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.”
Summary: All married couples have at least one or two little secrets they keep from each other, don’t they? A Mr. and Mrs. Smith AU.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 3 Completed: Yes
Word count: 19105 Read: 4105
Published: 09 Nov 2012 Updated: 10 Nov 2012