by Kara Greenan
“I don’t know,” Sebastian says slowly, his voice even lower than usual. “I think it’s a grand idea.”
“We work together.”
“Perfect,” Sebastian replies, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Then we’ve already got the same schedule.”
London snorts, another thing he likes doing, besides scowling and looking fantastic in a pair of tight trousers. “How do you figure that?”
He doesn’t, it was just something to say to mask his distraction. He turns in his seat, his gaze burning into London as he lets a rather dirty smile pass across his lips. “We’d make it work somehow.”
London looks so taken aback that Sebastian immediately regrets relying on his usual way of flirting.
“You don’t even know me.”
“No,” Sebastian says, not letting his eyes dip to London's lips. “That’s what I’m proposing to change.”
That startles a laugh out of London. He slides off his barstool and slaps a familiar wallet onto the counter. Sebastian hadn’t felt him take that, either. “I thought you were a grifter. If that’s what you consider conning people, we might be in trouble.”
He walks away, leaving Sebastian behind with an uncomfortable feeling. He’s never liked rejection, but it stings worse when it’s from someone he’s genuinely interested in.
“Come for a coffee with me.” Sebastian doesn’t ask, as they sit in the storage unit after yet another meeting has concluded.
“Is that a question or a demand?” London hardly looks at him, finally spotting something over his shoulder. “Hey Ed? Come here for a minute?”
Ed is a hulk of a man, with a mindset that renders him basically useless for anything other than being The Muscle. London hops down from his makeshift seat, again landing almost soundlessly. They’re suddenly close enough for him to count London’s eyelashes individually. And then London’s hands are on his chest and Sebastian forgets how to breathe, and how to count, too. Only he’s stumbling back under London’s push, colliding with Ed’s broad chest before he finds his feet.
“Sebastian here needs someone to show him a good coffee shop. I’m busy.”
He doesn’t even wait for an answer; just slips away before the confused look on either their faces can morph into anything else.
“I’m busy too,” Ed rumbles. “It’s my second week as a security guy in Benson’s home.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” he says with a smile, one that flies right over Ed’s head. “I’ll manage somehow, thank you anyway.”
Potmore, standing just off to the side, can hardly contain his smirk. “Not that good with rejection, eh?”
“No,” Sebastian says truthfully. “But it’s not like I’ve tried yet, either.”
He doesn’t appreciate Potmore’s grin at all. “Oh? Going to go all out, yeah?”
He shrugs casually, mainly because he has no idea what that would mean in regards to London. “Might.”
“Well,” Potmore says, slowly, like he enjoys nothing more but dangling the information just out of his reach. “He’s probably going home via rooftop, so you could be there before him, if you hurry.”
“He said he has things to do.”
Potmore laughs, slowly collecting the last of the blueprints and storing them in his briefcase. “Yeah, he’s going to nap until midnight, until his actual recon starts.”
“Right. Well, I’ll be going then.”
There’s a silence, then an amused, “I thought you might be.”
He doesn’t dwell on Potmore’s comment, on the fact that his boss, for all intents and purposes, has clearly been keeping an eye on him and watching his interactions with London closely.
Instead, he hurries down the streets of Venice, the setting sun casting the old buildings orange and glinting off the water’s surface. He does his best to dodge the throngs of tourists and takes the narrower alleyways, the bridges no one needs on their holiday photos.
There are several ways into a hotel room that isn’t his own, from impersonating staff to the very effective method of simply lifting the room key off of his mark. Neither of these two extremes is really an option now. He has, after all, already established a relationship with several people working at the hotel, that’s how he got the other crewmembers their upgrade. Yes, he decides, taking the last corner and weaving through the tourists as they buy masks for the upcoming festival from a little portable stall. This time, he’ll go straight up and ask.
Twenty minutes later, London’s reaction is everything he could have hoped for.
Sebastian chose to sit right in the corner by the desk, reclining on the single armchair instead of the bed. Even after the upgrade, this room, while exclusive and nicely furnished, is nothing compared to his three-room suite at Danieli’s. He doesn’t move as the heavy curtain is pulled aside and London climbs into his own room via the third story window. It doesn’t take him long to spot Sebastian after that, but the moment where he just stands there with his eyes wide is gratifying regardless.
“What the fuck?” London manages eventually.
Sebastian gets up leisurely, carefully returning the magazine to the table. “Hi,” he says casually. “Do you always enter your room through the window?”
London gapes at him some more. Sebastian lets him, gives him the few seconds while he walks around to lean back against the table. He’s almost close enough to touch London now, if only he stretched out his hand to bridge the gap between them. All in good time, he reminds himself as he gives London his most winning smile.
“Seriously, what the fuck?”
Sebastian’s smile broadens. “You’ve said that already.”
“Well. What the fuck are you doing here?” London steps around him, digging his wallet and room key from his jeans and chucking them on the table. “Also, has anyone ever told you that stalking someone is really not the thing to do?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“You did, at the meeting earlier. I don’t remember issuing an invite for you to come to my hotel room. How did you get in?”
Sebastian shrugs, takes a step closer. “I’m a con man.”
London rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. My word, whatever would we do without your clever observations?”
He starts rummaging through a duffle bag he left leaning against the wardrobe, extracting a criminally soft-looking blue jumper. Sebastian hopes he’s going to put it on, it would go incredibly well with his eyes.
The bathroom door slams a moment later. He can hear London muttering to himself about nosy colleagues and pushy fanboys.
Well, he’s certainly more than that. He raises his hand and knocks on the door. “May I come in?”
“Hasn’t stopped you before,” London shouts back.
To his delight, London is indeed wearing the jumper. It’s far too big on him, hanging to his mid-thigh and well past his hands. The black one he’d been wearing previously lies discarded on the floor, trailing small amounts of gravel behind it. London lets the water run until it’s warmed to his satisfaction before washing his hands thoroughly.
“Can we talk?” Sebastian asks softly.
London doesn’t look at him. “Will it make you go away?”
Sebastian shrugs, another smile playing on his lips. “Not if I do it right.”
London just sighs and concentrates on drying off before inspecting his palm, still avoiding eye contact.
“So talk.” He opens the bathroom cabinet and pulls out a small first-aid kit, looking through it intently. He finds a bottle marked ‘medicinal alcohol’ and sets it on the sink, before pulling out some cotton wool.
Sebastian’s hand closes around his wrist when he tries to open the bottle without actually gripping it properly.
“What are you doing?” he asks, frowning at the odd behaviour. He turns over London's palm and sucks in a breath. “You’re bleeding. You can’t use alcohol on that.”
“It’s medicinal alcohol.”
Sebastian just shake
s his head and sets the bottle aside, pulls out gauze and, after a bit of digging, another bottle instead.
“Alcohol can damage your skin,” he says while soaking the gauze with the clear liquid. “It’s better to use the saline solution.”
“If you say so,” London mutters.
He watches Sebastian clean his skin with meticulous little dabs, oddly quiet with his hand in Sebastian's.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing, just a scrape. It happens in my line of work.”
Sebastian takes a fresh piece of gauze, wets it and continues his work. Thankfully, the cuts aren’t deep.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
London starts at that, but Sebastian holds tight to his wrist. “No. Why?”
“Girlfriend, then?”
This at least gets a chuckle out of him. “Definitely not.”
Sebastian shoots him a quick smile before returning his attention to London’s palm. “I didn’t want to presume. So you’re not seeing anyone, got no prospects lined up?”
“None.”
Sebastian nods, to himself mostly, before capping the saline solution and packing it away neatly. The gauze lands in the bin before he grabs London's hand again, bringing it up to his face to inspect it more closely. “I don’t think there’s any gravel stuck in there, but you’ll have to keep an eye on it. Also I can’t really put any plasters on. Do you want me to bandage it?”
London actually laughs at that, pulling his hand free. “For a few scrapes? No, that’s quite alright.”
He’s pulling back, physically and emotionally, from that tiny bit of intimacy they just shared. Sebastian can’t, he won’t accept that and so he gently catches London’s wrist again, pulling him closer. It’s nothing more than a suggestion, definitely a grip London could resist. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem so inclined and goes with it instead, his breath catching in his throat as he looks up at Sebastian, their chests pressed together.
“So if you aren’t seeing anyone right now,” Sebastian says, his voice rumbling through his chest so that London can surely feel the vibrations in his own, “Why won’t you get a coffee with me?”
London is still staring up at him. He takes a deliberate breath, collects himself. “Because it wouldn’t just end with the coffee.”
Sebastian thinks his heart just skipped a beat. “That’s kind of the point though, isn’t it?”
“Look,” London says, extricating himself far too efficiently. Sebastian immediately misses his warmth, the way his body had felt pressed against his own. “I’m sure this might be easy for you. But it isn’t for me. These, these things… they always end messily, especially when it’s with a co-worker.”
Sebastian steps closer again, his palm steady where it grasps London's waist. “Doesn’t have to be. We’re both adults.”
He thumbs at London's lip because he can no longer deny himself that little pleasure. Then he leans in, lets his hand slide to London's neck so his lips can take the place of his finger. “And I want you. Badly.”
London groans but doesn’t move closer, still holding back. “It’s a bad idea,” he whispers.
“You keep saying that,” Sebastian replies, just as softly. Their lips are still barely pressed together, while his hand on London's waist is clenched tightly.
London gasps shakily and lets his mouth fall open.
He isn’t sure what holds him back, but something in London’s stance tells him now is not one of those times when he pushes forward, when he does something without regard for the consequences, trusting in everything working out instead.
London shifts his weight, moving to the tips of his toes, mouth pressed fully against Sebastian’s now in the hottest, most chaste kiss he’s ever experienced.
Sebastian can’t help but smile, relieved when he feels one in return.
And then, London’s phone rings.
“Don’t answer that. Please.” Sebastian doesn’t beg. But there’s a desperation colouring his voice that he simply doesn’t do, except when he sees London’s intrigued eyebrow rise. “Please,” he tries again, finding he likes the way London presses his eyes closed like he’s grasping at composure himself.
“It’s my work phone,” London says, eyes still shut. “I have to, Will would never call unless it was important.”
Sebastian groans but pulls back, knowing the job comes first, at least in their line of work. Still, Potmore has shitty timing.
And then his phone buzzes too and he looks down to see Ed’s name. He frowns, picking up the phone while his eyes meet London’s, equally confused.
“We have a problem,” Ed says by way of greeting. “I just found out they’re moving it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But that means –”
“Yeah. This shit is going down tonight.”
London, present day
London jolts awake to insistent banging. There’s the pitter-patter of rain on the roof. When doesn’t it fucking rain here? He’d move if he could, but he’d miss his city and friends too much.
There’s another knock. It's half three and someone is attacking his door, like they'd actually be able to tear down the heavy wrought-iron monstrosity. The thought alone is ridiculous, as it takes almost all his strength to slide the five-inch thick contraption open. The reason for his slightly elevated heartbeat isn't fear of someone entering without his express permission, or at least before unlocking the door first, it's just that he's never had uninvited visitors before. Sure, three people know where he lives, but that doesn't mean they drop by unannounced for tea and crumpets. Anything outside of work is still off limits. He likes his personal space to remain, well, personal. And anyway, he hates crumpets.
"London!" comes the muffled shout from outside, no doubt echoing down the hallways. Good thing he doesn’t have any neighbours. "Open up, I know you're there!"
So, four people now know where he lives. And Sebastian apparently doesn't believe in phone calls.
London rolls out of bed and pads towards the banging. He shivers when his naked feet step from the thick rug onto the cold concrete floor. He's told himself time and time again to lay out more rugs. There's several around his bed and desk area, even paving the way to the bathroom. The room's vastness, the open space he loves so much, the high ceilings and construction beams overhead that form his own personal play and practice area are usually things he adores. Hearing his own footsteps echo off the distant walls now just leaves a tiny flame of regret in his heart that he squashes ruthlessly even before reaching the door and unlocking it.
The banging finally stops when Sebastian hears the heavy deadbolt being pushed aside. London braces his feet and leans his body in, fingers wrapped around the cold handle. The wheels spin into movement and the door slides back, revealing Sebastian's lean form. The light from the bedside lamp is too weak and too far away to illuminate his face, but London doesn't need to see it to identify Sebastian's scowl.
"Why the fuck do you sleep in an empty warehouse?"
"Why the fuck are you here?" London asks back just as snappily. He still steps aside to let Sebastian pass before sliding the iron door closed again, securing the locks automatically. By the time he turns around, Sebastian has wandered half way across the large room, heading towards the only source of electrical light, offset by the moonlight streaming in through the window panes lining the upper part of the high walls.
Sebastian misses a step, stumbles and automatically puts his hand out for something to brace himself against. He only encounters air but somehow manages not to fall on his arse.
"Are you drunk?"
Sebastian whirls around, pointing his finger at London dramatically while walking backwards. "It's Frankie's fault!"
"Frankie?" Did Sebastian go and hang out with her? Why?
"That's the one," Sebastian says, nodding furiously. He spins around, too far, and swerves back before resuming his walk towards London's bed.
Heart suddenly racing for an entirely different reason, L
ondon wants him anywhere but there. Images fill his mind before he can stop them, of the last time both Sebastian and a bed were involved. He hurries to catch up.
"What do you want?" It comes out harsher than he intended but he's glad for it, makes this easier.
Sebastian, the bastard, doesn't stop until he reaches the low-lying futon. He stares at London's rumpled sheets. Then he starts toeing off his boots.
"What are you doing?" London all-but shrieks. He'd been asleep three minutes ago; his brain is not equipped for this.
"Don't want to get the pretty carpet dirty, do I?"
London watches him struggle to get his right foot free before the words sink in. "That's a Persian rug not a pretty carpet."
Completely ignoring him, Sebastian frees his foot and almost topples over before going to work on the second boot. Once he's stood there in only his socks, he looks up at London.
There are words of praise on the tip of London's tongue, the innocently proud expression on Sebastian's face prompting an almost Pavlovian response.
But London bites his lip instead, scowls at Sebastian until the hopeful glint in his eyes dies.
That's right. Sebastian is one hell of a con artist, not because he's particularly conniving or cunning. Instead he pulls people in with a genuineness that overwhelms them. London has no doubt that the majority of his success is in the fact that Sebastian is convinced of the truth in the lies he's telling.
London crosses his arms in front of his chest. He wants to crawl back underneath his duvet and preferably wake up to a world where Sebastian Walker isn't the newest member of his team.
"Why are you here?" He sounds tired, even to his own ears.
Sebastian shrugs, before taking off his heavy coat. It's only slightly damp considering he'd been walking through the outskirts of London without an umbrella in the middle of the night. But there isn’t much more than a sheen of dewy water coating the high thread-count material.
Sebastian carefully drapes it over the nearby office chair, the one London likes to spin in, and maybe kick his feet off the ground to propel himself across the concrete floor. Another reason that he hasn't put down rugs everywhere.