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A Push From a Cowboy	By : Dhvana Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 1489 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Push From a Cowboy
- 1
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no harm intended, no profit made.

A Push From a Cowboy

Orlando looked up from his book at the sound of several heavy somethings hitting the floor in the hall, followed by a round of vigorous swearing. With a smile, he marked his place and closed the book. Tiptoeing over to the door, he looked out the peephole to see what tonight’s commotion was all about. He knew from experience that if he held his head at just the right angle, he could get a glimpse of the door to the flat across the hall and its Irish inhabitant, who was currently kicking across the threshold all of the objects that had spilled from the torn bag in his hand.

His smile growing, Orlando pressed himself against the door, not wanting to miss a single second. He’d been living in the flat for three years now, the Irishman almost as long, and while the man had seemed friendly, always willing to strike up a conversation in the elevator or hold the door open when his arms were full, Orlando didn’t even know his name. He didn’t dare ask.

When last of the items was punted inside the flat and the door closed, Orlando sighed and pried himself from the peephole to return to his chair. He picked up the book but didn’t open it, instead staring at the blinking lights of his Christmas tree. He wondered briefly why his neighbor hadn’t left for the holidays. If they were both staying, maybe this would be the chance he’d been waiting for. Maybe he could invite the Irishman over for Christmas dinner tomorrow--but what if he didn’t like his cooking? Maybe just for a drink--Orlando had more than enough proof that the man could drink, having been woken up numerous times by the Irishman’s boisterous return after a night on the town.

But did he have any decent liquor in the house? He performed a quick mental inventory and shook his head. Just a bottle of rum, one of gin, and a couple cans of beer, probably nothing his neighbor would drink.

He sighed again. Maybe he’d ask next year, when he was better prepared and better stocked.

“Or maybe you should get off your ass and ask now!”

Orlando yelped, jumping out of his chair to look frantically around the room. He didn’t see anyone--was he starting to hear voices?

“You’re not hearing things, but I’m fixin’ to shove my boot up your ass if you don’t stop being so wishy-washy. Grow a spine! Are you a man at all?”

Frowning, Orlando walked cautiously towards the fireplace, his eyes on the mantle above where he kept his most prized possessions. On it rested his math trophy from university, the first edition leather-bound autographed copy of Peter Pan his grandmother had given him, bookends on either side shaped like hula dancers from his old roommate, pictures of his family and friends, and the most precious of all, a three inch tall cowboy made out of tin.

His great-great-grandfather had bought the set of cowboys and Indians on a trip to America for his great-grandfather, and this lone cowboy was the only one to survive the enthusiastic play of four generations. His paint was almost completely rubbed off through contact with small sweaty hands, his bowed legs were slightly more bowed than when he had been made, causing him to rock when stood upright, and the lasso he held above his head was helped by a bit of glue, but the features on his face remained clear.

And he was staring right at Orlando.

Orlando blinked.

The cowboy blinked back.

Orlando’s jaw dropped.

The cowboy’s eyes narrowed.

“Bloody hell!”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” the cowboy said, shaking his tiny fist at him. “Your ma taught you better than that.”

“I’m going mad,” Orlando said as the room began to spin. The toy was moving. The toy was moving and talking. The toy was moving and talking and scolding him. Hold on a sec--the toy was scolding him? What the fuck? Didn’t he have enough going on in his life without a three-inch cowboy getting on his case?

“Now listen here you,” the cowboy began as he took a couple steps forward, wobbling a bit on his uneven legs, and Orlando focused on him long enough for the dizziness to fade, “I’ve watched four generations of you Blooms grow up and in all my days, I ain’t never seen such a pussy-footed specimen of a man. Your pa, now he was a man, and a good one at that--possibly the best this world will ever see Your grandpa? He was a man right down to his toes. And your great-grandpa? Well, he was a terror, but when you wanted a man, you went to him. With one look he could scare the shit out of a herd of stampeding buffalo, but you? Gnats laugh at you. Dogs look down on you. A tumbleweed could run you over.”

“All right! I get the idea!” Orlando snapped. He didn’t need to stand there and be insulted by a toy as big as his thumb. His imagination was definitely working overtime on this one. There must be a gas leak in the building. “You’d better be careful, figment, or I’ll step on you.”

“Don’t you sass me, boy, or I’ll wash your mouth out with turpentine. It’s time you started showing some spirit, like you used to. I remember the adventures we had when you were ‘bout as high as your daddy’s knee. What in tarnation happened to you?”

“I grew up.”

“Horseshit. I’ve seen three other generations of Blooms before you grow up, and none of them turned out like you. What really happened?”

Scowling, Orlando growled at him, “I fell off a building and broke my back.”

“And. . . ?”

“And what?”

“You mean that’s it?” The cowboy’s eyes widened. “Dadgummit, boy! You’re walkin’, ain’t ya? Breathin’? Your puny little heart is beatin’ in your chest? What’s stoppin’ you from doing anything else?”

“What do you mean? What more do you want? I fell, I survived--and believe me, that wasn’t easy, but I did. I went to university, I got a job--I’m one of the firm’s top accountants! I think I’ve done enough for one lifetime.”

The cowboy gave him an incredulous look. “You’re an accountant?”

“Yes,” Orlando answered slowly, suspicious of the cowboy’s tone.

“And no one’s put you out of your misery yet?”

“Pardon me, figment, but I happen to be quite happy. I have job security, good friends, family I love, what more could I ask for?”

“A life?”

“Piss off.”

“When’s the last time you did anything risky?”

Ha! Orlando thought triumphantly. He had the little metal beast now. “Just last week, I invested--”

“Boy, I’m this close to takin’ a switch to your backside. I’m talkin’ about a real risk.”

An image flashed before Orlando’s eyes of himself falling away from the sky, and he shook his head. “Risks are for people without the sense to stay on the ground,” he said as he turned away from the toy.

“And that’s why the only thing you’ll ever be pressed against is that door while you watch him screw others into the wall.”

“It’s not like that!” Orlando cried out desperately as he whirled on the cowboy. “He’s not even my type, and if he were, I certainly wouldn’t be his.”

“Well, that first part is a pile of bullcrap, but that last part I can agree with. Why anyone would want a coward like you is beyond me, but I’ve been watching you, boy. I know you want him. Why don’t you tell him? Make the first move! Hell, from the noise that man makes, it’s clear he’s like a hammer with a bucket of nails--he ain’t picky so long as he gets to pound something, so I’d say you’ve got more than a middlin’ chance.”

“And what if I want more than just a chance?”

The cowboy arched his faded eyebrow. “You sure about that, buckaroo? He might be more man than you can handle.”

“Tell me about it.” Orlando slumped into his chair and leaned his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “But I’m sure. I took one look at him, and that was it for me. He’s the one.”

“Forgive me for sayin’ this, but I don’t rightly know that there can be just one for him. He’s got somethin’ of a wanderin’ eye.”

“You don’t say,” Orlando commented dryly, earning him a rude gesture from the toy.

“On the other hand,” the cowboy said, taking a seat on the edge of the mantle, his tiny heels dangling against the wood, “considering how much time he spends trying to get your attention, all this philanderin’ might just be his way of lettin’ you know he’s interested.”

Orlando raised his head to focus his gaze on the cowboy. “What are you talking about?”

“Let me put it this way--he’s either the rudest damn neighbor to walk the face of the Earth, or he serviced that blond in the hall where you could catch him with his pants down just to let you know he’s got nothin’ against having a good time with another cowpoke.”

“I. . . I never really thought of it like that,” Orlando said, true hope edging into his heart for the first time in three years.

“But you’ll never know unless you ask him.”

His head fell back against the chair. “Then I guess I’ll never know.”

The cowboy heaved an exasperated sigh. “Boy, you’re givin’ me every reason in the world to tan your hide, and we both know I’m not the one you’re wantin’ to do that. Get off your backside and go knock on that door!”

“No!”

“Do it!”

“Back off, tin man!” he shouted.

“What’re you gonna do, toss me into the garbage?” he sneered, knowing Orlando would never do that.

“No, but I will lock you in a box for the rest of my life.”

“Might as well put me there now,” the cowboy said, heaving himself back up onto the mantle. “At the rate you’re livin’, we’re both gonna be in a box before long.”

“Figment, I am this close to turning you into scrap.”

“Go ahead and try it, you walkin’ talkin’ chicken! You don’t have the spine to get near enough to the fire to toss me in!”

“I don’t have to get near it--I just need to aim.”

“I’ve seen you throw. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not aiming for a barn!”

The cowboy opened his mouth to retort when a knock on the door interrupted their argument. They looked at each other with surprise, then the cowboy resumed his former frozen pose while Orlando moved to open the door.

“Hello?”

“Hello yourself, mate. Is everything all right in there?”

It took Orlando a moment or ten to regain control of his senses. The very man they’d been arguing about was standing in front of him, looking at him with that quirk of a smile and those melt-worthy brown eyes, and he didn’t know if he’d survive.

He cleared his throat and said in a scratchy voice, “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just that I heard yelling and, to be honest, in all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve yet to hear a peep out of you, so I thought I should see for myself that you’re all right. So you’re all right?”

“Well. . . I. . . that is. . .” How to answer the question when not even a minute before he’d been in a shouting match with a toy? Clearly, he wasn’t all right. He was more than likely on the fast track to a mental institute, but he didn’t want his neighbor to know that. Too bad his mouth was faster than his brain.

“Peep.”

The Irishman gave him a curious look, then started to laugh. “I guess now I can say I’ve heard a peep. You know, you’re always so quiet. It’s good to know you can be a little vocal.”

“Yes, you do like them vocal, don’t you?” Orlando said, then snapped his jaw shut. His mouth had gotten away from him again, and he blushed beneath the Irishman’s astonished gaze. “Sorry. Not my place.”

“Would you like it to be?” he asked, and hearing an odd note in the other man’s voice, Orlando looked at him sharply.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I. . . you know, I haven’t properly introduced myself. Colin Farrell--graphic designer, neighbor, and all around wanker.”

“Orlando Bloom, and you’re not a wanker.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Well, I admit, I don’t know you all that well, but what I’ve seen so far, I like.”

The Irishman arched an eyebrow. “Everything you’ve seen so far?”

Orlando’s cheeks began to burn. If he were himself, he never would have answered, but he could hear the cowboy’s voice in his mind encouraging him to go on and take a risk. It had been a long time since he’d fallen. Maybe it was time to stand on the edge again.

Lifting his head, he met Colin’s eyes and smiled. “Everything.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he grinned, face filling with relief. “Hell, I’ve been hoping you’d say anything for years now, but you were always so quiet, I figured you weren’t interested.”

“Oh no, I’m interested. I’m just not as. . . outgoing as you.”

“Then you’re shy?”

Orlando shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m not good at taking risks.”

“You’re missing out,” he said with a shake of his head, and Orlando glanced at the mantle.

“So I’ve been told, but you don’t want to hear about me--”

“Actually, yes, I do,” Colin said, reaching out to slip his hand into Orlando’s. When the accountant didn’t pull away, Colin squeezed his fingers and smiled. “I want to know everything you want to tell me.”

“Such as?” Orlando asked, hoping his neighbor wouldn’t notice the way his hand was shaking.

“Why you became an accountant, what your New Year’s resolutions are, what you like for breakfast--”

“Cranberry scones.”

“What?”

Orlando took a step towards him. “I like cranberry scones for breakfast. Warm. With citrus icing drizzled over the top.”

“Sounds delicious,” Colin smiled, his eyes focused on Orlando’s lips. “And it just so happens I have a bag of fresh cranberries in my apartment.”

“What a coincidence. I bought scone mix just the other day.”

“You know what I think?” the Irishman said. “I think you should bring your scone mix over to my apartment where we can combine it with my cranberries and make breakfast together.”

“I don’t know,” Orlando said slowly, and the hand holding his tightened. “I’ve always thought that scones taste better fresh.”

Colin eyes sparkled. “You know, you’re right. I guess we’ll just have to wait till morning to make them.”

“And according to my calculations,” Orlando said, glancing at the clock on the wall, “morning will be here in three hours.”

“Three hours? I don’t know if I can wait that long. All this talk about berries and scones has made me hungry.”

“I guess we’ll just have to find something to keep you distracted until then.”

“That’s a good idea,” Colin said, unable to contain his grin, “but what will distract me from my stomach for three hours?”

“I was hoping I would.”

“And here I was thinking you’re one of the quiet ones, but now I’m thinking something else.”

“What’s that?”

Colin looked him up and down with a slow, hungry gaze that made Orlando’s entire body tingle and his cock begin to throb. “I’m thinking I should have soundproofed the walls.”

Despite his recent attempts at boldness, he found himself blushing all over again. “Why don’t you head on over to your place while I grab the scone mix and turn off the lights?”

“I’ll see you there,” Colin nodded. “Oh, and Orlando?”

“Yes?”

The Irishman slid an arm around his waist and pulled him in close so that their bodies were pressed together. The smiling lips brushed against Orlando’s mouth and then must have decided that wasn’t anywhere near enough. Colin’s soft kiss turned demanding, Orlando’s wanting, and the two drank of each other while pressing even tighter together, whimpering with need and frustration at the clothes separating their skin.

They were breathless when they finally broke apart, Orlando stumbling away before he jumped the Irishman.

“I’m going to be needing a lot more of that, and I’m not just talking about the near future,” Colin said with a slightly stunned grin on his face.

“Whereas I think I’ll be lucky if I live to see breakfast,” Orlando responded, wondering when the room started spinning again. With a chuckle, the Irishman winked at him and headed out of the apartment.

“Don’t take too long. The cranberries and I are waiting,” he said and closed the door behind him.

“Fuck me,” Orlando gasped, sinking into the chair.

“I think that’s what he had in mind,” the cowboy said with a speculative look at the young man. “You know, pardner, you may be right. He might just be the one for you.”

“Told you,” Orlando said, then met the cowboy’s eyes. “I suppose I should thank you for this.”

“I think that’d be the right thing to do.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why?”

The cowboy tilted his head at him. “What’s that?”

“Why’d you do it? Why are you here? Why now?”

“Boy,” the cowboy said shaking his head, “you’re never as alone as you think you are. There’s always someone watchin’ over you, and we’re just wantin’ you to be happy. I know you said you were happy, but we both know that was a bunch of hogwash. Now, though, I think you’ve got a chance.”

“I think so, too,” Orlando smiled, and the cowboy grinned at him.

“That’s the sprit. Now you’d best git on over there, boy, and the next time I see you, you’d better look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet.”

“I’ll see what I can do. And you. . . you’ll be here?”

“Well, I might not be movin’ and talkin’ like I am now, but I’ll be here.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Orlando said and rose to his feet. “See you in the morning.”

“But not too early,” the cowboy winked, and he grinned.

“You can count on it.”

Orlando grabbed the scone mix, turned out the lights, and with one final look at the still figure of the cowboy on the mantle, he opened the door and left the apartment. He was ready to take this risk.

[Completed December 9, 2004]
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A Push From a Cowboy