Chapter Text
His head hurt like he’d be walloped with a belaying pin, for a long blistering moment he thought he might have the world’s worst hangover. Which was really saying something, because it took a hell of a lot to get him knock-out drunk and Sebastian couldn't remember drinking after he got home.
Actually...
He couldn't remember getting home at all. He'd finished the Davidson job, popped the little bastard from two blocks away, got the confirmation of the wire transfer... Posted that he was free for more work on that damn 'message' board. Whatever happened to classy hitmen who used business cards? Now he got emails and texts, half of them spam, a third of them porn bots, and maybe three or four actual jobs. And out of those, maybe one would be interesting enough to take. He'd gotten into a cab and then...
And then some asshole had shoved a needle in him and he'd knocked the little shit out cold, but some big guy with tribal tats had swung at him and the drugs had kicked in and... and now he was blindfolded. Tied to a chair with hands behind his back, his ankles strapped to the legs of the chair. Son of a bitch, he fucking hated blindfolds … There was always that brief hint of a flashback, a taste of panic he had to breathe through. Hot sand and burning sun, the splash of water on a cement floor, the blood running down his--
Focusing on the plus side...
With most people being taken to an unknown destination blindfolded meant while the situation was dire, there was a chance they might let you leave again. He had enough experience with that. Which is why when the bag was yanked off his head he was glad, because it meant it that the assholes might let him live. He blinked at the sudden brightness, trying to take in his surroundings. Hmm. Plenty of assholes. And that one might be the lead asshole. He'd kill him first. "Most people at least buy me a drink before taking me home and tying me up, sweetheart." A crooked smile and confident eyes, despite the throbbing in his head and the heaviness of his tongue.
--
The hangar was big, that much was certain from the echo that got back to him. This kind of place had a way to make you feel emptiness. Which was why the sudden unnatural silence that washed over the definitely not empty hangar after his little show-off move was all the more stifling. He doesn't wince, but in terms of narrative, it would have been an appropriate moment to do so. Just sayin'.
It was easy to figure the lead arsehole, as the attention of every single goon had wearily turned to a smartly dressed little man. Posh, poncy, and dramatic with his face half-hidden in the shadows but kept in a practiced stillness. Frankly, he doesn't look like much, but Sebastian’s not gone around for so long in this field not to gather he’s probably just sassed some very important man. The quiet stillness holds for a couple more seconds as tension builds palpably in the room. A guard shifts uncomfortably to his right.
Then the man lets a desperate hiss go, his whole feature taking life as his face crumbles in something between frustration and irritation, with a snip of disbelief. Seb would have not believed it possible but somehow the tension in the room got up a notch. It got a feel to it now. Any higher and he'll be able to slice it like a piece of cake.
“One sentence." The man whined in a surprisingly high pitched voice." One fucking sentence.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, his interlocutor walks up to him, keeping some distance still. “All it takes to ruin a perfect, balanced, good mood I had been working on since this morning.” His voice was dancing madly between highs and low and it would have been comical if it really, really wasn’t, because on this voice was clearly ridding unhinged murder.
“Lucky for you, Mr. Moran, I went through a lot of trouble to be here…” The man pauses at that, seemingly thinking it over. Or for the drama. Sebastian was in favor of the second hypothesis by large. “Namely taking a taxi, so I am not going to have you skinned right away. You get. One. Other. Sentence." He gave him a wide smile that didn't reach the two little pools of black that passed as his eyes." Go ahead!” He quipped playfully.
The wide grin that spreads on the man’s lips was disturbing enough to get the point across if the speech had failed to do so. He very, very probably wasn't joking.
--
Yup, definitely the lead asshole. Pouncy suit, nice hair. Totally got everyone scared shitless, got that sing-songy 'people should care what I think' attitude. Little guy too, prolly a classic case of 'daddy didn't love me enough so I became a criminal', boohoo. White-collar crime in a suit. Shame the little fucker had that perfect ratio of crazy/hot going for him, though Sebastian doubted they'd have ever met anywhere else. Grindr, maybe? The guard beside him shifted and moved away, a completely ridiculous move. This guy clearly had to be unhinged if he thought it was a good idea to make his own security scared of him. Fear begets fear; a man who was afraid of you wouldn't die for you. Loyalty and respect made men die for you.
One more sentence. Sebastian Jacque Moran was not an idiot. He'd gotten top marks as Eton and Oxford, he'd sailed through officer training in record time. However clever he was, there was something else that outweighed that. He was, without a shadow of a doubt, a complete and utter cocky bastard with a death wish and a hard-on for anything that might get him killed. Hell, he'd joined the army to go blow shit up in the mud.
One little Irish shite with a suit that cost more than his flat's rent for a year? Not scary. Even if those eyes were cold and black like a shark's, or that smile wide and toothy. Little Shite (that's what he named him in his head) looked like he would rip out Sebastian's liver with his teeth and make Seb love every second of it. "Skinnin' me?" He tilted his head, ignoring the wave of dizziness at the action and the way the man beside him tightened his grip on the pistol in his holster. "Oh fuck, darlin', why didn't you say so at the start?" His crooked smile grew broad, a wide grin and the tip of his tongue poked between straight teeth, "Safe word's 'begonia', but don't let that stop the fun."
They'd zip-tied his hands, the idiots. Enough leverage against his wrist and the metal of the chair and he could snap it. Hurt like a bitch but he'd snapped zip-ties before. The ankles were a different story, he'd need more than just leverage for those... Well, if he got his hands free he could grab Tats' gun, dumb fuck was flashing it and standing too close to him. Three shots would get the main guys down and if Little Shite had gone through so much effort for him, they might hesitate to fire back immediately. Might not even hang around, depending on how much they valued their lives. Sebastian flexed his hands, testing the slack. Not much. Not yet. His day had been routine and boring, his life had been boring since his discharge. At least getting kidnapped was a little bit of fun.
--
Even if his feature remained perfectly the same, the word seemed to spark a fire within the two black pebbles of the man’s eye. The shark smile took a positively playful and hungry turn.
“Oh, I like you,” He drawled, bending straight at the waist, hands in his pockets and his eyes unwaveringly fixed on the ex-soldier. “Sadly,” and his face just shifted to a slightly sorry and oh so common expression (he could have been your newly recruited clerk telling you that no, - he could not help you, sir) – “being sinfully hot is not quite enough to fill the bill.” He scrunched his nose comically, before producing a knife from his pocket and snapping the blade open.
Well, those were mood swings if he ever saw any.
He closed the distance between them, crouching in front of him, effectively canceling any height difference and forcing the impression even, that he was small.
“I need a little more than that you’ll gather.” He ran the blade along the jawbone of the tied soldier, seemingly transfixed. The blade was sharp enough to shave what little stumble had grown there, but it seemed the little man knew his way since it never broke the skin. Which was by far more worrisome than if he had slipped clumsily. That would have been normal and expected from that kind of priss.
“How sharp are your claws tiger?” He murmured idly, his pupils blowing 1wide. He let the arm holding the knife fall down and brought his face to the ear of the soldier, ending the whisper, “Show me, hum?”
And in a smooth motion, he cut down the rope retraining both his feet and jumped backward with a laugh, to give the man a wide berth.
--
Sebastian wasn't sure if it was a good thing that crazy-as-fuck Little Shite liked him, or if he should just accept his fate now. Either way, he was pretty sure Little Shite liked him in the way that a person might 'like' a particular houseplant. A casual fondness but no regrets about throwing it away. 'Sinfully hot', that was a nice boost for his confidence though...
The real worrisome thing was when he leaned in, scraping the side of his face with that wickedly sharp knife. Not the knife itself, no. Sebastian wasn't worried about the man actually killing him, not when Little Shite hadn't even brought up the point of why he was here... What worried him was the casual mention, the casual dropping of the nickname. 'Tiger'. Someone did their research then. He hadn't thought this was a casual, 'pick up someone hot and bring'em here' job, but... The reference to his SAS call sign, that was a purposeful jab. Colonel Sebastian Jacque 'Tiger Jack' Moran, dishonorably discharged from Her Majesty's Special Air Services. His files were under lock and key, call signs kept locked behind wall after wall of security. No one wanted to risk the nation's enemies figuring out who did what job.
Which made it worrisome that this man, this sharp and sleek little devil with those large glowing eyes, had that information. And he wanted Sebastian to know he had it. Claws... Show him his claws? Fine. If he wanted to play, Sebastian would play. He just hoped Little Shite was quick enough to make the chase fun.
The second his legs were free he moved, tensing the muscles in his hands and balling his fists, snapping them hard against the zip-ties and the chair, the plastic ties snapping under the leverage. Tats had the sense to at least move away when Little Shite released him, but Sebastian was quick for his size; sniper reflexes honed over thirteen years of training. He grabbed his wrist with one hand, pulling the pistol with the other, jamming it against his ribs and fired.
Tats went down with a scream; he'd bleed out for sure (if the massive hole in his lungs didn't kill him first) and Sebastian spun and with two more shots took out the skinny bloke who'd drugged him, a neat shot in the center of his head and one in his chest just to be sure. A third guy managed to draw his gun, but Sebastian was already halfway over to him by the time he managed to aim and the man was smart enough to know when to abandon his gun and go for brute strength. Smart Guy took the opportunity to leap at him, attempting to throw his arms around Sebastian's shoulders, but the soldier turns at the last second. He half-ducks, slamming his shoulder into the man's stomach, sending him down onto his back on the cement floor. It's over already then, Sebastian has him, arms pulled behind his back in a hard hold. Maybe he should go easy on the guys, it wasn't their fault their boss cared so little about them... But then Little Shite's shark-grin flashes in his head, that low purring voice, and his mind is made up. Sebastian pulls on them roughly, a loud crack echoing in the room and Smart Guy howls, screaming, his arms broken and useless.
It all happened in a blur and Sebastian drops the shattered limbs, snagging the man's pistol and aims it at the devil, cocking back the safety. With a predator's leering smile he grins, blue eyes dark and hungry. "I won't shoot you immediately," he says, his voice a low purr, mocking the man with a twist of his own words earlier. "You get one sentence."
--
The little man stood idly still in front of him, in stark contrast to his previous little show. But something was off. It was not the stillness of a deer caught in a flashlight, tensing at the prospect of imminent and probably painful death. He was obviously bat shit crazy, but apparently lacked some form of basic survival instinct as well. Or did he? The room was full of nooks, crates, and shadows. Any halfway decent marksman could be holed up and waiting for a signal. Why they would be waiting he would hopefully discover soon.
The priss looked like he was ticking boxes in his head. As crazy as it sounded, it was precisely what it looked like. Seemingly done ticking and satisfied, he bounced back and forth on the ball of his feet.
“Holidays are to be notified in advance,” his face scrunched in mild annoyance, “Christmas is always soooo busy and it’s making things hell to organize.”
He looked at the ex-soldier expectantly, like the situation was the epitome of mundane, and an armed gun was not standing in between them, pointing at his head. Perfectly. Normal. Day.
--
Batshit crazy. Bag of cats crazy. The man was so painfully, obviously insane, something must have snapped into that pretty little head of his a long time ago because he didn't so much as blink when Sebastian pointed the gun at him. The fact that he had just killed two men and crippled a third didn't even seem to phase the little fucker.
Holidays? What--?
Oh. The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning and he scowled. This had been an interview. Christ, what a way to scout talent. Lose three men to maybe gain one. Although those three wouldn't even have half as much worth as he had... There was only one downside to Little Shite's plan.
Sebastian didn't want a job.
Well, okay, that wasn't true. He needed the work the same way a heroin addict needed another hit. The thrill of the hunt, the chase, the kill. The skill and adrenaline rush from pitting his skills against another, proving himself time and time again. Sebastian needed a job. Sebastian did not want a boss. He had done that, been bossed around before. 'Insubordinate' was a common word in his files. 'Trouble with authority' was another phrase used to describe him. He had placed his trust in men like the crazed fucker in front of him before; worked for them, killed for them. He had spent thirteen years being a gun that someone else pointed. And every single time he'd been thrown away or tossed under the tracks when shit went south.
No more. No fucking more.
He was not ever going to work for someone, especially not some trumped-up arse with a slick smile and a fancy suit. Especially not some fucker who thought his men's lives were disposable. He was a loyal man, but when Sebastian had his loyalty betrayed he didn't just burn bridges: he burned cities. This little piece of shit had it written all over him, the callous attitude towards his own men's suffering. Sebastian was not going to ever end up like Smart Guy had. Not again.
Sebastian lowered the gun and with a smooth, practiced motion, ejected the clip and emptied the round in the chamber. "Yeah. Not interested. Coulda saved you the mess of cleaning this shit up." His tone was cool, losing the interested nature he had earlier, a big cat done toying with its meal as he gestured with the gun towards the bodies on the floor. "Full offense meant, Little Shite, but you're not worth my time." He dropped the clip on the floor and tossed the gun at the slick devil in a suit, turning on his heel, not bothering to see if he caught it, before heading towards the door.
--
The only warning he got was a high pitched hiss before white-hot pain flared in his shoulder. Working the muscle around was agony because a fuckin’ blade was embedded still in the flesh. He swore curses that would have made his old regiment buddy blush. Had Little Shit really thrown his fucking knife at him? He was about to turn around with the definite intention of bashing his precious little skull down to earth, probably getting in some common sense for the few last seconds of his life when a kick got him in the crook of the knees, effectively sending him tumbling forward the floor.
The little shit was fast. Duly noted. But there was only so much surprise could grant you. That’s what he had in mind, trying to get hold of the squirming, lith frame that for some reason had elected for close combat with a man twice his size and built. That is, before cold metal pressed against his throat AGAIN. How many fucking knives did the little shit carry around? It’s not like his close-fitted suit left much room to hide things. And this time he wasn’t playing, Sebastian noticed as warm blood started pooling in the crook of his neck. He groaned, not too happy with himself. Turning your back to this crazed little menace was admittedly not his brightest move so far, and god knows he had fucked up big time in the past. Said little menace was now straddling him with an almost animalistic sneer, very very far from the posh if unnerving persona he had presented so far. His pupils were blown wide, eating away what little color was there. The blade dug a little deeper still.
“I don’t force anybody to work for me. You could have gone back to your pathetic life, continue to execute the contracts I send your way. It would have been FINE!” He yelled. He noticed Moran’s double-take at his sentence and gave a dry chuckle. “What did you think, Moran? That high ends contract just pops on these dirty little platforms you scout? Well, they don’t.” He added with a dose of acidic sarcasm. “I’ve had my eyes on you for quite some time you know. You’re good. Too good for your own benefit. That led me to you after all.” He smiled a little, an almost shy thing on his demented face. “Bad. Luck.”
--
Jesus FUCK his shoulder hurt like a bitch, thank god it was his off arm, or he'd be even more pissed. Recovering time was shit when you kept fucking the wound up shooting.
"You're fucking psycho, you little cunt!" He shouted, feeling the knife dig into his neck. Slimy bastard, absolutely bag of cats crazy stuffed in a suit, tackling an ex-SAS soldier with nothing more than a knife and a big attitude. The man barely weighed anything soaking wet. "If they came from you, then you can keep your jobs. I don't want'em." He snarled, fury boiling in his veins. No one fucking touched him, not without his permission. Especially not some trumped-up little Irish motherfucker with eggs for brains.
The thing that made Sebastian so damn good at his job, at getting those 'suicide' missions done? His complete lack of self-preservation. He'd bite off his nose to spite his face, and he'd let a knife dig into his throat just because it made this fucker think he was in control. That was the thing, too. No one was in control of him. Little Shite was straddling his chest, eyes wide and mad and smile almost a little coy and flirty and Sebastian bent his legs, planting his feet against the cement floor. With a quick, fluid motion and a hell of a lot of faith that this crazy son of a bitch had a good handle on his knife skills, he rolled them.
One hand shot out to grab onto the Irishman's free hand, the other still digging the knife into his neck and he could feel it slice deeper as they rolled, but he was right on the self-control and it stayed just barely shallow enough, the blood beading and running down his neck. Fuck. He liked this shirt. Sebastian was straddling the smaller man's waist now, a hand holding his opponent free arm above his head, his weight pinning him to the floor. The knife still pressed against his neck and it dug in deeper when he leaned in, lips drawn back in a snarl, blue eyes dark with barely disguised anger. "If you had your eyes on me, then you'd have known I don't take the boring jobs. Either get more interesting you paddy son-of-a-bitch, or get the fuck out of my way."
His snarl turned more into a crooked, almost-charming grin if it weren't for the number of teeth being shown. He lowered his head and put his teeth to the pale throat. His jaws were right over his windpipe. "It would take you a while to die if I bit down now." Sebastian's voice rumbled into his throat, "I killed a man like this, you know. Held his throat in my teeth 'til I felt his life run out. Never gets boring." In an almost flirty, somewhat taunting manner he licked a broad stripe on his throat. There really wasn't much that was funner than risking death, especially if it came from a crazed kinda-hot dude. "You'd cut my throat, but... wonder if you could kill me faster than I could bite. Might not kill you too, but you'd lose that lovely voice of yours."
--
The man burst a laugh, making the skin vibrate against Moran’s lips.
“Oh, put two and two together Moran, there is a reason I want you IN. There are only so many jobs I can leak OUT for you to sniff out. The interesting ones…” he smirked gleefully, “I got to be a teensy bit cautious about them.”
God, didn’t he ever shut up? He was, quite literally, at his throat an inch from ripping the pale expenditure of flesh open and the other was… Giggling?
He must have frozen, let it be because the speech registered to him, or the giggle got to his… let’s say brain. Little Shit gave a taunting scoff, arching his light frame against him and shifting his head backward, baring his neck shamelessly.
“Come on,” he taunted in a metallic and sharp, ringing tone, “harder kitten.” Followed by a gleeful laugh. He had taken the opportunity of the distraction to shift the blade to the back of his neck, cutting his retreat option. Sneaky Shit.
At this point, the tension wasn’t palpable. No no no, at this point, tension had grown a full-fledged personality, slapped them both and told them to calm the fuck down, before crumbling into a hysteric after noticing none of them gave a damn fuck.
Thankfully, that’s the moment Smart Guys chose to shift and give a pained grown, snapping a part of Moran’s attention to register the potential menace. But the poor sod really wasn’t up to much. A shadow fell on the crazy fuck’s face at the sound, more akin to cold anger than the blatant irate rage Sebastian had sparkled. He must have split a lip when Sebastian turned them over, and more than a little blood (be it his own or Sebastian’s) was now smearing his face and crumpled dress shirt.
“Dead men walking the lot of them. You see Mr. Moran, Dan and his friends have recently fucked up big time. Blown their cover spectacularly. Huuuge cock up on their part.” And he shifted his hips just so, along with the icy sneer. “But I am used to it. I would have covered it up, got them sorted out.” He gave a dry laugh. “Nonono, where they went wrong is, they pissed their pants and tried to negotiate their way out by selling out information about me.” He paused. “Not that they knew anything of significance mind you. But you know officials, they get so desperate.”
He turned his head to Smart Guy. “Thing is, you got to be halfway intelligent to be a mole, Dan.” He sing-songed dryly.
He snapped his eyes back to Moran’s, two pools of black with dancing lights of madness. But something else shone there. Behind the theatrics and apparent death wish, Little Shit was smart. A smart, manipulative bastard.
--
Oh, don't arch and squirm against him like that. Sick little fuck was either trying to flirt with death (literally) or distract him, though he was partially hopeful of the first. People always said he flirted with death. Really, Sebastian would correct them, he didn't flirt with death. He deep-throated that fucker’s scythe behind a Tesco.
No! Bad Moran! Down boy, now is not the time to think with your dick. “Really...?” Sebastian gave a light, teasing nip at his jugular, leaving a small red mark. He’d not wanted to kill the man, fuck knows when he’d find something as fun as this again. Smart cats kept their toys around to play with, and Sebastian was a rather smart cat. “Shame for them that their boss is so clever.”
He had to get out of this without escalating it further. The room was large and dark and anyone with half a brain would have people posted, especially if this guy was that fucking important. And clever, he could see it in those dark eyes. Coal dissolved into a salt sea; intelligence flicking like sharks just below the surface. Sebastian wanted to dive deep into those eyes and let those sharks rip him apart...
Except that was very, very stupid.
Sebastian was very, very stupid. Little Shite moved and cut off his escape, the knife angled to slice into his spinal cord if he tried to pull back. Sneaky fucker. Clever sneaky fucker. Okay... Maybe it might be worth listening to the recruitment speech.
And maybe he just wanted to get out alive.
“You know,” Sebastian purred, leaning back from his throat until he felt the sharp point of the knife digging into his neck. “We might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Little Shite.” A risky move that, but he was a risky man. He had one hand still pinning the man’s free arm down and he slid his other along his chest, the silk smooth against his calloused hand. “Daddy didn't teach you how to make friends, huh?” He mocked, his hand moving up to cup his jaw. Sharp eyes locked with his own and Sebastian grinned broadly, “We can work on that.” He dipped his head in, brushing his lips against the other man’s, then closing that distance in a rough and brutal kiss.
He was messy and rough, nipping and biting and Sebastian eased his hand away from his jaw and up to the wrist holding the knife, his thumb rubbing circles on the smooth skin over his pulse. An almost caring, seductive move.
And then he gripped tight and twisted and the wrist popped from its socket with a sick pop and he broke the kiss, leaning back as the knife slid from the Irishman’s fingers.
“Give me a call, we can discuss my terms over dinner.” A cocky smile as he stood.
--
The dislocation wrenched a painful, surprised yelp from the pinned man, his whole body tensing up. After a second, he managed to collect himself enough to unclench his jaw, letting a seething hiss escape.
“You. Absolute. Cock.” He took a breath. “Fuckin’ bastard.”
“Give me a call, we can discuss my terms over dinner,” Moran replied with a cocky smile as he stood.
It seemed like all motivation had drained from the little man’s, as he let Sebastian go up to his feet without twitching so much as a muscle. He looked drained, sprawled on the floor, his suit rumpled and ruined by blood and grim. He didn’t seem to mind though.
“After this little stunt, you’d better make sure it blows my mind.” He drawled.
It looked like they were done for the time being, and Moran turned wearily toward the exit, keeping an eye on the little terror… Before noticing a blond lady standing near the door. She was armed with a rifle and looking at him, white as a sheet. Without a word, she moved to unlock the door and let him out. So, the little terror had had a gunman positioned to take him down if necessary. Smart thing. And from the look on her face, her boss probably wasn’t making a habit of recruiting people this way. Moran smirked. He wasn’t the norm after all.