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Improving perfection. Proving Imperfection.	By : DarklingWillow Category: Casts RPF > LotR (all) > LotR (all) Views: 1085 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Dominic Monaghan or Billy Boyd, and I make no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Improving perfection. Proving Imperfection.
- 1
Improving Perfection.
Proving Imperfection.
Short story, inspired by the photo by the same name,
From the Happy Accidents series, by Dominic Monaghan.
* * * * *
It all started with a cheeky smile and a twinkle, you see, and I don’t mean cheeky in the sense that it was full of round, rosy kind of pudgy cheeks that you want to squeeze and pout at, making baby-noises.
No, I mean, the kind where all it takes is a glance, just one dart of the eyes in the wrong direction, and you catch it, like a moth smacking you in the face on a dark summer night while camping. It’s like a glimpse, only quicker, because it hides in the corners of the mouth, sort of like Wendy’s secret kiss, and it taunts you in all the same ways.
Cheeky in the sense that once you notice it, you know in the deepest darkest corners of your soul that you should yell at it to go away, that you should point it out to someone in authority and have them arrest it now, and be done with it, but something even deeper inside of you stirs, jumps with joy and the adrenaline starts pumping, and you are hooked, landed like a forty pound salmon, strung up and photographed, quite simply you are done for.
And from there…, well, there was no turning back from there.
The twinkle was a whole different story. Or the same one. I can never decide, or figure it out, because I’ve been falling for them ever since. No matter how often I tell myself I won’t, not this time, I’m too old, too grown up, they are too mature for such silliness, I fall harder than ever before.
The twinkle is so different even though it means exactly the same thing, the twinkle is in the eyes.
I found myself standing on a ridge once, looking out over a Scottish moor, heather in bloom, fog in the valleys, the skies dark, impregnated, and the air held its breath for the downpour, I held my breath for the same reason. The moment tensed, to the breaking point, the grey-green moss reaching out, stretching towards the lead cover, and the first drop lost its grip, fell screaming to the ground, it landed on my face and I felt the earth gasp in rapture as at last the choirs of the heavens let go their sorrows, and the rain poured down in sheets of pale silver.
That’s the colour of his eyes. Exactly that moment, suspended between heaven and earth, the Scottish moor and the rain, is the colour of his eyes.
And that’s where the twinkle belongs. That dangerous twinkle.
That twinkle and the coy, cheeky smile are in cahoots. Their one aim in life is to bring you down, and bring you down hard, messy, and with as much laughter as they can. Preferably laughter from as many as they can as well. And down they’ve brought me, time and time again. It’s not that I mind, mind you, quite honestly I love it. For you see, if that twinkle and that cheeky smile manage to take me down, there is another smile, and a whole different twinkle that is my prize. A reward for going down gracefully, for taking it like a champ.
This different twinkle is actually more of a sparkle. A lumination that begins in the most secret part of his heart, a light that spreads out in his body, from his centre, until he is alight from within, shining like a beacon, warmth and love, I guess like Jesus is most often depicted, and through his eyes this light enters the world.
When you receive his light, it enters through your body, filling your heart, inebriating your soul, messing up your mind, and you sink into this becalmed sea, deeper and deeper until you drown, a beautiful peaceful sleep.
The smile that belongs to this sparkle is of a whole other breed. It’s sneaky, rather than cheeky, it’s racy and crazy, it screams in your ears, ‘that was fantastic, let’s do it again, later, now we run!’
And you run. There is no other option in the situation.
It’s been that way ever since we first met. It’s that way every time we meet again. It’s going to be that way until we both pass away. It’s going to be like that in heaven, where we’ll be razing a little hell.
The very first time I met him, that’s how it happened. The cheeky smile, the twinkle, the water bucket, the door, the drenched producer with his leather briefcase, the annoyed co-stars, and the grin and the sparkle, as we fell over each other laughing. It only got worse from there, believe me, especially after we figured out a way to make the bucket stay up there until someone closed the door. Not to mention far worse practical jokes.
It’s been ten years since, and still he amazes me. Still he steals my breath in ways I could never describe with mere words. Still I find myself suspended between life and drowning in the calmness of his eyes. Still my heart jumps when that cheeky smile peaks around the corner and beckons me to follow, ‘tread lightly’ it whispers ‘so you won’t be heard’. Despite the forty-two years since those eyes first made someone go weak at the knees, it’s as if they haven’t aged a day over ten, despite the lines and the tiny wrinkles, he still looks like some mischievous pixie dressed in human form, plotting to steal you away to a land where days last for ages.
I sit still, breath held, hands trembling, and the warmth of the lights almost unbearable. My heart struggles to leave my chest, envy gnawing away at the roots to set it free, as this strange woman smoothes thin fingers over his face, to even out lines and crow’s feet, to matte out spots that might show, or dots that might shine.
As I watch in awestruck worship, he looks at me past the mirrored glass, through the glaring tiny suns, the twinkle waves at me, begs me to come closer, the cheeky smile runs from corner to corner, motioning for me to follow, and I tell this make-up artist, like I’ve told so many before, that it’s no use. It’s no use to smear him all over with paint and powder. It’s no use. It’s impossible to improve perfection.
* * * * *

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Improving perfection. Proving Imperfection.