Viggo woke up cold.
He swung his arm out, looking for Sean on the bed, but he only felt cold sheets. Immediately, he jerked awake, sitting up. There was no sunlight coming in from the window -- it must still be the middle of the night, and he scrambled up, standing, eyes darting wildly around the room.
No Sean.
The house was absolutely silent. He barely remembered to grab a robe and slip it on before he was running out of the bedroom door. He checked the other rooms. No Sean. Down the stairs. No Sean in the living room, or the entrance hall, and his legs froze so suddenly Viggo nearly fell over.
There was a letter at the door. His breath hitched in his throat. At his side, his hand twitched, slowly clenching into a fist. No, not yet.
No Sean in the kitchen. Viggo slumped against the door leading out towards the gardens at the back of the house. No Sean in the gardens either. There was a part of his mind that was screaming incoherently at him, and Viggo could only press his hand hard against his eyes, trying to get it to shut up. He didn’t have the time to panic, not right now. There was really only one thing left to do.
What choice was there left?
Deep breath in. Viggo resisted the urge to punch the brick wall; he would save the punch for later. He walked back calmly to the entrance hall and picked up the letter and tore it open.
Two photographs, and Viggo pressed his lips together when he realised that the bastard didn’t even bother to pretend they were Polaroids. No, these were well-developed photographs: one of himself and Sean at the coffee shop, standing around the table. Viggo pushed it away, and saw the second one.
The open window. Sean’s body, arched over Viggo’s own. Viggo lying down on the pillows, barely recognisable through the heavy black marks. The photograph was cut by a penknife, slicing his body into half from head to toe, as if he had been cleaved open by an axe. Viggo saw his hands tremble and he stumbled over to the couch, sinking down as he stared. It was a mistake, he thought distantly. They shouldn’t have taunted the bastard like this.
Now he had taken Sean. There was no doubt about that -- the bed was cold, and Sean would have left a note if he had left the house to go to the grocery store or something. Viggo clenched his hands tight to stop them from shaking, and he dropped the photographs on the table.
A note slipped out and landed on the floor.
THAT’S THE LAST TIME YOU WILL HAVE HIM. HE’S MINE NOW.
It was handwritten, the paper but a torn scrap. Someone was in a hurry, Viggo thought, and he laughed sharply to himself. His heart roared in his ears. The photograph wrinkled under his fingers, thick photo paper nearly tearing from sheer force. Lifting his eyes, Viggo looked at the house phone.
He would call Sean on his mobile, he thought. There wouldn’t be any use, and it would most likely be a waste of time, but it was something he needed to do anyhow. Twenty-four hours before making a missing person report, but Viggo has tangible evidence that this was a kidnapping case... he considered it, fingers tracing the railing of the coffee shop shown in the photograph.
Well, the bright side of this was that he was given yet another clue, and there was something tangible to pin the stalker down with right now. Viggo smiled grimly to himself before he stormed up the staircase.
Clothes. One step at a time. Sean was the planner of the two of them, but Viggo could always pretend to be someone who was much better at organisation than he was. All of his characters stayed with him, and he thought this time he might as well slip into the Master Chief’s skin.
At the very least, it would stave off the boiling panic. There was no use for that now.
*
Sean woke up with his head throbbing. He kept his eyes closed. The last thing he remembered was hearing a noise at the front door, opening it... and then nothing. This didn’t feel like his front porch -- for one thing, there was a bed underneath him. For another, he was naked.
For a third, he could feel that his hands were tied. And so were his ankles. Some kind of leather. He gave himself a few seconds to swear mentally at himself for his own stupidity. Maybe he should have woken Viggo up, or he should have called the police immediately... but Sean’s fear had been slowly morphing into anger the past few days, and now he might just be paying the price for that. Oh, goddamnit. No use thinking of ‘what-ifs’ now.
Neil Byrne and Andy McNab wouldn’t open their eyes, but Sean was neither of them and besides, he couldn’t even slip into those characters anyway, not after so long. Slowly, he blinked -- and he froze immediately. He stared at himself -- not in a mirror, but in photographs. Many, many photographs pinned onto the wall, some of them blown up. Photographs of him -- in a suit during premieres, in his various roles... but that weren’t what disturbed him. There were even more photographs of him through his bedroom window, half-naked or dressed only in a bathrobe. Photographs of him entering or exiting his own house. Photographs of him lighting at a cigarette at the coffee shop. Photographs of him in his various hairstyles throughout the years as he cut his hair for the sake of various roles.
His own face stared at him from the wall ahead, the wall at the side, and Sean had a distinct feeling that if he looked up, he would see his own face on the ceiling as well. Shuddering, he stared at the sheets instead -- and started when he realised the bed was of the exact same make as his own, back at home.
Christ.
Sean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Distantly, he felt his left arm ache, just so slightly. Well, that neatly answered his question of where the hell he was. Sean swore again, this time out loud, and he looked down at his wrists. It was a belt alright, and another belt around his ankles. He tested his bonds, trying to twist his hands out of the leather bindings, trying to turn his fingers around so he could reach the buckle of the belt. No luck as he expected, and he fell back, hissing out a breath.
The door was a few steps away. Sean looked at his ankles and wondered if he still had enough stamina to hop out of it, and he was almost going to try when he saw the doorknob move. The metal creaked, just so slightly.
Immediately, he dropped back onto the bed and closed his eyes. Tried to control his breathing so he looked like he was asleep -- but it was hard to when he felt as if he was near hyperventilating. His mind was entirely blanked out -- couldn’t even swear, and wasn’t that ironic? He had been trying to control his swearing, especially in front of the girls... no, he refused to think about his girls now. It must be stupid, to suspect that the stalker had any way of reading his thoughts, but Sean wasn’t going to take the chance.
Footsteps. Pretty heavy soles, those. He pretended to be asleep. The bed sank down on his right. Sean felt his breath hitch.
“Why don’t you open your eyes, Sean? I’ve wanted to introduce myself for so long.”
Shit.
*
If he was asked right at this moment what clothes he was wearing, Viggo wouldn’t be able to answer, not even if he looked at himself right now. It didn’t matter anyway -- he was wearing some sort of clothing, and that was all he needed as he strode, almost ran, towards the coffee shop.
Viggo’s hands were shaking. He stared at them uncomprehendingly. There was a part of his mind that was freaking out, conjuring various possibilities of what could be happening to Sean right at this moment. His voice didn’t shake when he called the police. Why would his hands be trembling now?
Nothing would be happening to Sean, he told himself. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He tried to calm his breathing. No use hyperventilating. There was something he could do. Viggo looked at the photograph again, turning his eyes from it to the second level of the coffee shop, then back again.
Over there -- it was taken from over there. Just the awning of the place opposite. If this was the movie, then the audience would have recognised the place immediately -- and the girl standing there smoking as well. But this wasn’t a movie, and Viggo didn’t even look in that direction when he was here with Sean yesterday. This wasn’t a movie, and there wasn’t a chance that the girl would come over and take to him, and the audience would know immediately that they had found the stalker.
This was reality, and Viggo found it more terrifying than any horror movie could ever be. He closed his eyes and opened them again. He looked at his hands. They stilled.
And he walked over to the girl.
“Hi,” he said, and tried to give her a bright smile, stamping down on that part of his head that was still screaming. “Sorry, but may I ask a question?”
The girl looked at him suspiciously, with narrowed eyes. “Yeah?” She cocked her head. “What is it?”
Viggo shoved the photograph into his pockets, patting all over himself. He found a lighter, and Sean’s pack of cigarettes -- he was wearing Sean’s jeans, he realised -- and his hands trembled slightly as he lit up.
“You work there, don’t you?” He made a vague wave towards the coffee shop.
“Yeah?” Her eyes narrowed further. “Sorry, I’m not going to answer any questions about the celebrities who live around here, if that’s what you’re going for.”
“No,” Viggo shook his head hard. “No, that’s not it. Uh...” He shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling out the photograph. “Look at this.”
She took the photograph and looked at it, at him, and at it again. “You’re in it,” she said. “What’s up?”
“My friend and me, yeah,” Viggo said. He rubbed the back of his neck and told the part in his head that shouted that he was wasting his time to shut the hell up. He was going to say something else, but she interrupted him.
“Hey, I think I recognise you,” she said, breaking into a cautious smile. “You were here yesterday, right? I remember because you and your friend went up to the second floor and came back down without buying anything. I thought it was odd.”
“Yeah,” Viggo said. “It’s a bit odd, what’s happening -- look, the photograph was taken yesterday, and it was delivered to S- to my friend’s house.”
“Uh... huh...” Frowning, she looked at the photograph again before she thrust it at Viggo. “So what’s the question?”
Viggo licked his lips. “I was just wondering if you’ve seen anyone around here at the time. Anyone with a camera, especially one with a long lens.”
“There’s plenty of people like that,” she replied wryly. “Tons of celebrities live in Belsize and they come for coffee all the time - don’t ask me who, I can’t recognise any of them really - and there are paparazzi who would buy cheap tea and sit there with camera for hours with their cameras.”
“I don’t mean paparazzi,” Viggo said immediately. “I mean, uh, someone who comes here pretty often with a camera. Maybe someone who lives around here, and who, uh, who sits up there? You know, at the table that we’re standing around?”
“Look,” she said, sounding impatient and a little exasperated. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”
He looked at her, wondering how he was going to tell anyone about the situation and not sound as if he was paranoid or insane. The situation seemed plenty insane enough to him. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, tapping the ash to send it flying downwards, and he saw that his hand was trembling again.
“Someone’s following me and my friend around,” he said finally, staring forward. “Now my friend’s gone missing and I’m trying to find him.”
Viggo felt her incredulous stare at him. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes as she took the last drag from her cigarette before she dropped it to the ground and ground it out.
“Look, don’t tell anyone I told you this, alright? I might get fired for it.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“I know who your friend is. I know who you are too,” she gave him a lopsided smile. “Hard not to, really, when your face was all over the place just two years ago. And my mom’s a big fan of Sharpe. Look.” She stared down at her hands. “There’s this man who comes here almost every day and he always sits at that particular table with his camera. He lives around here.”
She looked up and took a deep breath. “I just know him as Doctor Ethan. I have no idea what his last name is, but I know where he lives.”
Viggo felt something slam into him. He nearly stumbled forward. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his cigarette fall to the ground. Absentmindedly, he stamped it out.
“Where does he live?”
“Few blocks down the street from your friend,” she said. “You have paper? I’ll write it down for you.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he looked for something- but there was only the photograph. He took it out and turned it to its back.
“This works?”
“Yeah.” She took the pen from her breast pocket and pulled off the cap with her teeth. Placing the paper on the brick wall behind her, she scribbled something on it.
“I don’t actually know if this is the guy you’re looking for, but it’s worth a shot, at least,” she gave him back the photograph.
Viggo looked at it, and back to her. He swallowed. “Thank you--”
“Come look for me when I’m on break and I’ll get autographs from you both,” she cut him off, grinning. “Just don’t tell my boss I actually know who you are, because I’d get fired. Boss’s pretty strict about that.”
“Got it,” Viggo breathed. “Thank you.”
She gave him another grin, but he didn’t see it, already turning away and running back down the street.
*
Sean opened his eyes again. Third time of the day and it was still morning -- at least, he thought it was morning. He would look for the windows but his eyes were riveted to the man in front of him.
Nice suit, the part of his brain that was still working noted. It was a nice suit indeed, a full tuxedo, clearly tailored. The man was obviously dressed to impress, and Sean had a sinking feeling why -- though he wondered what kind of mind would think of this as a good first impression when Sean already had... He swallowed and tried to not move too much.
“Hi,” the man said. “I’m Ethan. I’m your neighbour.”
At the moment, Sean hated Viggo being right. It wasn’t just the suit and the words -- both were easy enough to fake -- but the accent. Ethan-his-stalker spoke with a perfect, crisp Received Pronunciation accent. Sean’s hands twitched slightly.
“Hi,” he said. Humour the crazy, he thought to himself, a little wild and mad himself. Humour him until... until Sean could find a way out of here. His eyes started over to the side -- the windows were covered by curtains. Maybe they could open. Maybe if he ran for it, he could jump out of it... Sean licked his lips.
“Sorry, this is a little bit inconvenient,” he said, motioning to his wrists and ankles. All of his acting training came into good use now, keeping his voice steady and his eyes on the bastard in front of him. He wondered what his coaches would say about that, but he figured it didn’t matter -- not when the techniques didn’t seem to work perfectly anyway: his hands were still shaking, and his breath was coming a little bit too fast to pass as calm.
He took a deep breath and raised his arms just a little more. “You mind taking ‘em off?”
His stalker grasped his tied wrists with both hands, lifting them to his lips. Sean shivered at the feel of them on his skin, and barely resisted the urge to yank his hands back when he felt tongue.
Humour the bastard, he told himself faintly. Humour him, humour him...
“You look so beautiful with these on,” said bastard murmured, fingers turning Sean’s tied hands over. They stroked over the inside of his wrist, and Sean couldn’t take it anymore. He threw himself forward, drawing his hands back for a punch--
The mattress was against his back. There was a hand on his throat, and his breath entirely knocked out of him. Sean tried to buck up, to shove him away, but he was pressed down again, now choking as he tried to breathe through the arm strangling his windpipe.
“I always known you’re beautiful when you fight. I’ve watched your fight scenes so many times, and I’ve always dreamed...” The hand stroked down Sean’s naked side, smooth skin without a single callus against his own. Sean’s eyes watered as he tried to squirm away from the touch and breathe at the same time.
The stalker leaned in, so close his breath was like fingers sliding over Sean’s skin, “I’ve dreamed of seeing you like this, fighting without any clothes to block the sight of you. Dreamt of touching you.”
Get off me, get off me!
Sean could suddenly breathe. He reared upwards, but he was shoved down again with a hand on his chest. There was nothing more he wanted now than to be a real soldier or warrior instead of only acting those roles. He knew he was strong enough for most things, but he had no real idea how to fight beyond choreographed acts.
“You must have a headache,” he heard the bastard say. Sean forced open his eyes again, and there was a bottle of water in his face. Where the hell did it come from, he thought inanely, and gulped for breath. “Come on, this will make it all the better.”
Oh, hell no. Sean clamped his mouth shut, but the man moved forward until he was straddling his chest, pressing down with the whole of his weight. He couldn’t breathe again but he kept his mouth shut, eyes burning holes in the bastard’s skin. There was nothing more that Sean wanted right at this moment to be able to set things on fire with just a single look.
“It’ll be good for you.”
His nose was pinched shut. His head throbbed. He kept his mouth closed, eyes watering, his jaw aching. There were black spots appearing in front of his eyes but he would be damned if he opened his mouth. He would faint first-- but he couldn’t stop himself. Not when his body was screaming for oxygen.
Sean opened his mouth.
Water poured in and he choked on it, trying to spit it all out, but the hand moved from his nose to his throat, stroking it slightly. The water tasted like water but somehow- somehow it didn’t seem likely that it was all it was. His mind screamed that this wasn’t water at all and he shouldn’t drink it down. His body disobeyed. Water rushed down his throat, weight lifted off his chest and Sean turned immediately, retching, trying to throw it all up.
Nothing came up except saliva. Sean tried not to shake.
“There. Feels better, doesn’t it?”
He looked up. It was the headache and lack of air that made his head spin, he told himself. Whatever that was in the water couldn’t have worked so fast. But his tongue felt heavy, like lead in his mouth, and when the bastard pushed him down again, he could barely fight it.
“Have some more.”
Water again. Drowning. He felt like he was drowning.
*
Viggo looked down to the address he had, scribbled on the back of the photograph. There was irony here but he wasn’t of the mind to understand it. He might be too late, his mind told him. He knew he should have woken up earlier. He should have realised Sean hadn’t returned to bed much faster. No use thinking about that now.
Right now, all he could do was run.
*
“You’re silly, Sean.”
Sean panted, his head bowed down. There was sweat breaking out all over his body. He was hyper-aware of the feeling of wetness between his thighs, of the way his skin seemed to slide easily. His throat burned. He stared down at his arms, and-- there was a bandage at the crook of his elbow that wasn’t there before.
“I wasn’t trying to drug you using the water. Silly, Sean, so very, very silly.”
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe not because of a weight on his chest or his throat.
“I gave you your medicine long ago. Before you even woke up, in fact. I’m a doctor, you know?”
It felt as if he was drunk. Like he had spent the whole night drinking. Or maybe the adrenaline was fading and he had felt like this since he had woken up. Sean felt himself being rolled over to his bed. His eyes fell shut and he felt his legs being pulled open. He tried to struggle, but it was like moving through quicksand. His breathing had calmed down-- so much that he didn’t seemed to be getting enough air at all.
He felt like going back to sleep.
There was a hand on his calf, stroking downwards. Sean struggled and tried to open his eyes -- it seemed he succeeded, but his vision was just a blur. There were only shapes around him, and his mind was getting oddly blurry.
His lips formed a name, but the sound didn’t get out.
“Shhhh,” he heard, a soft voice in his ear. “Everything is alright now.”
*
Viggo stopped running, panting hard, dragging a hand through his hair. He stared at the number of the house and checked it against the scribbled address. This was the right one -- at least, he corrected himself, this was what the girl had given him.
Something in himself told him he should have called the police and waited at home for them to do their job. It was the sensible part of him, but it had really arrived too late. If he had been sensible yesterday night and closed the damned curtains, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Viggo took a deep breath and calmed his breathing.
It would be breaking and entering to try the door, he told himself. Someone would call the police on him. But at this point Viggo knew that he was desperate to try anything, and his instincts told him that this was the right place -- maybe it was his instincts, or maybe it was just his desperation speaking because if this was wrong he wouldn’t know what else to do.
The gate was unlocked. Alright, that was one step forward. Viggo tried to pretend that he had the perfect right to be entering this house. Master Chief, right? He slipped on the soldier’s mantle again, straightening his shoulders and striding forward, counting his steps. His hand closed around the doorknob. He turned it.
The door was unlocked. Everything seemed to be going a little bit too well. If this was a movie, Viggo thought mildly hysterically, the gate and door would be unlocked, and Viggo would find some previously unknown ability to pick locks. But this wasn’t a movie, and he had never once played a thief. Viggo pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Silence-- wait. Upstairs. There was a soft voice upstairs.
Toeing off his shoes, he spared a single glance of surprise at the socks he had managed to remember to wear. Viggo took another deep breath and started creeping towards the stairs, and instead of a righteous rescuer, he felt like a thief.
He really hoped Sean was here.
*
No, everything was not alright. Sean knew he was drugged. The bandage on his elbow. That should have alerted him, shouldn’t it?
His mind was moving at the speed of molasses. Everything seemed to come to him in slow motion. The hand on his calf had turned into two, and he felt the belt on his ankles being taken off. There was the sound of leather against leather. His hearing seemed to be coming faster to him than his sight. Sean still couldn’t see anything.
Ankles freed. He was supposed to be doing something about that, he knew. What it was, he couldn’t tell. Not at this moment. Sean fought harder against the fog in his mind, somehow knowing that it was important. That he needed to.
The hands slid up, smooth skin against his thighs and it felt wrong, incredibly wrong. They were too large to be a woman’s, yet they were too smooth to be... to be Viggo’s. Sean’s eyes blinked open slowly, and he clutched onto the name, held onto it tight inside him. There was no use trying to focus his eyes, but he remembered what he was supposed to do. His ankles were freed.
“You’re so beautiful, Sean,” a man crooned above him. The voice was wrong.
Sean surged up, throwing all of his strength upwards. He kicked out his legs, feeling them connect with something, and did it again, and again, trying to sit up while flailing like an untamed horse. Hands grabbed at him but he shoved them away, managing to pull himself up. The sheets were too smooth for him to grip onto with his skin, but it was useless for him to. His back hit the mattress again, all the air knocked out of him. The fog thickened.
In the distance, as if underwater, he heard the door open. It wasn’t the man, wasn’t Ethan, wasn’t his bastard of a stalker because a body was draping over him, his chest just above his legs, hands trying to pin him down. Sean threw his entire body forward as much as he could, slamming his forehead against something -- it felt like a nose, maybe -- and his knee lashed outwards, slamming into a stomach, or a chest. A grunt filled his ears.
He could breathe again.
“Sean!”
That was a familiar voice.
*
Viggo didn’t know what he was expecting when he stepped into the room. Maybe Sean sitting and having tea, or a stranger sleeping without any sign of Sean. But he could recognise the hint of blond hair and those legs anywhere, and Viggo was already moving without thought. His hand grabbed hold of the collar of the stranger’s shirt, and he was just close enough to see Sean’s knee connect with the man’s ribs.
He dragged the man away from him. There was some kind of shouting, but Viggo wasn’t paying any particular attention. The bastard -- his name was Ethan, the sensible part of himself supplied, but Viggo ignored it -- was holding onto his nose, which looked red. He threw his hand out, punching that nose, feeling cartilage and bone crack from beneath his fist.
There was blood on his knuckles. Viggo looked at his hand for the briefest of moments before he shoved the bastard away. Sean was curled up in the bed, wrists tied together with a belt, but Viggo only barely noticed that. No, his eyes were fixated on Sean’s eyes, on the strange, glazed look in them. Sean’s lips were completely white, and his breathing was shallow.
Viggo liked to believe he wasn’t a violent man, that he detested violence in all forms. But right now, looking from Sean to the bastard who was holding his nose with one hand and his ribs with the other, there was nothing more that he wanted than to continue beating the latter. He took a deep breath, sitting down onto the bed and placing a hand on Sean’s face. His calluses rubbed against the slight, overnight stubble of Sean’s cheek.
“Hey,” he whispered.
Sean shifted slightly, turning towards him. His eyes rolled around their sockets in an obvious attempt to focus, and Viggo felt sick, all of a sudden.
“Vig?” Sean said, his voice sounding odd. The word was dragged out, slurred, and Viggo spared another glance for the bastard, as if daring him to move.
“Yeah.”
There were footsteps coming. Viggo shifted on the bed, starting to turn towards the door- but there was a body that was slamming into him. Thrown onto the bed, Viggo gasped, and he felt his neck burn. His shirt tore, ripped apart by desperate hands, and he tried to focus his eyes on the man who was trying to strangle him by the collar of his own shirt.
“He’s mine,” Doctor Ethan growled. His face was crazed, and there was blood from his nose that was dripping onto Viggo’s skin. “He’s mine, you’re not going to have him again. He’s mine!”
Viggo struggled. A little voice in his head told him that he should have gotten actual fight training at some point in his life, because there was no choreography in this, only desperation, and he felt like a turtle turned on its back, flailing uselessly around without being able to turn himself over, much less throw the other man off him. He choked slightly as a hand twisted on his collar, cutting all of his air. Head spinning, he tried to throw a punch, but it went entirely sideways.
Shit, he thought, and he would have laughed at how inadequate the word was for the situation if there weren’t black spots appearing in front of his eyes.
Then the pressure eased. Viggo pushed himself up immediately, blinking, and he watched as Sean pull his stalker up by the back of his collar, his teeth gritted.
“I don’t belong to you, you bastard,” Sean growled. His eyes were focused for but another second before they glazed over, but Viggo didn’t take the time to watch as Sean fell over again. Instead, he grabbed onto something, anything, and his hands closed around a belt that was left abandoned on the bed. Holding onto the buckle, he threw it outwards like a whip, slapping Ethan on the face before he leaped at him.
The footsteps were getting louder. Viggo’s entire weight threw Ethan down until he was pinned onto the floor, the belt slammed down onto the wood, stretched over the other man’s throat.
“This is the police, freeze!”
Wasn’t it just like a damned movie when the police arrived too late to do anything? Viggo watched as the two officers standing at the door took in Sean’s unconscious, naked form on the bed, Viggo’s torn shirt, and Ethan’s bloodied, broken nose. He took a deep breath, and forced the stalker down with his knee.
“We’re here for a reported break-in,” the officer on the left said. He looked rather uncertain, his eyes continuously flickering between Viggo and Sean’s form on the bed.
Viggo blinked. He laughed -- so Master Chief didn’t manage to fool anyone after all. “Yeah, that was me, but officers.” He shoved the knee down harder, looking down to place it right above Ethan’s throat, silencing all sound.
“Right now, I want to report a kidnapping,” he looked at Sean, “an unlawful misuse of drugs, and a possible case of attempted rape.”
Well, Viggo thought as he was eventually handcuffed and dragged off the stalker. That wasn’t that bad. It was improvised, but it sounded like a screenwriter could have written it.
But Sean was still lying there. Viggo stumbled over him, uncaring of the eyes on them, and shifted around so he blocked the most compromising bits of Sean’s nakedness with his own body.
“Hey,” he said. The cuffs around his hands made it difficult, but he managed to stroke his fingers gently through Sean’s hair anyway. “You alright?”
Sean’s head turned up, looking for him. “What...” he slurred.
“Police are here. Well, to arrest me really, but whatever works.” He dropped down on his knees beside the bed. Sean made a soft sound, and Viggo decided it was a chuckle.
“Can you try to stay awake for me?” His fingers found the lump at the side of Sean’s head, and he steadied his hand so it wouldn’t shake.
Sean looked at him, frowning slightly as if he couldn’t hear him. Viggo held his breath. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the two police officers standing behind him, their eyes boring onto his back.
“Will try,” Sean rasped finally. His eyes fell half-closed, and Viggo let out a breath. Impulsively, he leaned in, brushing his lips against Sean’s temple. He looked around him, and grabbed the nearest blanket and draped it over Sean’s body.
There was an ambulance coming for Sean, that much he knew. It was a small comfort, and he held onto the thought tightly as he was tossed into the police car.
***
“You know what I really want to do right now?”
Viggo looked up from where he was thumbing through a magazine at Sean. Even lounging in a hospital bed in hospital-issued clothes, he still looked gorgeous. Despite the frown that was creasing his eyes. Viggo raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side.
“I want to go home.”
They had been through this conversation before. Viggo chuckled softly, putting his magazine down.
“Think of it this way. You’re keeping me company while people decide if they want to deport me.”
Sean snorted. He looked through the pile of magazines that Viggo had filched from the hospital’s various waiting rooms and lounges before he pushed them all away in disgust.
“You think he’d press charges?”
“Probably,” Viggo shrugged. “It’s not like I can deny being in his house.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t there to commit an offence, you’re there to stop one being committed,” Sean pointed out. He paused, and shuddered hard.
“Hey,” Viggo said, reaching out to place a hand on Sean’s. “You alright?”
“You’ve asked me that ten times already,” Sean shot him a half-frustrated, half-amused look. “I’m fine. Scared out of me wits at some point, aye, but I don’t remember any of it right now.” He frowned, looking disturbed. “That’s probably the drugs.”
Viggo looked around them. They had a private room -- which, given how well-known both of them were and what had just happened, was entirely necessary -- and Viggo stopped caring about the unlocked door. He climbed into bed next to Sean, drawing his arms around him and holding him close.
“You were probably far more scared than I was,” Sean murmured.
“I didn’t have a lot of time to be scared,” Viggo replied honestly, his voice muffled by Sean’s shoulder. “Spent most of it running all over the place trying to find you.”
“Didn’t think to ask until now, but how did you find me?”
Viggo lifted his head up, grinning. “We owe a girl at the coffee shop you used to go to a couple of autographs during her break.”
Sean barked a laugh. “I’d give her more than that, since she helped you find me.” His hand stroked Viggo’s chin. There was two day’s worth of stubble gathered on it now, but Viggo ignored it. He could always shave later. Now, he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to Sean’s palm.
“You know, if we press charges, no one will be able to stop the media from finding out about us.” He lifted his eyes and looked at Sean for a long, solemn moment. “You alright with that?”
“I ain’t letting him get off scot free and coming near me again,” Sean snorted. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to Viggo’s. “I’ve been meaning to ask this anyway, but do you want to come with me to India for Sharpe?”
There were miles worth of unspoken words hidden in those questions, and Viggo heard them. He knew how important Sharpe was to Sean; knew that Sharpe was the crux of his career, the very basis of his reputation.
“You’re not afraid of your reputation?” He grinned. “I have nothing to fear, really, because I’ve been kissing men since the Fellowship premieres.”
“Don’t remind me of that,” Sean mock-growled. “You were kissing everyone and taking pictures with everyone except me.”
“Well, you were too busy having your love affair with orcs,” Viggo shot back. They looked at each other for a moment before they laughed. Viggo turned his head, pressing a soft kiss against Sean’s temple, barely inches away from the small bump that was rapidly receding.
“That was a serious question, you know,” he murmured.
“Me first real movie job was as Ranuccio,” Sean chuckled. “If people didn’t figure something out about that, then they’re the idiots, not me.”
Viggo pulled away. There were no bruises on Sean, and even though there was a part of him that was immensely relieved, the bigger part was disturbed -- that something like this could happen and not leave any marks whatsoever. Except... here, there were some leather burns and small cuts and bruises on Sean’s wrists. Taking Sean’s hand in his own, he lifted it up and pressed a soft kiss to the bandages on his wrists.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I’ll come to India with you.”
Summary: Someone is watching Sean, and it’s not Viggo.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 3 Completed: Yes
Word count: 19599 Read: 4577
Published: 02 Feb 2013 Updated: 02 Feb 2013