a bow.
“From another continent, at your service. Can I come up?”
And he did. Which resulted in a little talking, a lot of kissing and a mushy ending.
-*-
**cross-posted to:
ewan_hayden.=] I'll also link to a Obi/Ani drabble I've posted recently at
ewan_hayden but not at my LJ. Pairing: Obi-Wan/Anakin
Rating: PG
Word count: 285
Unbeta-ed.
( fake cut )
-*-*-
PS: NIN concert, and I'll also see Iggy Pop & the Stooges and Sonic Youth. Whee!!!!
