Crimea, Ukraine, some years ago


Mid-afternoon and there was shouting in the streets. Viggo leaned against the bar, the steam of his coffee melding with his cigarette’s curling smoke. Coffee, not mate, because Argentinean imports were impossible to find in Crimea. It was a crappy place for vacations, really, but Viggo wasn’t exactly here for rest and relaxation.

He took a long drag, exhaling almost in beat with the shouts and the new, distinct sound of flesh against flesh, then flesh against pavement. Oh, someone was just punched; he hid a grin from the bartender.

Picking up his cup of coffee, he meandered to the door and leaned against the frame. Just then, a blond man came towards him, grabbing his cup of coffee and taking a long swing.

“Hey man, thanks fer bringin’ it out fer me,” the man said, his accent heavy. Yorkshire, Viggo knew immediately. Not that he had ever heard of the accent spoken before this, but there was much that clips could do to make up for one person’s lack of knowledge.

Cocking his head to the side, Viggo blinked and instinctively took a step back, his shoulders tensing. Not too much; just enough to give the impression of someone with problems with personal space.

But it seemed that the stranger didn’t take the message. He got even closer, wrapping an arm around Viggo’s chest as he slapped him on the back.

“Thanks, man.” He leaned in, and in a quick whisper, spoke in perfect Spanish, far too quick for any of the Russian policemen to catch:

“Something happened and they are being asses about tourists travelling alone. Be a mate, won’t you?”

Tourists travelling alone. Viggo smiled and slapped him right back on the shoulders.

“I was wondering where you went,” he said. Pulling away from him, he gave the police a grin. “Yeah, he’s travelling with me. We’ve known each other for years.”

***

The bar was part of the hotel, and Viggo shoved his touchy-feely blond into his room and closed the door behind him. The police were still thundering outside, and he listened for a while before he took the last swallow of his coffee.

“Crimea’s not a very nice vacation spot,” he said mildly.

The stranger gave him a brief grin, an expression that lit up his entire face, “Tell me about it.” He held out his hand. “Sean, by the way.”

“Viggo,” he took the hand and shook it. “So what are you doing here?”

“Tour of Europe,” Sean shrugged. He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a pack, flipping the top open and offering it to Viggo. “At the very least, I owe ya one of these. So are ya really travellin’ alone? I ain’t interruptin’ anythin’?”

“Just my morning caffeine,” Viggo drawled. He leaned against the wall as he plucked out a stick, digging into his pockets for his lighter. Before he could find it, Sean leaned forward and snapped the flame of his own lighter on. Viggo looked at him over the wavering light as he lit it, taking a long drag.

“So how did you figure out that I can speak Spanish?”

“Don’t know,” Sean lit up his own, the smoke curling around his lips. Gorgeous, Viggo decided, and smiled to himself. “I was guessin’.”

“Good guess,” Viggo replied. Downstairs, the police were making an absolute racket, making demands in Russian and broken English both. Viggo listened for a moment before he cracked another smile. “Now I’m guessing that we have to stay in this room for a while.”

Sean made an agreeing noise, wincing slightly at the sound of another shout from below. He walked past Viggo into the bedroom area of the suite. Viggo followed him, finding it strangely, entirely fine with this stranger making the place entirely his own. He arrived at the bedroom just in time to see Sean kicking close the door of the minibar, the large bottle of Russian vodka held between his fingers.

“’otel tradition ta keep at least some good alcohol in the bar,” he dropped the bottle on a table before stubbing his cigarette out. “Ya want some?”

“It’s mid-morning,” Viggo pointed out, but he was already moving forward. It wasn’t as if they had much else to do; if they started talking, then he would have to lie about what he did for a living, why he was in Crimea, and what he might have to do with the police being in such a state of panic. One of the most important things he learned from his job was to not offer information when it wasn’t strictly necessary.

He grabbed the two glasses that the hotel offered and placed them in front of Sean. “I’ve never been much for keeping with conventions,” he commented. Two words in and he was breaking the rule that he just reminded himself of five seconds ago.

“Yeah? That so?” Sean popped the cap of the bottle, pouring the alcohol in. “Which country’s conventions?”

Viggo’s hand paused in the middle of picking up a glass. “What do you mean?”

“Said I was takin’ a tour ‘round Europe, didn’t I?” Sean smirked. “Thin’ I learned from it was people ‘ave a damn different interpretation of what’s appropriate even across the borders.” He paused, “It’s me subtle way o’ askin’ where yer from.”

“My accent didn’t give me away?” Viggo raised an eyebrow, sipping at the vodka. It was cold and smooth, sliding down his throat easily. He wondered why people drink it on a regular basis, but he learned the hard way that drinking whiskey in the Crimea was a terrible idea.

“America’s a big place, and I ain’t that good at accents.”

Viggo laughed. He saluted Sean with his glass, “Born in New York, but I’m living in Los Angeles now.” There he went, breaking that rule again. He would blame the alcohol, but he didn’t get drunk that easily. It must be the company.

“City of the Angels, eh?” Sean downed his entire glass.

“Most like City of the Assholes, really,” Viggo shrugged. “What about you?”

“London.”

Sean put down his glass. He stepped forward, a hand reaching out to wrap around Viggo’s wrist. Viggo paused, lifting his head, and for the first time he realised that Sean’s eyes were green. Not the kind of emerald green that were pontificated over in books, but softer, lighter, and he gave the man a lopsided grin before he pulled that hand forward, dragging Sean closer so he could take another sip of the vodka.

“Tell me if I’m makin’ an arse of meself,” Sean murmured, his voice so quiet and his breath so hot that Viggo felt the words more than he heard them. Viggo didn’t move, instead keeping himself still as Sean leaned forward, his lips pressing against Viggo’s in a soft, chaste kiss.

“You’re not,” Viggo said, the words almost wholly muffled against Sean’s mouth. But it didn’t matter in the slightest, because he opened his mouth to speak and Sean’s tongue was already darting in, licking against his teeth. The touch made him shudder, his hand opening. He barely heard the crash of the glass as it spilled vodka and shards everywhere, because he was too busy kissing back, his now-freed hand slipping into Sean’s hair, keeping his head still.

They pulled away from each other simultaneously, their noses brushing each other before they kissed again, just as hungrily as the first time. Viggo sighed, his hands moving down Sean’s shoulders to curve around his sides and digging his fingers into the waistband of his jeans. Clenching around the belt hoops, nudging Sean backwards and hearing his shoes crunch against the glass on the floor as he pushed him towards the bed.

Crimea was a terrible place for a vacation, but Viggo thought that he would learn to like this state, if Sean was in it.

***

Sean woke up to the feel of cold wind against his back. His eyes snapped open immediately, all traces of sleep fading from his mind as he looked at the empty space beside him on the bed. It was odd that Viggo could actually get out of bed and leave the room without him noticing, but Sean had always slept sounder after a hard workout. He stretched upwards, the sheets slipping completely from his body as he took in the various aches that he had accumulated from last night.

A hard workout was one way to put it. Shame that Viggo had already left; he would love to have an encore this morning, preferably from the other side.

As if on cue, there was the sound of swearing at the door, shuffling and kicking from a now-familiar voice and accent. Sean grinned, standing up and walking over to open the thing, and he blinked at the sight of Viggo standing in the hallway, dressed in a t-shirt and Sean’s jeans, a tray in his hand.

“I was going to get you breakfast in bed,” Viggo drawled, his eyes travelling up and down Sean’s completely naked body. Sean let him; it wasn’t as if it was that he hadn’t seen it all from the morning on. “But you’re already awake.”

“It ain’t breakfast if it’s in the damn middle of the night,” Sean shot back, plucking the tray from Viggo’s hands. He could smell coffee already, and he chuckled. “Ya gonna keep me up all night wi’ this stuff?”

“I have plans for the night, yeah,” Viggo said, nudging Sean’s hip with his own as they walked back to the bedroom. “But they have nothing to do with coffee.”

Sean dropped the tray on the bed, picking up a sandwich and biting down on it. He washed it down with a gulp of coffee, tipping his head back and feeling the heat crawl down his throat.

“Ain’t nothin’ that can top a good cuppa, but good coffee’s close,” he grinned, saluting Viggo with the cup.

Viggo snorted, sipping at his own as he sat down on the bed next to Sean. “I had to fly down to Brazil for the beans because room service doesn’t understand English and I don’t understand Russian,” he shrugged. Sean put the coffee cup down, finished the sandwich, and cocked his head slightly.

Reaching out, his hands hooked over the waistband of his jeans on Viggo’s hip, plucking open the first button. Viggo’s breath hitched as he arched forward, and the sound of the lowering zipper was loud in the room.

“Ya look good in me clothes,” Sean murmured.

“Yeah?” Viggo smirked, taking another sip of his coffee. “You look good without any.”

Sean snorted, plucking the coffee cup out of Viggo’s hands and dropping it over the side of the bed. The ceramic crashed into little pieces and that was more work for room service, but right now Sean didn’t care, reaching forward and cupping his hand firmly against the back of Viggo’s neck.

“Where ya learned yer pickup lines from? Some bunch of university freshmen?”

“Stanford university freshmen,” Viggo corrected, and Sean gave a second of impressed silence before he kissed him again.

Viggo tasted like coffee again, and Sean swept his tongue over his mouth, over and over, trying to find the elusive taste of Viggo himself, untainted.

Oh, but he knew he was in trouble.

***

There was a circus with a fair that just set up shop less than ten minutes’ drive away from their hotels. Perhaps there was something to be said about Crimea being a vacation spot after all.

It was probably the most cliché thing in the world, but they were different enough from the couples walking down the streets that there was enough excuse for it. Viggo’s arm was slung around Sean’s shoulders, toeing the line already but Viggo was careful to not show too much affection. He was not a stupid man, no matter how he acted with Sean. Funny; he was supposed to be home from his assignment already, but Sean still had further north to go with his tour, and Viggo followed him.

“C’mon, man,” Sean tugged at his arm. “There’s a shootin’ game.” He gave Viggo a wide grin, the small crinkles at his eyes showing. “Let’s see if I can get ya an obnoxiously huge toy.”

“Customs will probably try to take it apart to see if we’re hiding bombs in it,” Viggo drawled in reply, but he let Sean tug him over. He raised his eyebrow at the huge shotgun offered. “You’re compensating for something?”

“Real funny, for ya sayin’ that,” Sean snorted. He shouldered the gun, and Viggo couldn’t help but notice that his grip was perfect and he had such ease with the weapon. Sean set his eye into the sight and fired. One, two, three, four, five all down the row of bottles.

Viggo whistled lowly.

The stall owner shot the two of them a dirty look before he took the gun from Sean’s hand and checked it over again. Viggo dug his hand into his pockets for the money, handing it over and receiving an absolutely huge plush polar bear in return. He stared at it.

Sean chuckled, reaching out and ruffling the head of the bear’s head. He looked at the thing then at Viggo, smirking, “It suits you, you know.”

Holding the plush under its forelegs, Viggo hoisted it upwards until it was draped over Sean’s head like a particularly fluffy cape. Sean’s eyes rolled upwards, trying to see what the bear looked like on top of his hair, and Viggo couldn’t help but raise his camera and take a picture.

“For posterity,” he said, grinning widely. There was something in Sean’s eyes in that one moment, a sudden narrowing, but it was gone so quickly that Viggo wondered if it was just a reflection of the sun from the flash. His eyes weren’t easily fooled, but he had been punched in the face enough that he wouldn’t be surprised that something in his optic receptors went loose.

Still, “Where did you learn to shoot like that?” He widened his grin, “You’re British.”

Sean chuckled, his hands grabbing the front legs of the polar bear to hold it steady on his head as he walked. “Used ta be in the military a long time ago,” he shrugged, draping an arm over Viggo’s shoulders as they meandered down the streets. “I still remember this. Makes fer a good party trick wi’ fake guns.” He leaned in, flirting with danger just as his lips caressed the edge of Viggo’s ear.

“I can protect ya from the big bad Russians any time, pansy Yank.”

“Oh, yeah?” Viggo pulled away for a moment. His eyes flickered around him, catching sight of a stall in a distance. He shook his head, tutting softly under his tongue, “It’s not very wise to make conclusions based on incomplete assumptions, Sean.”

The knives in front of the stall were made of real metal, but completely blunt. The balance was entirely wrong—the blades were too heavy—but Viggo had been doing this for a long time. Checking to see that Sean was watching avidly, Viggo shoved a handful of money at the stall owner before he aimed. One, two, three knives all aimed into the hearts of the little straw puppets, and landing. If they were at all real, they would all be dead. As it was, the muffled thud of the dolls falling over was rather anticlimactic.

Sean whistled lowly behind him.

“Well, I didn’t exactly expect that to work,” he threw the words out flippantly as he pointed to an oversized penguin to match Sean’s polar bear. He shoved it under his arm.

“Yeah?” Sean cocked his head to the side. “Why’s that?”

“I can’t throw shit worth a damn most of the time,” Viggo lied, shrugging. It was easy, the words coming to his tongue on automatic. “I was actually hoping that you’d see how helpless I really am and keep your promise,” he winked.

Sean stared at him before he threw his head back and laughed, a rich, deep sound that had pleasure travel from the back of Viggo’s neck all the way down to his groin. That was a completely inappropriate reaction to have in public in Crimea, and Viggo took a deep breath and slung his arm around Sean’s shoulder again, nearly dislodging the polar bear. Sean’s body felt hot and tense beside him, and he could feel rough fingers against his neck.

“Time ta go back, mate,” Sean murmured.

Viggo could only nod.

***

London, England, some years minus some months ago



“Sean.”

Sean pulled away from where he was going through the profile of his latest target. Asian male, early fifties, making a stop-off point at Heathrow tomorrow and staying in the penthouse suite in the Hilton. He tapped his fingers against the table for a moment before he let his mind continue going through possibilities while he addressed his personal assistant.

“Yes, Dom?”

Dom placed a file in front of him.

“The head’s approved of your transfer,” Dom said. “You just have to pack, book your ticket, and report to the Los Angeles office in a week.” He paused, and then shoved his hands into his pockets, “You know, you can actually ask him to move over here. You can actually get married here.”

Sean snorted. “Marriage’s all nice and good fer broads, but not fer blokes,” he reached out and ruffled Dom’s hair gently. “’sides, Ian’s been on me arse ta move ta America fer years already. More game there, not enough people good enough ta keep up the standard, whatever.”

“You are the best,” Dom pointed out. Sean only shrugged, turning back to his screen. He stroked a single finger up the side of the monitor, moving to the next page with all the details about his security.

“Uh, Sean?”

Wait, Dom was still there. Sean blinked, turning back to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll miss you,” Dom said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to run a background check on this guy? It’ll just take two minutes. We’ve recently even updated our software so I can get you the restaurants he frequents, the kind of books he likes, and even how he takes his coffee. Seriously, Sean. Two minutes.”

Sean grinned, reaching out to clap Dom on the shoulder.

“I’d rather ask ‘im meself. But talkin’ of coffee, can ya get me another cup? I ran out.”

Dom nodded and scuttled away. Nice kid, a bit too overeager but almost every single one of them was like that when they started. Sean lit up a cigarette as he continued to read through the files.

Well, it seemed like he would have to break out his Hilton Hotel staff uniform again. Good thing the target was a snob; they never notice the staff.

He would call Viggo after the job to tell him to get his room and his bed ready.

***

Los Angeles, USA, around the same time


Viggo ducked.

Vincent’s fist crashed into the space where his face had been two seconds ago, but Viggo didn’t even notice. He was already moving, one hand against the floor as he swept out his legs, aiming to kick out Vincent’s ankles. He managed one, but his sparring partner had gotten faster lately, and Vincent’s backhand slammed into his jaw.

“Is that any way to congratulate a friend?” Viggo turned his head and spat onto the ground. He danced back a few steps, tongue probing at his teeth to check that they hadn’t been loosened.

“I was hoping a hard enough hit will put your brains where they are supposed to be,” Vincent said dryly. He swung at Viggo again, but Viggo was ready this time, blocking with one arm while the other tried to slam into Vincent’s chest. But Vincent moved back at the last instant, and Viggo only felt the edge of his shirt brush against his own bruised knuckles.

“How long have you known this guy? Two weeks? And you just asked him to move across the ocean to live with you. You’re fucking crazy.”

“I’m not,” Viggo tapped the side of his head. “Brains and sanity are all still in. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you really?” Vincent stared at him for a moment, shaking his head. He picked up a towel and slung it over his shoulders. “I can’t say that I know what you’re doing. Do a goddamn background check, at least. For my sanity’s sake?”

“I asked him. He’s in architecture. A pretty big, international firm; that’s why he can transfer here,” Viggo shrugged. “We’re pretty equal when it comes to finances.”

“Viggo,” Vincent walked towards him, his hands heavy on his friend’s shoulders. “People lie. That’s what background checks are for. If your mark tells you that he’s actually a good person and totally didn’t sell weapons to bad people, you’re not going to believe him, are you?”

“Sean’s not a mark,” Viggo pointed out.

“You’re missing the damn point on purpose,” Vincent sighed. He stepped back, his hands rubbing the towel through his hair vigorously. “Forget it. I’m not going to argue against your funeral.”

Viggo blinked, pausing halfway through wiping sweat off of his face. “That’s not how you use that expression,” he commented mildly.

Vincent just gave him a middle finger before he left the gym. Viggo stared at him before he shrugged to himself and headed for the showers.

***

Los Angeles, USA, some years later (otherwise known as: now


Viggo grabbed the paper as the boy threw it, fingers shifting so that he didn’t burn the plastic with the burning tip of his cigarette.

“Nice catch.”

He looked up to see the guy opposite bend down to pick up his own paper. Christopher or Christian Slater, or something of that sort.

“Thanks.”

Viggo should probably get to know his neighbours better, but in a neighbourhood like this, it was less boring to watch paint dry. Anyone who said that Los Angeles had interesting people obviously had watched too many movies.

Sean was in the kitchen making tea. Viggo tossed the paper at him, turning around and grabbing his coffee from the machine that he had started before he went out.

“Looks like there’s a storm coming,” he commented idly.

Sean snorted. “’ope it fuckin’ stays.” Even so many years, his accent hadn’t changed a single whit—Sean was still the same Yorkshire man as the one who met Viggo in Crimea all those years ago. “This place’s a desert.”

Still British too. Viggo lifted his cup and drank a sip of coffee, hiding his grimace behind porcelain. Man could speak Spanish fluently, but he couldn’t be bothered to speak his own native language like proper human being. Whenever they went out, someone would comment on how charming it was, but Viggo had first-hand knowledge on how annoying it could be.

“Grahams down the street are ‘aving a party tonight,” Sean said after a long moment of silence between them. His head was behind the paper. “Ya want ta go?”

“I probably have to work overtime,” Viggo sighed as he stood up, starting to meander out of the door. “Deadlines are looming and the printers are having kittens.”

Sean nodded, waving a hand. He picked up Viggo’s cup and his own, dumping both of them into the dishwasher. “Yeah, same. ‘Cept it’s me bosses who think we shit design like they shit their words. But if I’m ‘ome early and ya don’t see me, I’m probably in the garden.”

Viggo barely heard him, already moving out to his little cottage just off the main house. He took off his shoes as he went in. It wasn’t any bigger than a room, really, and so cluttered with his art materials and beleaguered desktop. There was just one big empty space in the centre. Sean had asked about it once—Viggo said that the space had the best light, and he kept it clear so he could move whatever canvas he wanted onto it whenever he wanted.

That wasn’t, strictly, untrue.

He plucked a cloth off the top of the monitor before he dropped down on the chair. His toes slipped underneath the loose floorboard towards his right, flipping it over. Without even having to look, he turned the little knob in its exact sequence.

The motor was always quiet. Floorboards folded into staircases down to his basement hideout. Viggo stretched as he left the chair and jogged downwards. This place was his pride and joy—three walls filled with knives of every shape, size and use. He grabbed his favourites—a stiletto thin enough to slip into a tiny pocket in his pant leg, a hunter’s knife to be strapped onto his thigh, and a switchblade with a wickedly sharp edge that masqueraded as a pen. That went into his shirt pocket. Viggo whistled tunelessly under his breath as he swung around, looking at the last remaining wall. Hiding just behind the staircase is his storehouse of guns—not a lot of them, because he preferred the finesse of knives. He grabbed his usual pistol, checking the magazines and grabbing two more off the drawers.

Idly, he wondered if Sean had ever seen such a variety of weapons in the military armoury. He would like to bring him down here and show it to him, one day—and he dismissed the thought immediately. People in his line of work could marry civilians, but bringing them into the business was always a stupid idea.

*

Sean kicked the door of the garden shed shut behind him, his hands busy with two watering cans that he had just used on the herb pots. He yawned slightly—it was too damn early in the morning—before he dropped the things onto the floor.

There was a shelf that reached from ceiling to floor on one wall; that was where he kept the plants that required extra attention. Well, that was part of the reason anyway. Sean reached out, sliding the glass door to the side as he stroked along the stem of the only fake plant within the whole house. He snapped off a particular leaf, tapped the tip of another one, and twisted a third a full three-sixty degrees.

He stepped backwards, hip leaning against the table. The plants moved backwards before the shelf turned a one-eighty degrees, showing a whole wall of guns made of both metals and ceramics—one never knew when one had to kill someone in the airport itself—a half dozen functional knives, and six panels that ran along the ground for some of his more unique weapons.

It hadn’t taken very long for him to ask for his own garden the moment he moved in, and what garden was without a shed? Sean had asked an old friend of his for a favour, and the result was this shelf. He didn’t linger over it very long, just grabbing his usual handgun. He moved to change it back, but stopped. Reaching down, he slid back a wooden panel and grabbed the specially-reinforced piano wire coils and slipped down into his pocket.

He checked the clock as he flipped the switch. The shelf slid back into place soundlessly.

Damn, he was going to be late.

***

Los Angeles, USA, some years ago


“You didn’t bring a lot over,” Viggo observed.

Sean had only two duffel bags slung over one shoulder. He tipped his sunglasses down and grinned at Viggo, a cheeky little smile that had Viggo’s breath hitching in his throat.

“Most of me stuff went ta me office,” he said. “Not clothes, but models, computers, expensive shite. Not really a good idea ta bring wi’ me through checkout, ya know?” He paused, then shrugged a little. “Me books and garden tools too. Chucked it wi’ the rest and let the bosses pay fer the shippin’.”

Viggo raised an eyebrow, tilting his head backwards to meet Sean’s gaze.

“Garden tools?” He stepped backwards.

Sean stepped into the house, whistling lowly under his breath. He dropped the bags onto the ground, hands on his hips as he looked around himself. “Yeah. I like ‘aving me a garden ta tinker wi’ whenever I’m free. Ya tol’ me ya got a big backyard.” Another flash of that brilliant smile. “It’s mine now.”

It was odd, and dangerous, and he would pay for it someday, but Viggo couldn’t help the warmth that flooded through him at the thought of Sean setting down plants in his backyard. Setting down roots. They had barely known each other for two months and Sean had already moved in with him across the damn ocean, but somehow... the thought of Sean making Viggo’s home his own, turning up the soil in his backyard and turning it into a proper garden... Viggo’s hands found Sean’s hair almost without his mind’s consent, burying his fingers into bright golden strands.

“Yours,” he murmured, leaning in.

“Like ya are?” Sean asked, closing the distance between them to brush his lips lightly over Viggo’s.

He made a small, affirmative hum at the back of his throat in reply, his mouth too busy opening to speak.

Sean’s hand was warm on the back of his neck.

***

Same place, few miles out, some years later


It was strange for a man with an unconventional job to keep to conventional hours, but Viggo figured that it was probably part of capitalism.

He ground out his cigarette on the pavement as he pulled on a pair of gloves. The hotel’s bar was deserted at this time in the morning and the waiter gave him an odd look when he asked for a whiskey. Viggo took the glass, sipping it before he wandered towards the hotel lift. He pressed the fifty-third floor, cracking his neck slightly and stretching out his fingers.

There were some men who definitely kept to unconventional hours.

The room door was left unlocked. Even from outside, through several thick walls, he could hear the sound of sex; specifically, of one man’s rapid breaths and groans. Disgusting.

Pushing the door open, he toed off his shoes and wandered in, locking it behind him. Right outside the bedroom door of the suite, he bent down and removed the stiletto dagger. He put the whiskey glass beside the door.

He pushed open the door.

The target was an old, fat man. His profile said that he was some sort of a big-shot drug dealer from another country, coming to America for his vacation; it was probably true, but even if it didn’t, he didn’t care. Faintly, Viggo wondered why he didn’t go to Las Vegas instead—then someone else would take care of him—but he supposed the allure of possibly fucking movie stars probably did it for him. Despite what Oscar Wilde said, sometimes temptation killed.

He was noticed. The target paused in his rapid-fire thrusting, and Viggo thanked God that his large, overhanging belly hid his cock from sight. He still hadn’t had breakfast.

“Hey, what are you doing—”

There it was, the moment he was waiting for. Viggo darted forward, one hand against the target’s chin, holding his mouth open, the other sliding the stiletto, butter-smooth, up his palate, past his nose, and right into his brain. The fat man tried to struggle and pull his head back, and Viggo let him, angling his hand so that the movement slicing the cut wider inside without widening the first incision.

Then he slipped the dagger out and let the corpse drop onto the bed.

Turning around, he went to the door and nudged it open, grabbing the glass. He held it out to the girl still on the bed, keeping his eyes firmly on her face.

“God,” Ariadna said, taking the whiskey and draining it. Her hair was rumpled and falling all over her face, and her lips were smudged red from lipstick. “Took you long enough.”

“Commute was a killer,” Viggo countered lightly. The target was now face-up, cock limp and eyes rolled back in his head. It wasn’t an attractive look.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Did anyone see you?”

“Just the bartender; he probably dismissed me as an alcoholic,” he shrugged.

Ariadna snorted, entirely unladylike. She picked up her clothes from the floor and slipped back into them. Her eyes flickered towards his feet, “Where are your shoes?”

“At the door. No, I’m not going to forget them again.”

She snorted, pulling the belt of her coat tight and neatening the fingers of her silk gloves. From one of her pockets, she took out two wet wipes. One she held out to Viggo to clean his stiletto with, and the other she used to pull the condom from the target’s cock, wrapping it with a grimace.

Viggo held the door open for her. “Shall we?”

“Let’s go.”

***

Los Angeles, USA, some years ago


The two of them stumbled through the threshold of the bedroom, their arms around each other. Viggo’s breath was hot against Sean’s skin, making him moan quietly and tip his head back. A few weeks of knowing each other and now he was showing his throat. Sean’s heart rate picked up involuntarily, thundering in his ears from the danger of it. He knew exactly how easy it was for Viggo to just twist his collar right now and choke his breath from his throat.

His hands moved upwards, smoothing Viggo’s shirt and feeling his strong, flat stomach beneath his fingers. Fingers caressed collarbones, wound around to the back until they were linked behind Viggo’s neck, his thumbs stroking against his throat, up and down and up again, feeling the skin trembling beneath his touch. Sean could just tighten his grip now and snap his neck; he wondered if Viggo knew how easy it would be.

Probably not. Civilians never knew, and that always made Sean’s job so much easier.

But he wasn’t thinking about his job right now. He was kissing Viggo, feeling his heat against his skin, reminding him of the true reason why he finally caved in to Ian’s command to move to Los Angeles. It wasn’t for the pay raise, it wasn’t for the changes in the jobs he would get. It was for this—just the feel of Viggo’s skin beneath his own, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against Sean’s ribs, his breath hot against his skin.

Sean flattened his hands against those broad shoulders and shoved Viggo down to his own bed.

“Oof.”

Viggo’s back hit the bed, but he was grinning still. His fingers hooked around the knot of Sean’s tie, dragging him down. Sean put up a resistance, trying to take a step back just so he could feel Viggo’s strength. So strong, as strong as he was himself. Sean couldn’t help the hitch in his breath at the thought—that Viggo was strong and there was probably no way that Sean could intimidate him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Viggo breathed. His fingers traced the side of Sean’s face, curling around his ears to rub against the slightly-pointed tip. Sean leaned against the touch, sighing quietly, his hands flattening out against Viggo’s chest as he lifted the hem of his shirt. Viggo arched up against the bed to help, the cloth slipping off his arms. Sean tossed it over his shoulder, uncaring of where it landed.

There were scars on his skin. Sean’s fingers traced against one, the jagged line at his hip. He knew scars like that; they came from knives, and stitches. Lifting his eyes to catch Viggo’s gaze, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth against old wound, licking at the skin carefully, as if he was trying to find out where the scar tissues end by touch alone.

“Was a kid in the seventies and eighties,” Viggo murmured deep in his throat. “I got into a lot of scraps.”

Sean hummed quietly under his breath, more interested in the taste of salt on Viggo’s skin than in the words he was saying. He was distracted, however, when Viggo started nudging at him, urging him to lean back before callused fingers pulled his tie loose and let it fall onto the bed. Sean leaned back, grinning as he let Viggo take off his shirt, only helping to get the cloth off of his arms.

He dropped the shirt off the side of the bed, leaning forward to kiss Viggo again—but he stopped halfway through, his gaze falling onto the tie on the bed. Picking it up, he grinned to himself. They should probably talk about this first, but Sean had always liked springing surprises on people.

***

Same place, few miles out in the other direction, some years later


Sean dug his hands into his hair and shook out the strands, letting the gold fall all over his face. They should probably have given this assignment to someone else, someone prettier, like Elijah or Ewan, but the client had asked for a special request—something that Sean was particularly good at. He couldn’t complain, really—it made things far more interesting, something that wasn’t just another sniping job from afar that had gotten boring after the first few times.

He stepped out of the cab. The bar looked as seedy outside as it surely was inside, and Sean lit up a cigarette. He took a long drag of it before he started meandering to the alleyway at the side, making his legs trip over each other like he was one of the hundred of hungover drunks in this place. But there were a couple of beefy men standing by the side door, and Sean straightened up the moment they could see him.

“I believe that there’s a guest waiting for me,” he said, giving his voice a subtle French inflection and killing his original accent entirely. He smiled crookedly at the guards, leaning his weight on one leg as he spread his hands out, showing his fingers. Long fingers; the kind of fingers a pianist would have.

The guards looked at each other before they stared at him. Sean lifted his arms and let them pat him down. When they paused at his coat pockets, Sean shrugged and took out the coil of piano wire, letting them look at it.

“I bring my own all the time. Just in case,” he smirked, winking. The men remained stone-faced, but they stood back and opened the door.

“Go straight upstairs. No funny business; we’ll be watching.”

Sean nodded at them, giving them another flash of a grin before he walked in. All the way in, straight up the stairs and no detours, just like the guards had said. Amateurs, really, the two of them. He resisted the urge to whistle.

The room upstairs was beautifully furnished. Dark wood and velvet everywhere with reproductions of paintings at least a few hundred years old—clearly built by a man who liked pretending that he was nobility. At the very centre of the room was a huge grand piano, polished to a dark shine and its keys bright white against the opened lid.

It was a pity that the sounds coming from the piano was so utterly shite.

Sean let his footsteps echo around the room as he walked forward slowly, as if hesitant. He reached out, his hand curled above the keys before he pressed down against one.

There was suddenly a hand right above his wrist, nearly tight enough to bruise. Sean barely restrained himself from breaking it.

“Who the hell are you?” the man growled. He had a fierce face with thick brows and a thicker beard, though the latter couldn’t hide the weak, pointed chin beneath. Sean cocked his head, then lower his eyes.

“I’m the pianist that you hired, sir,” he said.

“Thought I asked for a pretty one.”

Sean gave him a weak smile, “So you did.”

His target let go of his hand and grabbed onto his wrist, pulling him forward. Sean let him twist his head from side to side, looking at him from every possible angle while still sitting down, before the man grunted and let go.

“You’ll do well enough. Now sit down.”

“I teach better standing,” Sean demurred. He reached out and splayed out his fingers, his thumb hovering over C. “Put your fingers like this.”

Pretention of kingship or not, the man was obedient. He followed Sean’s directions as he taught him how to play by following his fingers placed above the keys. It was a simple song, so easy that it could be played with one hand.

“Hey, what do I do with my other hand?” the man squinted at him.

“Well,” Sean said, as if considering. His hand shot forward, slamming it over the target’s mouth. The coil he was holding in his palm unravelled for a moment before he caught one end with his right hand, pulling it to the side. He grabbed the other side with his left hand, pulling tight immediately and strangling any sound that the target might make.

“If you’re me,” he continued speaking as if he wasn’t pulling the piano wire tight, the metal digging into his skin and choking him. He dragged the man backwards until he was balancing only on two legs of the chair. The target’s fingers were bloody from scrabbling at the wire—they always did that, and it was rather amusing.

When the idiot stopped twitching, Sean let go, “That’s what you do with your left hand.”

He leaned forward and tapped a few piano keys randomly with his still-gloved hands. The sudden discordant sounds made him smile, and he laid the cloth neatly on top before he closed the lid. The corpse fell forward, the head thudding softly, while Sean deftly tied a knot around his throat with the wire. Then he climbed up the bench, swinging the other end upwards towards the ceiling beam, grabbing onto it and pulling until the corpse was swinging in the air. He knotted the wire.

It was a shame, really, that the blood from the torn fingertips would seep into the wood of the piano. But that was a hazard of the job. Sean strode towards the window—grabbing a bottle of wind on his way—and climbed out of it, landing softly in the alley opposite of where he had came. He popped the cap of the bottle and pretended to take a swig. With just that move, he became just another alcoholic looking for a cab to go home after a night of sleeping in the alley. Nothing special.

By the time the body was discovered, he was already long gone.

***

Los Angeles, USA, some years before


Sean pulled the knot tight against Viggo’s wrists. The silk was soft and flexible, and he left just enough wriggle room for blood circulation to not be cut off.

“Ya alrigh’ there?” he murmured, fingers doing a slow crawl down Viggo’s arm and delighting in the small shiver.

“Yeah,” Viggo whispered. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Sean grinned; this was going much better than he had first thought. He leaned down and kissed Viggo, their mouths sliding against each other. His hands slid down Viggo’s body, feeling the scars, the texture so interesting against his skin.

“Come on, Sean,” Viggo breathed, his words half-muffled against Sean’s skin. “Are you going to keep me waiting?”

“Maybe,” Sean said, and he couldn’t help but grin. His hair was falling into his eyes, but he didn’t bother brushing it away—the little twitches of Viggo’s hands that he noticed out of the corner of his sight was well-worth the minor irritation. “Ya look damn good like this.”

Viggo hummed low in his throat, arching his body up. His foot slid up Sean’s calf, his rough heel a pleasant scrape—but Sean leaned back and grabbed it, kissing against the tip of the big toe.

“Stop cheatin’, ya wanker. ‘old still.”

“If you start moving, I don’t have to try to hurry you.”

“Cheeky bugger,” Sean snorted. He pecked a small kiss on the dimple on Viggo’s chin, moving down and planting little kisses all the way. Viggo’s cock looked red and flushed, and Sean wrapped his mouth around it, tasting the satiny, salty skin before he took him all the way into his throat. Viggo’s hips jerked upwards as he gasped, but Sean slammed them back down, refusing to let him move while he slowly tasted every single inch of Viggo’s erection.

“You’re trying to kill me, I swear,” Viggo groaned. Sean only chuckled, knowing the vibrations of the sound would make Viggo shake again—and it did, the feel of crawling all the way up his spine. Sean moaned softly before he pulled away, grinning up at Viggo.

“If I am, ya’d know. I’d be tryin’ a lot ‘arder than this.”

He unfolded his legs, straddling the other man’s thighs and reaching out towards the nightstand. Viggo tried to buck him off, but Sean placed a hand hard against his stomach, holding him still as he fished the lube and condom out.

“Keep movin’ and I’ll stop,” he threatened. It was an empty threat, because he knew that he couldn’t possibly stop right now, but Viggo didn’t know that. He stopped moving, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe, and Sean gave him another wide grin before he lifted himself up slightly, knees sinking into the mattress. He snapped the lube bottle open, pouring a good amount onto his fingers before he tossed his head back and slid a finger into himself.

“Fuck,” Viggo said, raw and rough.

“Good guess.”

He was quick with himself; he always liked the burn of the stretch, especially when it had been sometimes since he had let anyone inside him. Soon three fingers were pushing in and out of his hole easily, and Sean moaned low in his throat at the burning look in Viggo’s eyes, the sheer want that threatened to set Sean on fire with just a look.

“Inside, inside, c’mon, Sean, c’mon,” Viggo’s hips were twitching with aborted thrusts upwards, Sean’s thighs around his own keeping him down. His pants matched Sean’s and Sean looked at him for a moment, taking in the sight of the flushed cheeks and the red, bite-swollen lips. He grabbed a condom packet and tore it open with his teeth.

“Patience,” he teased, rolling the thing down. His fingers curled around the base gently before stroking upwards, curling around the head, watching as precome coat the inside of the condom. Viggo threw his head back, the skin of his exposed throat trembling with his groan.

“I’m going to fucking kill you if you don’t—Christ!” Viggo’s entire body jerked as Sean slid down. Sean wasn’t unaffected either, feeling Viggo’s cock sliding inside, opening him up with a burn that made his breath shake. He slammed his hand down on Viggo’s stomach, holding him down and completely still.

“Threatening someone who has yer cock up ‘is arse is bad manners, Vig,” Sean chided, his voice shaky. He laughed at his own words as he lifted up and slammed down again, and again, and again, shifting a little with each thrust until—there, just there, the sudden shock of electricity up his spine had him crying out.

“Let me, let me, God, Sean, please, just let me—” Viggo’s eyes were wild by now, his arms straining against Sean’s tie. It could never be worn again, but right now, Sean didn’t particularly care. He wanted—

“Say that again,” he gasped out. He sank all the way down and stopped there, his hand starting to stroke his own cock. “Say it. Say it, Vig.”

Viggo’s eyes went wide. “Say—” he licked his lips, and exhaled shaky and hard. “Christ, Sean. Please,” the word was barely audible, mangled by pants. Viggo took a deep breath. “Please, please, God, please let me fuck you, let me touch you. Please. God, please.”

It was such a goddamn rush. Sean inhaled and stilled his hand on his cock—he was going to come if he continued—and he pulled himself up and sank down again, slowly, deliberately missing the spot inside. Not yet. Not just yet.

“Not enough, Vig. Ya gotta try ‘arder.” He gave Viggo a shaky little grin as he shoved himself upwards and sank back down slowly, his hands pinning Viggo down and refusing to let his hips speed up the process. “C’mon, man.”

“You’re a fucking bastard,” Viggo breathed. “Please, just- please, God, you look so goddamn beautiful, Sean. I wish you can see yourself right now. I want to touch you, every inch of you. Mark you until no one will ever have you again. I want to fuck you until you scream. Please, Sean. Please, please, God, just let me- please! Sean!”

It must be his writing, Sean thought fuzzily. Long practice. There was no other reason how Viggo could be so eloquent right now. Sean knew he wouldn’t be; knew that he wasn’t right now. But he didn’t need to.

“More.”

“Want you, want you, want you so fucking bad. Please, please,” Viggo was growing louder and louder with each word, his voice reverberating against the walls and surrounding Sean with the sound of his begging. Sean shook all over, his body trembling hard. Viggo’s chest expanded under his hand, and the next word was so loud that it was a roar.

“PLEASE!”

Sean reached up to the headboard and pulled the knot loose.

Viggo moved so fast that Sean didn’t even see him. He just knew that he was suddenly on his back, shouting out loud because Viggo was still inside him, the movement making his cock rub up hard against his prostate. Sean grabbed Viggo’s shoulders, nails digging into skin and dragging himself up. But Viggo was faster still, one hand cupping Sean’s face and crashing their lips together, panting against his mouth, barely kissing him—but that was alright, because Viggo’s other hand was on his hip, gripping hard enough to bruise as he pulled back and thrust in hard, slamming into Sean as if the act was the only thing that was keeping him anchored to reality, the only thing that could prove that the world still existed.

Sean’s legs wrapped around Viggo’s hips, hanging on, pulling him close as he was fucked into the mattress, every single thrust making the bed shake. He couldn’t even remember his own name right now, and all that his throat could offer were stuttering, panting breaths and broken pieces of Viggo’s name, repeated over and over as he tried to rock back to Viggo’s hips with every thrust.

Viggo’s mouth was no longer on his own, but he could feel it against his skin, scraping gently. Sean threw his head back and offered his throat when he felt Viggo bite down just as a hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking him in rhythm with the thrusts. Sean arched his back, his legs tightening around Viggo’s hips. In that one moment, he had no idea what noises he made as he came, because his heartbeat was so loud that it drowned out everything else.

When he could see again, Viggo was still hard inside him. Sean blinked open his eyes, panting as the air scraped against his throat. He met Viggo’s gaze before Viggo’s hand came down hard against his forehead, pulling his head back, exposing his throat. Sean felt teeth against the bite mark Viggo had already made, deepening the bruise even further, and he groaned half in pain and half in pleasure, already oversensitised from orgasm.

“Mine,” Viggo said, he was smiling sharply, dangerously. But Sean didn’t have time to think about it because Viggo was moving again. Pushing inside him with sharp, staccato thrusts, deliberately missing his prostate and Sean was damn grateful for it. His hands clutched at Viggo’s arms and he gasped for air when he felt Viggo come inside him, the heat unmistakeable even through the condom.

Sean slid his hand into Viggo’s hair and slowing brought him down to lie on top of him. He turned and brushed their mouths together, barely kissing not out of lack of want but sheer exhaustion.

“Well,” Viggo said, his voice so soft that Sean more felt the word than heard it. “That’s one way to celebrate your moving in, I guess.”

Sean threw his head back and laughed. The mark that Viggo had made on his throat burned at the movement, and Sean laughed even harder, glorying in it.

An entire ocean; nearly nine thousand kilometres. Yeah, he would do it all over again for this man if he had to.

***

You know the drill by now


“Sean?”

“Yeah?” Sean shifted slightly against the cab’s leather seat, making himself comfortable. He stretched out his arms and cracked his neck from side to side. Daragh’s voice was familiar in his ear, though he didn’t expect to hear from him this soon.

“Come back to the office. There’s another job for you; I think you’d want to see this one.”

“An interestin’ one, aye?”

“Definitely.”

“Alrigh’,” Sean said. He smiled slightly. This one was less boring than usual, and he hoped the next one would be the same.

“I’m coming in.”

*

Viggo dug into his pocket for his phone. He shoved it between his ear and his shoulder, balancing it while he drove.

“Yeah?”

“Lucky bastard, you have another assignment,” Vincent said without any preamble. “Come back to the office.”

“Aw, I don’t even get the day off?”

“I don’t think you’d want one once you’ve seen this,” Vincent said, and the seriousness of his voice made Viggo sit up a little straighter. Ariadna gave him a glance, frowning, but Viggo ignored her in favour for the phone and the road.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll see why.”

“Alright,” Viggo exhaled. It was probably some big shot that he had to get rid of again; he hoped it wasn’t a sportsman—there was always a conflict of interests in one way or another with those.

“I’m coming in.”

Los Angeles, some years later. Last one of these, I promise


Sean shrugged off his jacket and dumped it over a chair, unceremoniously dropping down to sit on it. He leaned back, head tilting upwards to look at Daragh. Daragh was a huge guy, towering over Sean even when he was standing. It was a shame that he didn’t much like the hands-on portion of the job, preferring to run errands like these. Idly, Sean wondered how Dom was doing back in England, and if he had been promoted to actual field work yet.

He should ask about it sometime. Not now, though. Now he had a new job, and it was an interesting one, according to Daragh.

“Give it to me,” he drawled.

Daragh snorted. He switched the computer on, and while it loaded, he talked.

“Yer a lucky bastard since it’s nae a civilian,” Daragh’s Irish accent stubbornly refused to fade even after years in Los Angeles. Sean liked him for that reason—well, part of it anyway.

“Military?”

Daragh snorted, “Nae even close. He’s from a rival agency, the one that the big guy up top ‘as some fuckin’ problem with.” He pulled up a chair and dropped down to it while Sean tapped in his password. “Not much older than ye. He’s got a ‘ell of a reputation; said ta be the best that those guys can come up wi’.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Here. American.”

“Another fuckin’ yank,” Sean snorted.

“Yer in Yank country,” Daragh pointed out unnecessary.

Sean shrugged, “Do I get a picture?”

Just then, the computer beeped. Sean said his name for the voice recognition software. Then the picture popped up. He stared at it.

“Is Ian fuckin’ wi’ me?”

He could feel Daragh’s unwavering stare on his skin. Sean’s hands slowly clenched into fists at his side.

“It’s legitimate,” Daragh sighed. “Checked it over at least five times.”

“Then someone else is,” Sean hissed out.

He pushed back his chair, grabbed his coat and file, and stormed out of the door. Daragh watched him go before he turned back to the computer to switch it off.

Viggo Mortensen’s face stared back at him.

“’ope ye know what ye doin’ ‘ere, Ian,” Daragh murmured as he pressed buttons. “Marital fights are always ugly.”

***

“When did you start being David’s errand boy?” Viggo asked Vincent lazily, arms crossed as he leaned against his chair. He resisted the urge to swivel around on it.

“He isn’t David’s errand boy; he’s yours,” Ariadna replied. She came back to the office with him. In all honesty, she wasn’t supposed to, given that she was as freelance as someone could be in their line of work.

Vincent gave the two of them the middle finger before he continued typing on his computer. “I’m Chief Analyst; none of you can do anything without me,” he declared loftily.

“Anyway,” he shook his head. “You’re doing it alone this time, Mortensen. No need for distractions,” he winked at Ariadna, who only raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s a colleague, just from a different agency. He’s good, damn good, so you have your work cut out for you.”

“Is he from that agency that has David’s panties in a bunch?” Ariadna cocked her head. Viggo chuckled under his breath.

“Got it in one,” Vincent nodded. He continued typing. “Anyway, he’s your height—five foot eleven. Lean guy. Specialises in sniper work and ‘special requests’; apparently he’s some kind of jack-of-all-trades.”

“Like me,” Viggo said. He leaned forward; this was getting actually interesting.

“Yeah, like you, Mr. Only-one-who-is-actually-published-even-though-no-one-reads-your-stuff,” Vincent snorted.

“You have a face and a name, or am I supposed to run all over L.A. looking for someone hiding a sniper rifle in a guitar case?”

“He can’t play the guitar.” Vincent slammed down a key. The screens around them flickered, switching on—and Viggo felt the breath knocked out of his chest.

“You know this guy?” Ariadna’s voice asked. Viggo didn’t look at her, already standing up and heading for the door.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Viggo paused. “What’s the reward?”

“Half a million,” Vincent said. He sounded both smug and uncertain at the same time. “From David himself. Chance to stick it to the old man, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Viggo slammed the door from his way out.

Ariadna turned from Viggo’s overdramatic exit to look at the same face staring out at her from the multiple screens again. “Handsome man,” she noted. “Common name, though: Sean Bean.”

Vincent made a small hum of agreement. “Man, I wish I can watch this happen with popcorn with me,” he said. “It’s better than the movies.”

“Why?”

“That’s Viggo’s lover.”

***

It was night when Viggo pulled his car into the driveway that he shared with Sean. ‘Shared’, because a few years ago, Sean had put his name in the deed of the house. Viggo had taken it as a final sign of commitment on his end, that he was willing to truly share his life with this man. It had worked as well as a marriage certificate.

Strange. Commitment always meant opening yourself up to someone, telling them your deepest secrets. An architect, was that it? That worked as well as editor and writer, Viggo supposed. He parked the car. The knives were a solid weight against his legs, but he pulled open the dashboard and grabbed the gun and its magazines anyway.

He remembered their first ‘date’; the way that Sean had handled the toy gun. They still had those soft toys in the house. Viggo checked the magazine in the pistol. Wasn’t there a common saying that secrets would kill relationships? He switched the safety on, turning the gun around in his hand. It was a good thing that he had kept his secrets, though, given that Sean was probably with him for the sake of a cover. No wonder the man seemed bored with him nowadays. He switched the safety back off, and got out of the car. Sean’s car was already in the garage; that made everything easier.

The lights of the living room were switched on. Viggo flipped the gun over and slipped it into his coat pocket before he opened the door.

Sean was smoking on the couch. Years ago, Viggo would have taken that as an invitation to fuck him into the leather, Sean spread open and moaning underneath him as they made love fast and hard or slow and sweet. Nowadays they didn’t even keep lube in random places around the house anymore.

“Hey,” Sean greeted.

“Hey,” Viggo replied. He stayed near

“Funny thing happened to me today,” he said.

“Yeah? Same.”

Sean cocked his head. He smiled slightly, showing the barest hint of teeth—and Viggo wondered how he had never noticed how dangerous that smile could look. That was another common saying, wasn’t it? That you could learn something new about your lover every day.

“Should I go first, or should you?” Sean ground the cigarette into the ashtray.

“You can,” Viggo said. He crossed his arms.

There was suddenly a kitchen knife right beside his head. Sean had moved so fast that Viggo didn’t even see him, but he didn’t need to, because the gun was out and pointed at Sean. Sean, who was leaning over him, his face inches away from Viggo’s own, his hand wrapped around the knife.

“I read your profile,” he murmured. He was speaking in a perfect Los Angeles accent, all hints of Sheffield gone. Ah, that explained a few things.

Sean’s head tilted, almost nuzzling against the gun pressed into his temple. “Knife expert, huh? That explains why you always wanted to carve the turkey yourself.”

“You were never in the military,” Viggo drawled. “That was a real disappointment. I always liked that about you.”

Sean ripped the knife out from the wall, “Ya never went ta Stanford. Went ta some liberal arts college instead. Shame; been braggin’ that ‘bout ya fer ages.”

The blade pressed against Viggo’s throat, cold and sharp. Viggo snapped the safety of the gun back.

“Do you want to take a gamble on which of us is faster, sweetheart?” Viggo grinned, a lopsided thing full of teeth. “My bullet, or your hand?”

“You said you read my profile, darling,” Sean returned the smile, and Viggo nearly shivered. “Why do you think I don’t already have someone with a rifle pointed to your brain, ready to blow your head out?”

“Because ya’d want ta do this yerself,” Viggo imitated Sean’s usual Yorkshire accent. “C’mon now, Seanie. Ya know there’s nowt ‘ere but us.”

Sean’s knife moved lower. Viggo could feel the burn of skin splitting, of a single line of blood welling up and soaking into his shirt collar.

“Ain’t very nice ta try ta copy yer lover, eh?”

“What’s the phrase? Ah, tit for tat, wasn’t it?” he shoved the gun harder against Sean’s temple. “Oldest trick in the book.”

“Ah, and yer one fer ol’ tricks,” Sean smiled, and it was an unpleasant expression. “Never thought that I was one ta ‘ave a likin’ fer ‘oney, but ya got me this time.”

“Funny,” Viggo whispered. “I was going to say exactly the same to you.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. For the first time since he saw Sean’s face attached to the label of ‘target’ this morning, Viggo felt a smidgen of doubt. Maybe Sean hadn’t been lying. But that was a dangerous line of thinking, and Viggo noticed suddenly that Sean’s grip on him had loosened. Immediately, he pushed him away, ducking down underneath his arm and rolling off to the side. He aimed, and he fired.

Sean ducked. Fast, really fast, much faster than anyone he had ever been assigned to. Viggo couldn’t help the smile—despite the aching in his chest, he knew that this was going to be fun. He fired again, but this time he knew he was too slow. Sean was already disappearing out of the door, and all his bullet had impacted upon was a picture, cracking the glass. It was a picture of himself and Sean, years ago on a vacation. There was something poetic in that, and Viggo laughed.

He rolled by instinct. Just in time before a bullet destroyed the wall behind him, sending plaster scattering all over the floor. Shotgun. Nice.

His smile widened.

*

Shotguns were far from Sean’s favourite weapon. Too little finesse, too much noise. But right now there was something satisfying about its roar; about the way the house seemed to shake on its foundation every single time he pulled the trigger. Sean tipped his head back, the crack of his neck inaudible amongst falling plaster.

“Got ya there, bastard?”

A bullet smashed itself into the doorframe. That was a no, then.

Sean darted around the door, firing another shot into the first moving object he could see. He didn’t bother checking if the shot had landed—he knew it hadn’t—already moving down the hallway, towards the sitting room and the kitchen. He reloaded the shotgun, remembering at the last moment why he disliked them—but it was too late, because Viggo was behind him, and Sean barely managed to turn, feeling the bullet whiz past his hair.

He laughed. “Yer even faster wi’ a gun than yer are in bed, love!” He shouted, turning around and firing down the hallway. A cabinet smashed into pieces, sending a vase crashing into the floor, and Sean laughed at the sound.

“Ya like playin’ hide and seek, eh?” he ran down the hallway into the sitting room, firing once more. Quicker than he could think, he tossed away the shotgun and reached for his own pistol, punching the trigger like it was a recalcitrant computer key, creating a line of holes against the wall right above Viggo’s escaping back.

This would be fun if he didn’t feel like his heart was in his throat in an entirely disgustingly painful way with every twitch of his own finger.

*

“Only as much as you, honeybunch!” Viggo threw an arm above the couch, firing immediately at the direction of Sean’s voice. He knew he didn’t manage to hit him when leather tore and stuffing rained down on him. Disappointing; but not as much of a disappointment as it would have been if Sean had gone down so easily.

Damn, but Sean was good. Viggo would be damn proud of him if Sean wasn’t trying to kill him.

He ran out of the sitting room, heading for the kitchen, running backwards. He fired immediately when he saw Sean at the doorway, emptying the magazine before he released it and slammed another one in. Just in time to free his hands to grab hold onto a pantry door, the wood splinter in his hands from Sean’s shot. Bottles crashed into pieces. Ah, there went the preserved fruits from the garden. Good thing that Sean would be mourning those more than he ever would.

“Honeybunch? Ya flatter me, baby doll!”

Sean’s next shot hit the sink just as Viggo yanked down the tap, turning the hose. He grinned at the shocked look on Sean’s face when the resulting geyser sprayed him right in the eyes. Viggo swung over the stove to the other side, firing straight at Sean’s head.

Damn, Sean recovered quickly, his eyes squinted shut but his aim was unwavering, the muzzle of his gun bright flashes as Viggo felt bullets burn the air around his head. He jumped over the big worktable in the centre of the kitchen, kicked it over before he ducked underneath it and fired again.

*

Cheating bastard.

Sean swiped the water away with his sleeve, barely allowing himself that one second before he raised his gun again. When he opened his eyes, his hair was wet and dripping but his vision was unimpeded, and there Viggo was, aiming a gun at him right at his head. Good thing Sean had always been good at blind aiming, because his own was the same.

“Is your powder wet?” Viggo asked, and there was that lopsided grin he first fell in love with. Sean snorted, and answered the question by pulling the trigger—too late; Viggo had disappeared behind the table.

“We ain’t in the nineteenth century,” he shouted, following Viggo with rapid-fire gunshots as his lover disappeared out of the kitchen door.

Man sure liked to run. But this time, Sean let him, staying behind in the kitchen and grabbing a towel to wipe at his face. His magazine was empty anyway; and he let himself breathe for a moment, switching it with one of those he carried in his pocket.

His fingers swiped across the pooled, broken puddle of preserved strawberries, carefully avoiding the glass shards. He remembered making the jam with Viggo right in this kitchen—well, he was making it while Viggo had been trying his damn best to distract him, with his cheating hands slipping down Sean’s jeans and stroking him roughly through the zipper.

That was one of his favourite memories.

Sean washed his fingers with the broken sink, switched off the tap, and gave chase.

*

So quiet around the house.

The house had been quiet lately, what with Sean in his shed and garden and Viggo in his den. Speaking of the shed—that was probably where Sean kept his guns. Once he killed him, he would have to head there. Sometimes jobs required him to steal information; this would be easier than those, because it was impossible to steal from a dead man. Besides, anything that belonged to Sean was also his, right?

Viggo had hidden himself against the staircase, his gun pointed through the railing towards the hallway leading from the kitchen. The moment Sean appeared, he fired—and missed, because Sean was running in a bastardised zigzag motion, avoiding every single one of Viggo’s shots. Viggo fired again, but Sean was already throwing himself forward up the stairs, one hand around Viggo’s shirt and slamming him against the railing. His gun fell to the ground.

Viggo smacked the side of Sean’s head with the butt of his pistol, trying to make him let go- but his head hit wood again and Viggo let go of the gun, grabbing Sean by his ears before he headbutted him hard.

His head spun from the impact, but it hurt Sean far more than he would him. Viggo refused to think about those ears; pointed at the tip and perfect and terribly sensitive. He refused to think about all those times he had teased Sean in public, during those boring dinner parties that their neighbours had, simply by blowing his breath against those ears.

Irrelevant information.

He slammed his knee against Sean’s ribs, fighting his way out from underneath him before he threw himself forward, using his weight to pin Sean against the floor. But Sean’s leg wrapped around his knees and bucked upwards, rolling them over again—but Viggo refused to give in. He scrambled away, trying to grab for a gun—his or Sean’s, it didn’t matter—but Sean grabbed him by the waistband and pulled him close enough to grab his hair, smashing his head against the floor.

Enough was enough. Viggo’s elbow kicked backwards, straight into Sean’s throat. He turned immediately, fingers clenching around Sean’s shirt collar as he picked him up and slammed him against the wall. He let go of him for a moment to punch him in the face, but Sean was too damn fast. His fist connected only with plaster as the wall caved in slightly.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sean’s elbow aimed at his face, and he ducked and threw open the bedroom door, running in- suddenly he jerked backwards, Sean’s hands on his waistband, and his head smacked hard against the doorknob, nearly breaking his nose. Viggo ignored the pain, immediately turning around and throwing a punch into Sean’s stomach. Immediately he stood up, grabbed Sean by his shirt again, and threw him sideways into a wardrobe.

*

Little black stars appeared in front of Sean’s eyes when his head connected with wood. He didn’t even bother to clear them before he rolled away from Viggo’s next assault, yanking the wardrobe door open. Coat hangers were useful things, and Viggo just happened to be just a second too slow. Sean pulled a wire out of its shape, threw it around Viggo’s head and pulled back, feeling the wire bite into a vulnerable throat.

“Never got ta ask ya if yer at all interested in breathplay,” Sean muttered into Viggo’s ear, hearing Viggo’s choked breath ghosting against his hand. But Viggo was unlike any mark he had before, because his foot exploded in pain, then his sternum, then his neck and Viggo was darting out of his suddenly-numb hands. Sean looked up just in time to see Viggo smash two photoframes around his head, the glass splintering and cutting against his skin.

“The answer’s ‘only if you’re on the receiving end’, sweetheart,” Viggo replied, sounding as breathless as Sean felt. Good.

Sean swept his leg out, one foot hooking behind Viggo’s ankles and pulling forward, sending him crashing to the ground, his head barely avoiding hitting the bedpost. Sean took a step back, taking a long breath.

“Ready ta call uncle now, honey?”

Suddenly Viggo threw the blankets at him, obscuring his sight for the briefest of moments. Then Sean felt himself being thrown backwards, his head smacking against a wardrobe mirror. More glass splinters, now to the back of his head. He shook them off, untangling the cloth from his head just in him to surge upwards, grabbing Viggo by the shoulders and slamming his knee into his crotch. No one ever said that Sean never played dirty.

God, his head was spinning.

*

Viggo collapsed.

Fuck. He could deal with nearly being strangled. He could deal with his head being constantly smacked against hard surfaces. But his balls weren’t made for such harsh treatment. He swallowed back a whimper and forced his eyes open- just in time to see Sean stumble around, blood all over his face and the back of his head, staining his blond hair, as he shook his head hard. The sight made his heart hurt, and for one insane moment Viggo wanted to just stop this and grab the first-aid kit.

He was a damn idiot. But not so much of one that he didn’t realise that there was no way the two of them could kill each other with their bare hands. They were too well-matched. Anyone would have been dead by now. Viggo slipped a hand into his pocket, drawing the knife—but before he could throw it, Sean’s foot come down on his wrist.

“Nuh-uh,” Sean said. He grinned at Viggo. “Not so fast.”

It was a golden opportunity, really. Viggo reared back, arched his back, and kicked Sean in the crotch. Tit for tat, he had said, and smiled grimly to himself when Sean whimpered and dropped to the floor, legs closed and hands clutching around his dick. Viggo was breathing hard, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t stand up just yet, but that didn’t stop him for rolling over. He cupped Sean’s face in his hand in a mockery of gentleness, forcing him to open his eyes.

God, Sean’s skin was always so warm. His jaw fitted so well into Viggo’s hands. How many times had they laid in bed, in exactly this same position, after trying to fuck each other into the mattress?

Viggo exhaled shakily.

“Stop stealing my lines, darling,” he leaned down, his voice roughened with his pants. “Say ‘uncle’.”

*

The guns were outside the room, in the hallway. Sean kept his eyes closed so he wouldn’t give his thoughts away—alright, that as only partly it. It was mostly from the pain in his groin. He probably deserved that, given what he did to Viggo, but it didn’t stop it from hurting like hell.

“Fat chance,” he murmured.

He opened his eyes. The two of them looked at each other for a moment before they moved, entirely in concert. It was almost a crawl, their legs refusing to allow them to stand but training forcing their bodies into movement. Sean threw himself out of the door, grabbing for a gun, whichever one would do, and his hand closed around a grip. Immediately, he turned around.

Back where they were started. The two of them in a standoff, now with guns pointed at each other’s heads. It was something out of one of those crap Westerns that Viggo liked.

He could see Viggo’s hands shake. No. Damnit, no, he wasn’t going to do this. Sean felt blood drip off the side of his chin, and strengthened his grip on the gun.

Viggo closed his eyes. He exhaled, and snapped off the safety, the sound loud in the now-silent house. The gun fell onto the ground.

Bastard.

“Years ago, I invited you to this house,” Viggo started, his voice a low, soft drawl. His eyes were still closed, and Sean was glad for it—Viggo couldn’t see his hands shake. “Mi casa su casa, that’s what I said. I left out something that day.”

He opened his eyes, and gave Sean that lopsided grin. There was no humour in it. “You might as well take it. It’s yours anyway. My life is your life.”

“Fuck ya, bastard,” Sean growled. He raised his gun, pointed the muzzle straight at the centre of Viggo’s head. His hands trembled, but he stilled them—he was a damn sniper, he could do this. “Fuckin’ cunt. Pick it up!”

“I can’t,” Viggo said. “I won’t.”

Damn this man. Damn this man and his eyes. They were so blue in the dark of the night. There were bruises blooming at the side of his head and his shirt was torn. At least a few buttons were gone and his tie would probably never be salvaged. Ties. Sean remembered the first time they had sex in this house. He remembered meeting this man in Crimea; remembered kissing him.

They spent the whole night talking. Not about themselves, not really, but everything else. Viggo knew art. He had dragged Sean out to the balcony, the two of them barely dressed, and showed him the stars and the lights and the colours. He had dug his fingers into Sean’s hair and tugged playfully at one strand, calling it ‘burnt caramel with too much salt’, and Sean had laughed at the silliness of the name. He had called him a pretentious fucking bastard. Viggo had said that one out of three wasn’t a bad guess.

God, he loved this man.

“Ya fuckin’ piece of fuckin’ shit.”

Sean fired.

The bullet hit the wall. The gun fell to the ground.

Viggo’s hands were warm on his cheeks, cupping them as their bodies crashed together and they kissed as if they could only breathe through each other’s mouths. Sean buried his hands into Viggo’s hair, grown long like a hippie and he had gotten so annoyed at it lately, thinking that Viggo looked like some kind of pompous artist—only now he remembered that Viggo had grown it out for him, grown it out because Sean loved this. Loved being able to bury his fingers into the strands and hold on like a steering wheel, forcing Viggo to go wherever he wanted him to.

“Sean,” Viggo breathed, and the sound of his name on Viggo’s lips made Sean shake all over. He leaned his forehead against Viggo’s, staring into his eyes, their breaths caressing each other.

“Vig,” he said. They held each other so close, as if there was a thread between them that could never severed; as if it could only grow shorter and not longer, so they would always stay so close together like this.

Sean’s hands clenched around Viggo’s shoulders, pushing him forward towards the bed. Their legs almost tangled, but by silent accord, they avoided tripping. Viggo had never been particularly graceful and Sean was far too dizzy to coordinate himself, but they managed somehow, their minds connected even as their hands roved all over each other’s bodies, touching every single inch of skin.

By the time they reached the bed, Sean had torn Viggo’s shirt clean off and his own was hanging off his shoulder, the buttons ignored at their feet. There was a red line on Viggo’s throat that would grow into a magnificent bruise in the morning. Sean traced his finger over it, from collarbone to collarbone, feeling Viggo’s pulse beat and his lungs draw breath from underneath his hand.

“I would say I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But ya gave as ‘ard as I did.”

*

“Yeah,” Viggo replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Not entirely by choice, no—the coat hanger had probably tied his vocal chords into a knot—but he didn’t want to speak loudly anyway. Not when it might destroy the fragile peace between them. He reached up, his finger and thumb closing around a piece of glass embedded into Sean’s cheek, inches from his eye, and pulled it out.

“I did.”

He leaned forward and licked over the freshly-bleeding wound, tasting sweat and iron and Sean on his tongue and feeling the trembles of Sean’s skin as his hiss of pain turned into a small moan. Viggo licked again, his hand buried in Sean’s hair. He could barely tug on the strands, so matted they were with blood, but he pulled his hand out and pressed his bloodied fingers against Sean’s lips.

“I want to make new marks,” he said, eyes fixed on Sean’s mouth as it opened to take Viggo’s fingers in. “These—they could have come from anyone. But you’ve always looked so good with the imprints of your teeth on my neck, Sean. Better than any pendant, any chain.”

Sean’s tongue swirled around his fingertips, sending a shiver that rushed straight down his cock. Then Sean’s hand cupped the back of his head, holding it still as he lapped at the cut on his temple, caused no doubt by the glass shards of the photoframes that Sean had smashed into his head.

“I want ta ‘ave me handprints on yer ‘ips again,” Sean said, his voice low and rough. “I always like it when ya go out ta work in yer jeans or trousers, barely clingin’ ta yer skin until I can see the edges of me marks if I just bothered to peek.”

Viggo closed his eyes. He tilted his head back and sighed at the heat of Sean’s chest against his own, his heart thrumming against Viggo’s ribcage.

“Fuck me, Sean,” he whispered.

“The bed’s right ‘ere.”

Sean grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him towards the bed. Viggo landed hard, his breath kicked out of him as the slowly-blooming bruises on his back protested. But he only laughed, spreading his legs as his hands tugged hard on his belt. He was hard already; hard from chasing Sean all around the house; hard from watching him run and feeling him fight; hard from the visceral, unending proof of Sean’s sheer strength and skill, and the ego trip he had that this man loved him.

He still wasn’t entirely sure this didn’t start out as a job, but Sean didn’t kill him. In their world, a sign of love was shooting the chest instead of the head. What Sean had declared with his refusal was a fucking lifelong commitment, better than any ring on their fingers.

Then he couldn’t think anymore. Sean’s big hand enveloped his own. “Let me,” he said, and Viggo let go of his own clothes even as he scrambled for Sean’s, digging the belt out of its loops. Sean’s breath was hot against his skin and he looked down—gasped when he realised that Sean had taken the belt with his teeth and was drawing himself back, pulling away, leather between his teeth and loosening from around Viggo’s waist with every inch, every second.

Viggo swore under his breath. He hooked two fingers beneath Sean’s waistband, pulling him forward by sheer force, feeling the button and zip strain before the stitches tore. His fingers slipped inside, past Sean’s underwear to cup his cock, dry, satiny heat around his fingers and Sean’s moan reverberating around the room.

“Still remember how to use this, bastard?” he asked, rocking his hips up, urging. Sean’s eyes flickered down to him and he laughed, and their teeth clicked against each other when Sean kissed him. He could taste blood on Sean’s tongue, and he couldn’t tell if it was his own or Sean’s, if it was new or old. Just iron and salt, a heavy weight. Viggo’s feet planted on the bed as he felt Sean pull off his pants, nearly tearing the seam into two.

“Oh, aye,” Sean murmured against his throat. “I remember. Very well.” The drawer of the nightstand was yanked out, and Sean didn’t even bother lifting his head from where he was worrying at Viggo’s pulse before he grabbed the lube.

“What ‘bout ya? Ya goin’ ta be tighter than a virgin on ‘er weddin’ night, or ‘ave ya been fuckin’ someone else?”

“What if I have?” Viggo’s fingers made their slow, clawing crawl down Sean’s arms.

“I’d find out ‘is name, or ‘er name, whatever,” Sean pulled back, grabbing Viggo’s thighs and hitching them up to his hips. ‘I’d find their address.” He shoved two fingers inside, crooking them immediately, and Viggo’s nails sank into his shoulders as he gasped, his body jerking. “I’d kill ‘em slow. Maybe chop off their ‘ands first fer darin’ ta touch ya.” Three fingers now, shoved all the way inside.

“Then I’ll come back and really kill ya this time.”

Viggo laughed, head thrown back. “You’re a fucking Neanderthal,” he mocked, his fingers linking behind Sean’s neck as he pulled him back down. “Uncreative Neanderthal.”

“If I’m fuckin’ creative wi’ me fingers up yer arse, I ain’t doin’ it right,” Sean shot back tartly, shoving those fingers in as punctuation. Then he pulled them out, grabbed Viggo’s ankles, and shoved them up his chest. Viggo let him, tilting his head to avoid their noses smashing together—and to have access to the golden column of Sean’s throat, scraping his teeth over and over again, watching as the blood came to the surface.

Sean grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back and they kissed again, hungry and hot. Viggo gasped, bit down hard on Sean’s chin and lip as Sean breached him, pushed inside, spread him wide open.

“Virgin tight,” Sean’s voice was almost entirely strangled in his throat. “Looks like I ain’t got ta kill anyone.”

Viggo bit down hard, breaking the skin of Sean’s throat. The blond’s hips stuttered, shoving inside, and Viggo rocked upwards. “Shut up,” he panted. “Shut up and do what you promised, you bastard. Fuck me.”

“Impatient bastard,” Sean huffed out. But he was moving, hands shoving Viggo’s hips down to pin him on the bed. His grip was tight enough to bruise, fingers causing indents on Viggo’s skin as he fucked down into him, hard and fast, their bodies slapping together. Viggo cried out, his voice muffled against Sean’s shoulder as he bit down on muscle and tendon. He pulled away just as Sean grabbed him by the hair, their lips finally slicing open with the violence of this kiss.

“Touch me!” Viggo’s words were mangled in his mouth, but that was fine, for his actions spoke loudly enough. His hand shot downwards, curling around his cock- but before his fingers even brushed his own skin Sean was always batting his hand away, the calluses of his hands scraping against his skin. Gun calluses, Viggo remembered, and the sudden knowledge made him cry out and squeeze his eyes shut. There was a metal band around his lungs and he could barely breathe, his pants getting shorter and shallower as Sean stroked him with the same rhythm as his thrusts. It only took one, two, three strokes before Viggo shouted and came hard, all over Sean’s hand.

“Fucking gorgeous bastard,” Sean rasped, and Viggo might wanted to protest being ‘gorgeous’ but he didn’t have the breath to. Not when Sean was folding him into half and fucking into him like he was a rag doll, shoving him further and further back up the bed.

Viggo dragged him down again, biting on the wound he had made on the side of Sean’s neck, making it even redder and angrier, blood flowing down to pool in the hollow of the collarbone. Sean shouted, incoherent, and thrust in as far as he could go, hips against hips, before he came inside Viggo.

They breathed.

“You’re fucking heavy,” Viggo said. He shoved at Sean for good measure, knowing that his words were barely coherent right now.

Sean rolled off of him and laid flat on his back, trying to catch his breath. His lungs heaved and Viggo thought he had never looked more beautiful, with red marring golden skin and his marks all over his body. His finger dipped into the pool of blood, using it to sign his name right over Sean’s heart.

“Yer fuckin’ sick,” Sean complained, but he was laughing as he rolled to his side. His fingers fitted right over the red handprint on Viggo’s hips.

“Yeah? So are you,” Viggo countered.

Slowly, he pulled himself up by his elbows, reaching over and grabbing cigarettes from the nightstand. He lit one up, took a drag, and offered it to Sean. They smoked the same brand now, after years together, and the silence was comfortable.

“Ya ever ‘ad dreams?” Sean asked suddenly. “I mean, after yer jobs.”

“Sometimes,” Viggo said. He took the cigarette from Sean and blew the smoke up into the air. They really should quit, but he doubted that he—or Sean, really—would live long enough for cancer to take hold, so fuck it. “Not my conscience talking, no. More like- if I failed a job and got IDed, you know?”

“Didn’t think yer were that shite,” Sean raised an eyebrow.

“Nah. I was never identified, not once. But, you know. What if. My brain works funny sometimes. Never woke up because of them, though.”

“I’d ‘ave figured it out long before if ya did.” Sean stubbed out the cigarette. He scooted a little closer, dropping his head onto Viggo’s thigh, hand still tracing the marks he had made.

“So ‘ow much were ya offered fer me?”

Viggo blinked. He looked down. “Half a million. How did you figure that out?”

“Timing’s a bit too suspicious.” Sean yawned. “Funny, I got offered the same fer ya.”

“You think they’d leave us alone if we refuse to kill each other?” Viggo stroked a hand through Sean’s sticky hair. He stifled a yawn even as he crawled down further on the bed, using Sean’s shoulder as his pillow. In this position, he had the perfect view of his name on Sean’s skin.

“Nah. They’d probably get someone ta come after us instead,” Sean curled even more against him. “We’d probably ‘aveta figure somethin’ out ‘bout that.”

“Morning,” Viggo closed his eyes, his arm draping over Sean’s waist even as he felt Sean throw a leg over his thigh. “You shagged my brains out and I can’t think.”

Sean snorted, “Good. I can’t think either. Me brains came out wi’ me come.”

Viggo laughed, leaning down and brushing his lips against Sean’s. “My head’s still spinning,” he confessed. “I think we both have a concussion.”

“I’d test me luck wi’ that,” Sean yawned, and the scent of him—smoke and blood and sweat and how did he never realise that Sean had always smelled just so slightly of blood?—wafted over Viggo. “It’d serve me pretty well so far.”

“Stay still.”

“Fuckin’ easy fer ya ta say,” Sean complained. “Ow.”

“As nice as it is to think of my scars on your face, it’ll impede your job. So stay still, damnit,” Viggo brandished the cotton ball dipped with antiseptic in Sean’s face. “Or I’ll jab this into your eye.”

“Shut up and finish it already.”

Viggo sighed quietly and swiped at Sean’s face a little bit more with the antiseptic. Most of the blood had come off when they shared a shower, but some of the wounds had scabbed over during the night. All of the tiny wounds needed to be cleaned, and he was only damn glad that neither of them had broken bones despite how hard they had literally thrown each other around.

“There, I’m done,” he cleaned the biggest gash, a slice near Sean’s jaw that had nearly taken off part of his earlobe. “Are you done with your whining?”

“I don’t fuckin’ whinge.” Sean tipped his head back and cracked his neck side by side. The livid bite mark at his pulse point stood out, stark red and purple and blue. “Now gimme that; it’s yer turn.”

“Fine, fine,” Viggo tipped his head back and let Sean clean the thin, shallow cut on his neck, from the knife that Sean had first used when he had come through the door. Most of his cuts weren’t that bad; he just had bruises everywhere, and nothing could be done about those. Besides, he had gotten much worse, back when he first started.

Sean’s tongue was poking out of his mouth in concentration, and Viggo wiggled just a little bit. The moment Sean’s hand lowered, he leaned in, pressing their cut lips together in a soft kiss, his tongue licking against Sean’s teeth and palate, exploring his mouth for the umpteenth time this morning.

“We’ve got ta make some calls,” Sean murmured, his breath ghosting against Viggo’s jaw.

Viggo made a small, affirmative sound, his hand slipped down to bury itself into Sean’s hair. There were a couple of small lumps on the skull; he skirted those as he kissed him again.

“Let’s fuck up the bastards worse than they tried to fuck with us,” he said, and his grin was wide and sharp.

***

“Hey, Vincent. No, don’t say anything. Is this call recorded? Good. Just send it to David. I know he’s not going to pick up if I call.

“David. David, David, David. I just killed my lover for you. How’s that for proof of loyalty?

“No newspapers this time, right? No police investigation. No article for the client to cut up and save in their private collection. Private. But I follow the rules. Sometimes. I know you want proof. That’s alright, I’ll give you proof. There’s a cottage at the beach. You know which cottage, which beach. I used to go there. With Sean. It’s a beautiful poetic justice, isn’t it?

“Tomorrow night, 9pm. You owe me as much.”

*

“Don’t bother sendin’ out that dispatch fer a full million fer the two of us, Daragh. Nah, I ain’t been ta the office, but I ain’t stupid either. I know ‘ow the ol’ man works. I know ‘e ain’t awake just yet. That’s okay. Just record the call, put it on ‘is desk. ‘e’ll see it alrigh’.

“Ian, ya old coot. Few years back, when I first met Viggo, ya said yer were ‘appy fer me, that I found someone nice, and ya got me ‘ere, workin’ fer ya. I left Tom back ‘ome. ‘e still wants me back, think I should go? Nah, don’t think so. See, Ian, I killed Viggo. Not just fer ya, no. Been lookin’ fer an excuse anyway, but ya owe me ‘alf a million. At least.

“Now I know ya want somethin’ ta show ‘e’s dead, and I ain’t goin’ ta the office and leavin’ a ‘ead there fer ya ta find. I ain’t some fucking cat and ya ain’t me owner. Come find me at the cottage by the beach. Ya know which one. I bought it fer Vig and meself. Nice touch; think yer drama queen self would appreciate that.

“Tomorrow nigh’, 9pm. Don’t miss it, Ian. I don’t want ta ‘ave ta drag ya outta bed.”

***

Ian leaned back against his chair. He played the recording again before he looked at Daragh, a small smile curling up his lips.

“Sean seems to have forgotten that I taught him most of his tricks,” he said idly, his hands folding in front of him. “Want to come with, Daragh? You might even get a promotion.”

“I ain’t here fer the field work, boss,” Daragh said dryly. “Ye know that.”

“Of course, of course.” Ian swivelled around on his chair, standing up and walking over to his shelf. He picked out ten files before he slid them over to Daragh.

“Give them the address, and tell them to get into positions by eight. Oh, and- tell them to be observant, won’t you? It’ll be terribly embarrassing if they stumble upon David’s men.”

Daragh cocked his head. “Pardon me, sir, but if ye know this is an ambush, why would ye go?”

“Because Sean knows that I know, dear boy, and it’ll be far too boring if I don’t,” Ian smiled, looking like a benevolent grandfather. He reached out and patted the big Irish man on the hand. “Besides, I do want Viggo dead. He’s been stealing some of my favourite clients.”

*

David steepled his hands together.

“It’s a sad day when a child chooses his lover over his father,” he tutted, shaking his head. “A sadder day when that child thinks he can outsmart his father.”

“You know you’re really fucking creepy sometimes, don’t you?” Vincent cocked his head to the side. He was seated on one of the couches in David’s office. “Viggo’s not your kid. You don’t have kids. Thank God, hallelujah.”

Lazily, David opened an eye. “Are you that bored that you’re reduced to baiting me?”

“Maybe,” Vincent shrugged. “You refused to let anyone take the offer of a million for them both, so there goes my entertainment for the day.”

“You can come with me tonight. Ariadna too,” he nodded at the silent woman seated in the corner. “Either of you might earn a promotion. Or even that million dollars.”

Ariadna chuckled. She unfolded her legs, standing up from the chair. “I’ll come,” she said, and flashed David a sharp smile. “For the possibility of seeing you lose. That would be fun.”

Vincent whistled lowly. He jumped out of the door after her, peeking out around the frame to wink at David. “What she said.”

David tutted again. “Children these days,” he sighed. “So disrespectful.”

***

Viggo leaned one elbow out of the car door, the cigarette trailing smoke behind him as he drove. He glanced over to Sean in the passenger seat as he looked at his phone.

“Daragh’s a good man,” Sean said. He leaned back fully on the leather cushion, letting out a sigh. “He ain’t goin’ ta be there, but he tol’ me who is. ‘Cause, Ian probably knows that he’s goin’ ta tell me, so that’s that.”

“He’s a sneaky bastard,” Viggo replied. He tossed the cigarette out of the window before he pulled into the driveway of the cottage. “No wonder David can’t get along with him.”

Sean made an affirmative noise as they both got out of the car.

It was a beautiful place, the beach. Surrounded by woods where plenty of people could hide, and Viggo smiled to himself as Sean narrowed his eyes. Just half a heartbeat later, his lover had a gun in his hand and was firing towards the shadow nearest to the door.

“Hey Vincent!” Viggo called. A shame, really, that one of the people whom he would call a friend—and whom he bothered to introduce to Sean a few months ago—was actually here.

“’ow’s the book goin’?” Sean draped his gun over his shoulder, cocking his head to the side.

“Same as always!” A French-accented voice came floating over. “Nonexistent, as you well know by now!”

“Funny, ya always tol’ me it’s goin’ well.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other, like you English bastards always say.”

Vincent walked towards him. He had night-vision goggles on, which he pulled up to rest in his hair. He was grinning already, holding a shotgun at his side. “I’m your welcoming party,” he said, and gave them a theatrical little bow.

“What have we done to warrant such special treatment?” Viggo murmured softly.

Vincent shrugged as he opened the door with a flourish. “When an assassin meets another assassin and didn’t kill me, but instead decided to play house...”

“Ah, so that’s what this is?”

Sean merely snorted as he stepped through the door. Viggo followed him at a more sedate pace, taking in the sight of lit fireplace and the rearranged furniture, with David and Ian sitting at the opposite sides of the room.

“Looks like yer made yerself at ‘ome,” Sean commented. He walked over to the couch, now situated near the door and just two feet away from where their two bosses were sitting. He lit up a cigarette, revolver placed on his lap. Viggo dropped down to sit next to him, making sure to invade into his personal boundaries.

That was the way people like them spoke to each other. Through actions, hints that were never truly made into words but were understood in full anyway. Viggo had made a statement, and Sean had joined in through his inaction.

Behind the two of them, Vincent closed the door. So it begun, then.

“How sweet,” Ian said. He had a clear-cut, sharp Received Pronunciation accent, Viggo noted. He sounded like a BBC announcer. Though he had never once met this man before today, he couldn’t say that he was terribly surprised.

“Ya should’ve seen us yesterday,” Sean drawled. He drew a drag from his cigarette and handed it over to Viggo. “Ya won’t ‘ave said that then.”

“Oh, we can tell,” David steepled his fingers, leaning forward. He was looking at the two of them like they were particularly interesting specimens that he had just gotten hold of. Viggo wasn’t fazed—it was how David always looked at people, unless he found them boring. Truth to be told, it was a little flattering.

“But you didn’t kill each other.”

“No,” Viggo let the smoke escape from his lips and curl around his face. “We decided that we still liked each other.”

Ian raised an eyebrow, “Despite the lies?”

Sean burst out laughing, a hard-edged chuckle that had a small shiver travel down Viggo’s spine. “Funny fer ya ta speak ‘bout lyin’, Ian. If I dislike people who lie ta me, ya would’ve been me public enemy number one.”

Before Ian could reply, David cut in. “You always like small talk a little too much,” he glanced at Ian, his voice a sharp drawl. “Let’s get down to business. We have twenty people with their rifles aimed at your heads outside, Viggo. Sean.” He made Sean’s name sound like a curse. “Your little trick didn’t work.”

“Oh, but it did,” Viggo said. He smiled slightly. “I figured that out the moment I saw Vincent at the door. But you both seem to have missed something.”

“Oh?” David cocked his head.

Viggo moved, faster than the eye can see. Two knives were suddenly buried in the walls beside David and Ian’s heads, and Viggo stroked along the blade. A window broke, and the sound of the bullet shell hitting the ground was loud in the sudden silence that fell over them.

“Sean and I have decided on something.”

Sean pushed himself out of the couch, reaching back to pull Viggo up beside him.

“See, ya know ‘ow good we are. ‘ow fast we are,” Sean smirked. He levered his pistol up. “Ya want ta gamble yer lives wi’ ‘ow quick the bastards out there can move, versus yer two best killers?”

“See, David. Ian,” Viggo took a single step forward. Another window smashed inwards, but the glass was too far away for even the shards to reach them, though he could feel the burn of the bullet near his neck. “Dying for Sean is passé and old-fashioned; dying by him will probably cause a hell lot of friction in our relationship in the afterlife and cut into the great sex.”

“So dyin’ wi’ ‘im is the only option,” Sean stayed where he was, but the click of the safety going off was statement enough.

Ian hummed under his breath, considering. He slipped a hand into his pocket and drew out his own gun. He placed it on the table in from of him, spinning it around until the muzzle was pointed at Viggo.

“I didn’t realise you believed in the afterlife, Viggo,” David said, his voice casual. But Viggo could hear the tension wound into it; only someone who knew David well would be able to tell.

“We’re willin’ ta take the risk,” Sean answered for him. “Put yer gun back inta yer pockets, Ian. I’m the best. Yer finger won’t even be on the trigger ‘fore me bullet ripped open yer ‘ead.”

“Really, it’s so terribly sweet of the two of you to want to die for each other.” Ian leaned back against the couch. His eyes were narrowed. Viggo left Sean to interpret what that mean, but Sean only grinned. “You have demands, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Viggo nodded. He stroked the hilt of his knife with a thumb, lifting his eyes up to smile at those two. “We want the two of you to play nice with each other when it comes to the two of us. No killing each other. No sending the two of us to kill the same mark either. We want a paid vacation for a month or two, maybe. It’s been a long time since we’ve taken a vacation.”

“On yer private island, Ian,” Sean added.

David sighed, “Loyalty has such little meaning nowadays.”

“And your yacht, David,” Viggo gave him a poisonously sweet smile. “I nearly forgot about that.”

“That’s a lot to ask for two people who will die the moment we give the word,” Ian leaned forward. His hand splayed over his gun, the thumb slowly pulling back the safety.

“Don’t make us repeat ourselves,” Sean rolled his eyes. “Ya ain’t stupid, the either of ya. The goons outside won’t save yer arses.”

“Vincent is supposed to have taken your weapons,” David remarked.

Viggo grinned, “Vincent likes his entertainment.”

“Ya two underestimated us. Not sayin’ ya underestimated Vig, or me, but us.”

“I would kiss you for that,” he murmured, glancing over to Sean. “But I’m afraid that our brains would be blown up the moment I try.”

“That ain’t a bad way ta go, no,” Sean replied in the same low tone, chuckling. “But I want a fuckn’ vacation more.”

Viggo snorted, turning his eyes back to David just as he felt Sean do the same for Ian.

“So?” Sean asked.

“Go on then,” Ian waved a hand. “Walk out of the door. I’ll give you directions to the island tomorrow, Sean, when you come back to work.”

“Oh, no, we’re not letting you off that easily,” Viggo strode forward. Bullets thudded into the walls of the cottage, but he was too fast for even the snipers, already grabbing Ian’s arm and hauling him to his feet, the knife placed across his throat.

“We ain’t stupid either,” Sean said, and he had moved at the same time Viggo did, his gun shoved against David’s temple. “Ya two will escort us back out ta the car.”

“It’s only polite,” Viggo added.

He almost had to carry to Ian to the door. It was childish for the older man to do that, but Viggo was strong and Ian’s slim build made him an easy hostage—easy enough that he could still be careful to not cut into skin. Out of the corner of his eye, Sean was dragging David towards the same door, and Viggo had only a moment to wonder how they were going to open it with both of their hands full when it opened by himself.

Vincent greeted them with a shit-eating grin. He saluted Sean.

“Nice accessory you’ve got there, Bean. Hey, boss.”

“Hello, Vincent,” David returned, calm as always. But even from here, Viggo could feel the burn of his displeasure emanating from him in waves. People like David—they didn’t like losing. That was fine, Viggo could empathise—he hated losing as well.

“We can always send men to kill you at your homes,” Ian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Viggo grinned; it was always nice to have your target acknowledge the knife at their throats.

“You can, but your men have already watched you lose, Ian. It will never be able the threat we pose to the profession anymore; it will just be about your ego. How hard do you think they’ll try to kill us?” He leaned in closer. “How much money would you lose if Sean completely disappears? You always keep him so terribly busy.”

He shoved Ian away from him and vaulted into the car, immediately shoving the key into the ignition and turning in. Beside him, Sean threw himself into the driver’s seat, slamming down on the accelerator. Viggo pressed hard on a single button, ducking down as the top of the car drew over their heads, barely in time to stop the bullets that followed them.

“We should send ‘em the bill,” Sean said as he made a hairpin turn. Viggo scrabbled for the seatbelt, pulling it over his chest as he tried to stop himself from falling over. Sean was the better and more reckless driver both; that was why he was behind the wheel. “Fer the repairs of the car, the cottage, and the damn ‘ouse!”

“You think they’ll cough up?” He reached over, grabbing Sean’s seatbelt and strapped him in.

“Nah! But it’ll piss ‘em both even more!”

Viggo burst out laughing even as he turned around. There were already cars starting to follow them, but he trusted Sean’s driving; knew that they would never catch up to the two of them. They probably wouldn’t get that paid vacation from David and Ian, but that didn’t matter. They had all their onshore cash in the car, and plenty of weapons.

Switzerland was probably beautiful at this time of the year. Customs wouldn’t be a problem—they were always putty in their hands.

Sean was laughing next to him, and Viggo’s eyes softened slightly before he leaned in. The road was going straight ahead, and Viggo leaned in and stole the kiss he should have taken back in the cottage.

They were powerful alone, definitely—but working together, they were invincible.