Coxcomb
Bernard Hill/Ian McKellen/Dominic Monaghan
PG-13
Summary: Tea time in Rohan is served with one lump of sugar and a pitcher-full of sassy.
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, lies, yeah.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Eek, mostly no beta. Thank you to soultoad for a bit of assistance. All errors (be it inappropriate usage of British slang or otherwise) are my own.
For my comrade in the revolution, themoononastick. ;) ¡♥!






Coxcomb




The Old Men's Gathering Hour, that's what they called it. For now. The name changed daily, each time Ian and Bernard met for tea on the set of Edoras. They would sit in their tall director's chairs, chatting idly about the weather and talking shop. And when those 30 seconds were over, they would set to gossiping and observing the goings-on around them: pondering Peter's sleeping habits, admiring Viggo's considerable stamina (wink, nudge), discussing Miranda's lack of pantyline, appreciating Karl’s instinctive grasp of riding (only hindered by his own unruly mane catching in his eyes and mouth), egging on Bruce to juggle anything from prop swords to reeking prosthetics, pondering Brad’s uncanny ability to conjure leakage from various orifices, and generally tsking at the puerile antics of the two hobbits. If an unsuspecting victim would come within earshot of their more salacious musings, they’d simply begin quoting parts of Beowulf—in Old English—so their target would roll his or her eyes and wander away. Occasionally, there would be direct taunting.

Today, as they got down to the heart of their tea time chat, Dominic sauntered by, de-wigged and chewing gum with his mouth open. Ian whistled wolfishly at him. Stopping, he turned and leered over his shoulder. Or seemed to leer, as his eyes were covered in shadow from a nearby awning. Ian decided to disregard the shadow.

“And where is young master Monaghan off to?”

“To see Mr. Boyd, I suspect,” Bernard chimed in. “Share a bit of the Longbottom Leaf and have a good, long suck at the old wooden stem.”

Ian grinned around the rose-patterned rim of his cup. “Pipe stem,” he said with a nod.

“‘Course.”

Now Dominic leered. Most certainly. “Do I detect some jealousy in the hen-house?” He cocked his head almost comically, extending the appearance of his neck to proportions more fitting of Tenniel’s telescoping Alice than Tolkien’s diminutive Merry. Ian decided he was likely a grower.

“Jealous? No,” Ian scoffed. “We aged men have much more refined, recondite notions of how to spend one’s down time rather than lark about all over the set, huddled together and giggling like a bunch of ninnies.”

Dominic crossed his arms and strode closer. “By which you mean, you’d rather sit on your wrinkled old arses and huddle together, giggling like a bunch of old ninnies.”

Bernard coughed out a long chortle. His face grew redder and redder.

“Easy, mate,” Dominic gibed. “You’ll burn your make-up right off.”

Leaning forward, Ian tapped a long, graceful finger against the lobe of Dominic’s ear, bright pink under the prosthetic tip. “I’d warn you of the same.” He petted the down along Dominic’s jawbone with his thumb then sat back in his chair.

“Irish blood,” Bernard said, resting his ankle on his knee and folding his meaty hands over his heavily-costumed stomach. “A little drop of excitement and the blood rushes to the extremities faster than you can say Bobs your uncle.”

Ian leaned in toward Bernard. “Oh, does it? More so in the Irish?”

Bernard made a gruff affirmative noise.

“You don’t say.” Ian’s gaze dropped deliberately to the front flap of Dominic’s short trousers.

“Dirty bastards.” Dominic splayed his hands over his crotch.

“No, don’t cover it up,” Bernard teased and nudged his toe at Dominic’s fingers. Dominic swatted at Bernard’s foot as it scraped the inside of his thigh. He jerked backward.

“Bugger off.” Dominic tugged at his waistband, adjusting his trousers. “What would they say back in Manchester if they saw you acting like this, y’know what I mean?” He grinned crookedly but his cheeks were flushed.

“Not in Manchester now, young man,” he answered. “We’re in the realm of the Horse Lords, where the only fit woman about is my own niece, which....” He shook his head and sighed wistfully.

“Not to mention, all the riding!” Ian added.

“On horses,” Bernard clarified.

“Indeed. You know what that does to a man of kingly status.”

“King-sized,” Bernard corrected.

“That’s what I said.”

“If you think all that horse-riding really lets us release our—”

“Frustrations,” Ian interjected.

“Frustrations,” Bernard echoed. “Well, you’re dead wrong, son.”

“Quite in error,” Ian agreed.

They touched elbows and leaned their chins on their palms, heads almost together, and leered at Dominic.

His fingers looped around the buttons of his waistcoat and the corners of his mouth twitched. Though no longer shadowed, his eyes were definitely dark grey. Ian decided to disregard the fidgeting and focus on them. Bernard apparently focused on the fleshy crest of red tongue protruding as Dominic wet his lips to speak.

“So, you kinda, eh, you,” he stammered, then straightened his shoulders as they continued their appraisal. “Hmm. Now, what do you think I’d want with your rusted old sword,” he addressed Bernard. “And your gnarled old staff,” he addressed Ian.

“Well. Gandalf the White comes with a brand new staff,” Ian said, nonplussed. “A most firm, enduring and rather aesthetically pleasing one, I’d say, wouldn’t you?” He turned to Bernard.

“It’s a bit of all right, yeah.” Bernard nodded quickly and sat up. “And I’d not mock the sword of a king, Dom. A man. Still have your minging hobbit dagger, I suppose?”

Dominic puckered his lips smugly. “But. It’s not the size that counts, man.”

“Care to wager on that?” Bernard asked.

“Put your mouth where my money is?” Ian patted his own upper thigh where pockets would be if Gandalf the White was permitted some bloody pockets.

“Clever, that.” Bernard beamed.

“I’m quite pleased with it myself, really,” Ian gloated.

“Randy old fuckers,” Dominic hissed at them, eyes bright. He backed away, down the dirt path, smirking.

“Dominic Monaghan, you ought to have your mouth washed out with soap!” Ian shouted after him.

“Or something.” Bernard jabbed his elbow into Ian’s side.

“Hmm, something much more preferable to soap.” Ian smiled wickedly. He clinked cups with Bernard and took a sip, swishing the now cold Darjeeling in his mouth as he watched Dominic disappear behind the thatched facade of a Rohirrim hut.

The following day, at 4 o’clock, Ian and Bernard met for Randy Old Fuckers Hour.