by Kara Greenan
Sebastian turns to him. It takes him a moment to focus his gaze on London. "Wanted to chat, didn't I?"
London shivers slightly. No doubt it’s the crappy heating in this place. The bills during the winter months are astronomical, so he turns it down as much as possible, but even now, during the summer months, it never really warms up properly.
"At this time of night? What about?"
Sebastian gesticulates wildly, body swaying from the sudden movement. "I wanted to make sure."
"Sure of what?"
"That Frankie wasn't lying, of course."
London's scowl deepens. "Of course."
Sebastian looks around, peers into the darkened corners of the warehouse, of London's home, like if he squints hard enough, he can see in the dark. "So it’s true?"
London curls his toes into the rug, trying to warm them. He's tired and cold, a combination that does not improve his mood in the slightest. "Is what true?" he bites out.
Sebastian gives him an exasperated look, like London is being obtuse. "That you and Hale aren't together."
London narrows his eyes. "We aren't friends, Walker. Hell, I can hardly stand you right now. Why the fuck would I need to answer that?"
Faster than London had expected, Sebastian steps forward, warm fingers encircling London's upper arms. His eyes are serious, with a touch of desperation. "This is important. I need to know."
London shivers, no doubt from the sudden heat on his cool skin. It takes everything in him not to jerk back. London is faster than Sebastian by a long shot, but strength wise Sebastian's bigger frame has always given him an unfair advantage. If he pulls back now and Sebastian digs his fingers in at just the right moment, the fact that London is trapped will be apparent to them both.
So instead, London matches Sebastian's unsteady gaze, radiating superiority with every part of his body. Sebastian might be a grifter, but London is a natural people person and he's learned early on in his life how to use his smaller stature to his advantage. Also, right off the bat with his first foster family, London learned that quick wit and a sharp tongue would keep most of the bullies at bay. He's perfected it over the years. He lets one eyebrow rise while he pops out his hip. It's not easy to look down at someone who's taller than you, but London manages.
He grins, not friendly in any way. "Why? Would it bother you if we fucked? I'll be honest, the thought crossed my mind about two seconds after meeting him."
Sebastian's face turns from slightly desperate and drunk to something stormy, something real. London wouldn't stop now even if he could.
"I won't lie. I've thought about Hale above me, holding me down, giving it to me and making me moan from the stretch of it."
Sebastian shakes him and it's the perfect time to wrench free. Only London doesn't, instead the dirty smile that's made its way onto his face deepens.
“Stop it,” Sebastian whispers.
He can’t, not now. He’s feeling vindictive; he can’t handle Sebastian in his home, standing next to his bed like he has any right to it. “What’s it to you. You left.”
Sebastian flinches as though London slapped him. That’s right, the truth hurts, doesn’t it?
“I came back.”
London chokes out a dry, mocking laugh. “We were bound to cross paths on a job eventually, don’t make it sound like it was of your own volition.”
Defiance spreads over Sebastian’s face, a tiny flame that London wants to fan until it’s a forest fire, wild and true. “I bought the ticket before Frankie contacted me.”
“Sure.” He drags the word out, making sure that Sebastian knows exactly how much he believes that. “And now you’re here to rekindle what we’ve lost.”
That spark in Sebastian’s eyes flares brighter. “Don’t,” he warns. “I didn’t have a plan, but I wanted to see you.”
“That’s right,” London whispers viciously. “Get angry like a spoiled brat when someone doesn’t believe your lies for once.”
Sebastian steps closer. London doesn’t step back.
“Go ask Hale. Ask him when I booked the flight.”
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie to you. I never have.”
Hah. “Liar.”
“Then ask Hale, if you don’t believe me,” Sebastian repeats, truly angry now. He jerks London close. Their chests collide, narrowed eyes boring into each other. “Call him. Now.”
Sebastian has never scared him, not once, but London likes pushing people. Therefore the current predicament of being caught up in Sebastian's arms isn't so much upsetting as it is thrilling.
His dirty smile aims to cut. “If I call him now, we sure as hell won’t be talking about you.”
"Stop it," Sebastian says in a low voice, almost a growl. "Are you seeing him, or not?"
"Fuck. You," London responds, grin turning slightly manic.
Sebastian lets out a shout of frustration, pushing London hard in the direction of the bed. But London doesn't spend half his free time up in the rafters for nothing. He could catch his own fall, only he doesn't want to. He wants to keep pushing Sebastian’s buttons. He wants to make him hurt like he hurt London.
And so he goes down, landing on the downy duvet and moments later Sebastian is on top of him. He's panting hard, his hair – coloured almost white nowadays – coming loose from the bun and framing his face in a tangled mess. Sebastian has the most ridiculous hair and London would like nothing more than to knee him in the balls for it, just on principle. But he can't because Sebastian has trapped his leg between his thighs, squeezing tightly. He wraps both of London's wrists in one large hand. With the other he slides his palm up London's torso, over his collarbones and stops to wrap his fingers loosely around London’s neck.
London shifts. A thrill shoots through him when he realizes his movement is considerably restricted now. He isn't sure if he could break Sebastian's hold, not without playing dirty. He’s no longer tired, eager now to see where this will lead. “Maybe I will ask Hale,” he says, his Adam’s apple vibrating against Sebastian’s palm. “Not that it matters. Whatever we had is long gone.”
The fight seems to drain out of Sebastian all at once. He just sits there, pinning London to the mattress, his gaze falling on London’s lips again and again. In a mesmerised stupor, Sebastian runs his thumb over London’s jaw, up to his bottom lip. He doesn't seem to notice how London's breath stutters at the soft caress.
"Please," he whispers, voice raw. "Please tell me."
He looks at Sebastian hovering above him, gorgeous face framed by a halo of hair, his expression sad and desperate. And suddenly he doesn't want to see it anymore, doesn’t want to continue playing this game. "I'm not seeing anyone."
Sebastian's head drops to London's chest in relief. For a moment, London thinks this is it, this is the moment Sebastian will finally tell him why he just left. What they'd had was something special and London still doesn't understand why he ended it, he never has.
Instead, Sebastian raises his head, scowling. "You did that on purpose this afternoon."
Okay, that's quite enough of that. London takes the opportunity to break free from Sebastian's grip and in the same movement roll him onto his back. He climbs on top of him and leans down.
He has to cross his eyes to glare at Sebastian from this close but he does it anyway, watches Sebastian become pliant under his grip.
"You should fuck me instead," Sebastian whispers. "Now."
“Shut up, Walker.” London leans down further, barely lets their lips touch. “And put that mouth to better use.”
He feels those plush lips twist into a smile under his own. For a moment, he wonders who won that round. When Sebastian’s fingers leave a blazing trail against the skin of his back, when they shift, their bodies aligning perfectly, he decides it doesn’t really matter.
Venice, almost a year ago
The alteration of the Venice plan went to shit before it even started. And that’s aside from the fact that it interrupted a p
erfectly good kiss. Sebastian watched London change in record time. Gone were the oversized jumper and devilishly tight skinny jeans. Now he’s dressed head-to-toe in a proper cat-burglar suit, the only concession to normality a large jacket and backpack.
With the unexpected shift in plans, it fell to Sebastian to get London inside the hotel to facilitate the getaway. It worked, right until they knocked on the door. Potmore should have been waiting for them but instead a staff member with a tray of dirty dishes greets them.
“Can I help you, sirs?” he asks in heavily accented English.
London freezes up beside him, like his body is still trying to decide on whether or not to run.
Sebastian slumps against the wall drunkenly, slurring, “Diana? ‘M looking for Diana. That’s Travie, she wants t’ meet him.”
London stays quiet, trying to hide the bulging backpack from view. People might start asking questions when they see the modified crossbow sticking out and Sebastian does his best to keep the attention on himself.
“There’s no Diana here,” says the room service attendant, squinting at them.
London takes that as his cue and grabs Sebastian’s elbow, hiding the bag behind Sebastian’s back. “He must have gotten mixed up,” London says smoothly and Sebastian is surprised by how steady his voice is. He also plays dumb really well. “We’re looking for room 514?”
Sebastian has seen London study the blueprints for hours on end. There isn’t the shadow of a doubt in his mind that London knows every vent shaft he can squeeze through, which walls are thick enough to hold a safe. He damn well knows they’re on the sixth floor; he made them take the stairs.
“This is floor six, sir.”
“Ah, see! That’s the problem then, wrong floor all along. Thank you.”
Sebastian leans on him heavily, giving London time to scoot the bag around as they head back down the hall, further away from their destination.
It takes them ten minutes to finally return without anyone seeing them, and that’s the second part of the plan gone belly up. London knocks an intricate pattern because Potmore is a fucking sadist when he wants to be, but Potmore opens the door seconds later.
“What the fuck took you so long?”
“Room service guy,” London says absentmindedly while elbowing his way past and heading for the window.
Sebastian watches the lithe muscles in his shoulders work as he retrieves the crossbow, assembling it in a practiced way.
He makes himself turn away and focus on Potmore instead. “Weren’t you in here? While the room service guy was, I mean.”
Potmore doesn’t answer immediately, which grabs London’s interest. He turns around, still screwing the left bow limb into place.
“There’s a wardrobe back there.”
London smirks. “William, please tell me you hid in the closet.”
“Shut it, London. What if I did?”
London gets the other bow limb and repeats the process of attaching it, hands working quickly with the stock wedged between his thighs. He gives Potmore a sweet smile. Sebastian knows that they’re old friends but he still doesn’t like their interactions.
“Then I’ll be milking this for at least the next two years.”
Potmore grumbles, which is as good as an admission. “I hate it when we fight, darling. It always turns ugly.”
“Wait,” Sebastian says slowly, his mind going a mile a minute. “Were you two like, an item?”
London snickers, hands flying over the next piece of the crossbow. “William wishes.”
Which isn’t really an answer at all. “So you weren’t?”
London mutters something under his breath about being saddled with two idiots.
“It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” Potmore soothes, gently patting his arm.
“Stop flirting, you idiot. Help me cock the string,” London says and when Potmore opens his mouth for a reply, he quickly continues, “And make one joke about cocks and I will knee you so hard in yours, you won’t be able to stand up for a week.”
“You know what,” Potmore grumbles while stepping closer to help. And really, Sebastian could have helped, too, only without all the banter and easy familiarity. “You’re no fun when you don’t get laid regularly.”
“And what,” London huffs as they both pull back the string, “would you even know about my sex life?”
Sebastian can’t help but hope that the answer to that particular question is nothing.
Once the damn thing is cocked, Potmore takes a step back and wipes his brow – like that bit of exertion was all too much for him. “It’s not like I didn’t offer.”
“A quick romp in a three-star hotel room is not an offer, it’s an insult.” London turns towards the huge window overlooking the wide stretch of water below, opens it and aims. “If you’re not prepared to wine and dine me properly, you’re shit out of luck.”
He pulls the trigger and the arrow flies true, sailing through the night sky silently, the thin cable trailing behind it like a comet's tail. There’s a dull thud when it hits the side of the building opposite, just above level four. Hooks extend from the arrow and bury deep into the concrete. London gives the cable an experimental tug.
Sebastian can’t look away from him, fascinated by how concentration has smoothed out his features, the moon highlighting his cheekbones and gleaming eyes.
London climbs onto the window’s ledge and secures the end of the rope with the twin claw he jams into the wall, pulling until the cable has almost no slack at all.
“Here,” he says, handing each of them a pulley for the makeshift zip line. “Remember to hold on tight. No safety nets here.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Potmore grumbles. “You just like to boss people around.”
“See me laughing when your arse lands in the water.”
Potmore huffs and steps onto the windowsill, letting London check the pulley and assure himself it’s attached correctly. “Make sure to break with your legs.”
Potmore scowls and jumps, flying through the air on a slight downwards slope, accelerating as he goes.
“I would, you know?” Sebastian says while climbing up next to London and hooking the pulley into place.
London checks his too. “Would what?” he asks distractedly.
Sebastian smiles and makes sure it sounds like a promise. “Wine and dine you properly.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just jumps.
Dramatic exit aside, he decides almost immediately that this is the worst way to travel, ever. The rush of wind whips his hair about his face and his fingers feel like they’re losing their grip when he’s barely halfway across.
The fact that he probably wouldn’t die if he fell now, assuming he doesn’t hit a mooring pole or a boat, is still inadequate consolation.
London follows quickly behind him, swinging his legs like there’s no greater joy than this.
For a short while, everything goes to plan. Right up until it doesn’t.
They hadn’t expected sirens. Not this early.
Sebastian looks out the window they’d climbed through moments earlier, the zip line from the hotel above gently swaying in the breeze. He can’t see any police or security, but there’s water below the window. Unfortunately, he muses, as he inspects the wide canal, it’s definitely big enough for police boats. He turns back, trying to focus on their current predicament and not fill his mind with negative possibilities.
“Shit, fuck, buggering fuck,” Potmore curses as he jams the foot long statue into a watertight case filled with soft padded material. He snaps it shut before stuffing it into London’s backpack. “I’ll cut the rope. Don’t want them to follow us across the zip line.”
London efficiently gathers the tools he used to open the safe and places them next to the padded bag. He zips up the backpack and shoulders it. Unlike Potmore and Sebastian, London doesn’t seem rushed or on edge.
No, he looks happy.
“Don’t be an idiot,” London says
, and Potmore stops in his tracks. “That’s not a rope, that’s a cable. It can hold your weight. It’ll be hours before you do any damage to it with a fucking knife.”
“Well, do you have a better idea?”
“Yes,” London heads for the door, not stopping until he reaches the far side of the apartment. “We start running and stop worrying about a form of transportation that requires a very specific set of pulleys to operate. What, you think they’re going to make their way hand-over-hand along it? They aren’t fucking James Bond.”
They hurry to the other side of the apartment, where London has already pulled down a rope ladder. Sebastian chances a glance outside and sees another canal below - this one blissfully cop-free too, not a motorboat with flashing lights in sight.
“What?” London asks, when Sebastian looks at the floppy ladder dubiously. There it is again, that happy note to his voice, like he’s actually enjoying this. “Didn’t think my evenings spent casing this place didn’t involve some little additions, did you?”
It must be the adrenaline that makes him speak the truth. “It’s not like I wasn’t thinking about you. You just weren’t doing your job in my imagination.”
“If you two don’t shut up and find a more appropriate time to flirt, I will take the fucking backpack and leave you here for the police to find.”
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” London asks, grinning. “Come on then, one at a time, or this thing can be rather difficult to climb.”
Potmore flips him off before grabbing the ladder and manoeuvring out the window.
Sebastian is next. He steps onto the windowsill and sees the dark water below and feels the coarse ladder against his palm. He wonders how he even ended up here. He doesn’t do this; he doesn’t climb onto rooftops with the help of the most treacherous contraptions.
“I usually just drink champagne and make people give me their belongings willingly,” he tells London, who is grinning up at him excitedly from inside the window, his hair windswept and his expression the most carefree Sebastian has ever seen it.
He pinches Sebastian’s calf playfully. “Eh, where would the fun be in that?”