This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

Kitty was three and Alex just past 18 months when Russell began filming his Richard the Lionheart story. It was a year late starting because of some problems with the locations - there had been a forest blight in one part of Czechoslovakia where some of the most beautiful medieval castles still looked much as they did during the time of the real King Richard. This necessitated finding alternative castles, getting permits to use them from their various owners, and some rewrites of the script to suit the buildings themselves. On top of that, Russell was supposed to both executive produce and direct the film, along with starring in it. After looking at the mountain of work involved in that, he decided - and very wisely, I thought - to have someone else direct the film. He had, after all, already directed "The Long Green Shore", had gotten critical praise for that project, and knew there would be other films in the future that he could helm.

"I don't want to spread myself too thin, Lynnie," he told me on the day he finally made up his mind on the subject. His earnest aqua gaze held my attention across the breakfast table, as always. Kitty was perched in her "big girl's chair" as she called it, noisily slurping up cold cereal, while I held Alex on my lap and fed him pieces of my toast. "He's going to dribble that down your shirt," he warned me, just as Alex giggled and dribbled toast crumbs.

"Alex, I'm going to stop giving you toast if you don't stop playing with it," I warned. I looked up at his father, who was grinning at his male offspring as if he'd just done something wonderful. "And you can stop that doting, buster - you get to clean up the floor when he's through decorating it with his food."

"Well, damn, Lynn," Russell commented in a mock wounded voice, "he's just so blasted rebellious, he reminds me of myself. Any dad would be proud of him."

I handed a grinning Alex to his father, who was next to be decorated with toast and jelly crumbs. "Then you get to wear the grape jam, see how you like it."

"Maybe he wants paints and crayons and such, maybe he's a budding artist," my spouse excused our son. Alex grabbed Russell's coffee mug and upended it onto his lap. "Ow, hey, that's hot, you little blighter!" He wrested the cup away from Alex and set him on the floor, whereupon Alex promptly ran off to his room in search of new worlds to conquer.

Russell mopped at his jeans with a dish towel while I pretended not to be amused by seeing him deal with our son's messes for once. I couldn't help laughing, though - I was pretty sure Alex didn't spill things because he wanted to paint with the spillage, but just for the sheer joy of spilling it.

"I think he's really fascinated with gravity," I told Russell, who had resumed his seat at the table with a new mug of coffee.

Kate, who was a noisy but relatively neat eater, interjected, "He's messy, Mummy." She made one of those "girls are far superior to boys" faces as she said it.

"See?" I commented, "Even Kitty agrees with me that Alex isn't trying to paint the Sistine Ceiling."

Russell leaned across to his daughter and patted her round little cheek, "Kitty would never be messy, would you, sweet heart?"

She grinned at him and spilled her milk accidentally. "No, Daddy." She glanced down at the puddle of milk that was beginning to drip onto the floor and said somberly, "Oopsie poopsie."

"God, you've got her copying your sayings now, Russell, be careful, won't you?" I'd rather she not repeat some of the things her father said quite often - she'd have her mouth permanently full of soap from getting it washed out if she did.

"Nothing wrong with oopsie poopsie," my husband, multiple Oscar/Golden Globe/SAG/BAFTA award winning actor and screen writer said in his own defense. To Kitty, he merely smiled indulgently and asked, "Is there, darling?"

"Fuck, no, Daddy!" she answered in her sweet little voice, and got out of her chair, walking off clutching her doll while her stunned father watched her round little butt disappear around the corner.

"Fuck, no?" I echoed my daughter, one brow lifted in enquiry.

Russell shut his mouth with a snap and shook his head, "I don't know where she picked that up."

"Balls," I commented, and dropped the subject. I knew he'd be more careful - for a few days at least - until the next time. I'd long ago given up reforming my husband's vocabulary of cuss words and Aussie sayings - for one thing, there was no point in trying to change an adult male Australian once he was of Russell's age. For another, he was an intelligent person - he knew well enough that he needed to police his language around the children and he was pretty good at it for the most part. It was the occasional slip up that reminded him to watch himself, and that was way more effective and less unpleasant than any nagging I might have done.

Besides, I was kind of fond of my husband as he was, and didn't want to alter him into someone unrecognizable.

Russell came over and stood behind me while I stacked the dishes into the dishwasher. When I finished and straightened up, he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me close, resting his chin briefly on my shoulder. "Mmm," he breathed, "you always smell so nice, why is that?"

"That's breakfast and shower gel, Russ, nothing special, and I guess I'm just naturally fragrant." I reached behind me and patted his thigh. "So when do we leave?"

He sighed, hugged me once more for good measure and went back to the table. "Monday. Everything is set in France, and we'll do the exteriors there before we go to Pinewood."

"I like Pinewood," I commented. London - I loved London, despite the fact that Russell had been kidnapped there several years before. It wasn't the city's fault, just a ridiculous former employee with a grudge. Indeed, we had conceived Kate there, and if for no other reason, I had fond memories of that particular visit. "Are we at the usual hotel?"

"Yeah, and I believe our usual suite - I pulled some strings to get some other bloke's reservations changed so we could have it."

"You mean you made them move some poor unfortunate man to another suite just so we could have the one where we made Kate?" I wasn't that surprised, really, but I never miss a chance to tease him. He'd be disappointed if I did.

"Sure, after all, it's not HIS lucky bed, is it?" He was grinning happily, obviously thinking about lustful activities in the Athenaeum Hotel.

"I suppose not, but I thought we agreed two babies were enough." We had, but I wanted to be sure my spouse was in agreement. I really didn't relish the thought of morning sickness, getting big as a whale, and all the other attendant things that came with having another baby. Besides, I was past optimal childbearing age according to all the scientific articles and information I'd read.

Russell pouted, then laughed and agreed that we had been in accord on the subject. "In fact, Lynnie, I was thinking of having a vasectomy."

I was just sitting down and his statement surprised me enough that I misjudged my distance and sat on the floor instead. "Ouch, you what?" I clambered back onto the chair and pretended that hadn't just happened.

"Vasectomy," he repeated as if to the dim-witted, "you know, snip-snip?"

I gaped at him, "You? You'd do that?" I know it sounds odd, but for some reason, I wasn't sure I wanted him to have his more important bits snipped on, even for something as relatively innocuous as a vasectomy. For one thing, when Russell does anything, it's never simple. A bruise turns out to be a cracked bone. A cut turns out to need a plastic surgeon to repair it instead of simple stitches. A simple game of cricket ended up with a pin in his clavicle several Christmases before. He just can't do anything in an uncomplicated manner.

"Well, sure - it's a lot simpler for me than to have you have surgery, luv." He was looking brave and noble.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "What's the catch?"

When he got that look on his face, it always meant there was more to things than met the eye. I mentally studied the idea in question. What was in it for him that he would volunteer to have his vas deferens cut? I mean, I don't know any men who aren't as careful of their genitalia as if they were the Holy Grail, the Mona Lisa and the Dead Sea Scrolls all rolled into one thing - well, okay - TWO things. Most women had to go through hell to get a partner to agree to be vasectomized - men were just naturally squeamish, especially where their balls were concerned.

"No catch," Russell claimed. He looked too innocent, though.

"You want me to get safely pregnant with Number Three before you actually put your testicles on the table, though, right?"

He scowled. "Dammit, how do you always know what I'm thinking?"

I couldn't believe it - I'd hit the nail right on the head, although that was perhaps a bad analogy to use in this particular situation. "Time and experience, Rusty, time and experience. And the answer is - I have to think about it. I'm not sure I want to have another baby now."

He scowled again, "But I like babies!"

"I can't believe we're having this conversation, Russell, after I thought we'd agreed that two was it for us." I was a little annoyed with him, truth be told, because I had briefly toyed with the idea myself a month or two before and dismissed it as fanciful.

"Well, I wasn't sure you were so dead set against it," he answered. He smiled, "Okay, that's it then. Two is our lot, and a fine lot they are. I'll go ahead and have the snip-snip."

"You will not!" I said firmly, "I'll have it." I knew the lap tubal, as they called it, was relatively simple - a tiny incision, they pump air into your belly, go in through a tiny scope, snip, cauterize, let the air out, and you're done.

It was his turn to gape at me for once. "Y-you will? You really don't want another baby with me?"

At last, the crux of the matter. "Russell, is this some weird, mid-life male crisis you're having? I never said I didn't want another baby WITH YOU, I just really don't want another baby AT ALL. Two is perfect - two is a double handfull most of the time, truthfully."

We stared at one another, clearly at an impasse. The whole blasted subject had come out of nowhere and here we were in an argument of sorts. Not how I'd envisioned my day going, by a long shot. "I thought we were going riding," I said, trying to renew his interest in our original plans.

Russell shook his head and got up from the table, "I'm not in the mood now, Lynn." With that, he went out the door into the back yard, disappearing into the outbuilding where his gym was. Apparently he'd decided to ride his stationary bike or gallop along on his treadmill instead of partaking of the pleasure of riding his horse.

"Well, damn," I said to the closed door. I went and changed into my riding gear and took my horse out without him. Mum Crowe had come and taken the children for a couple of hours - with the help of Terry's wife, Lisa - and I was blessedly free of any outriders for once, although I would have welcomed my husband. It would be one of our last chances before leaving for the filming, when his time would be divided amongst all the myriad tasks of making a big budget movie, leaving relatively little for me and the children. I didn't mind, I was just glad it was only his part time occupation and not his whole life.

It was chilly, but not raining. June is winter in Australia, and this had been a colder one than usual, especially since we were in a more temperate climate there in New South Wales, near to the Tasman Sea. I had on a warm jacket, leather gloves and warm jeans and boots. I wore a TOFOG ball cap on my head since I thought I looked silly in a drover's hat like Russell often wore riding, and a scarf tucked into the neck of my jacket. The cloud cover was absolute, and after I'd ridden pretty far out, I felt the first icy drops of rain begin.

"Dammit," I fumed, and turned my beautiful Arab mare around, heading back to the house. "Everything's all fucked up," I said to the horse, who flicked her expressive ears this way and that, listening to me as well as the wind as it rattled the dry tree branches. I urged her into a canter as the rain began to come down more heavily. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!" I was drenched despite my warm clothes, and shivering by the time we got to the steep bank down to the creek.

I walked the horse along the bank a bit, looking for a better place to cross because of the slippery going, but I couldn't see one what with the wind whipping the rain into my eyes. "Okay, slow and easy, girl," I said in my most calming tone, and she made her way carefully down the muddy bank, splashed across the fast-moving creek, and started up the other side. Just as she got to the top, there was a bright flash of lightning, a crack of thunder following it almost at once, and the big old oak tree right beside where we were standing split in half with a tremendous noise. The horse bolted. She reared first. Unprepared and startled, I flew off her back like I'd been shoved off by a giant's hand swatting a fly, and she galloped off at a dead run. I landed half in the creek and half on the bank, knocking the breath out of myself and conking my head on a rock.

This all sounds sort of familiar, doesn't it? When I first met Russell, he and I had a little misadventure which climaxed with me getting concussed on a rock, and we'd had a further series of misadventures affecting both of us over the course of our courtship and marriage, but I hadn't had any serious injuries beyond a couple of bumps on the head. I came to relatively quickly, probably because the rain was still pouring and had drenched me still further while I sprawled in the creek bed. I moved my head gingerly and was rewarded with a white-hot bolt of pain in my neck and the back of my head that made me think seriously of throwing up, passing out again, or both. I decided to reconsider movement while I felt around myself to see exactly what my situation was.

It was not good. I was wet through and getting wetter, especially with the bottom half of my body in the damned creek, which was cold as ice. My feet and legs were numb, and my bottom was going to be numb shortly if I didn't get out of the water at least. Never mind about crawling up the bank, I didn't think I really wanted to even try to flip over onto my stomach so that I could do that - my head might just fly off from the way it was throbbing.

"Owww, my head," I moaned. I hadn't even realized I had moved, but I must have. I wondered if I could slither backwards a bit and at least get more of me out of the stream than in it. I slithered, rested, and slithered again several times, managing to move about a foot all told. It helped, but I had to rest a long time while waiting for the pounding in my head to subside before I could even think about doing it again.

By now, I reckoned, my horse must be back at the house. Russell, if he had heard her gallop up, would know something was wrong and come looking, but would he know which way to go if the rain was drenching the ground? I didn't think so. And even though it was midday, the clouds and fog combined with the rain made things more twilight, so it was doubly hard to see. "Russell," I tried to yell, but it sounded pretty feeble to me what with the rain and wind drowning me out. "Russell," I shouted as loudly as I could, then lay back as my head throbbed, closing my eyes against the dizziness. "Russell," I whispered, "come get me."

Click on the lion for the next chapter.
 

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Photographs of Russell Crowe courtesy of various fan sites.