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: None

Challenges:

Series: None

Chapters: 3 Completed: Yes

Word count: 19105 Read: 4113

Published: 09 Nov 2012 Updated: 10 Nov 2012

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.”