[Dịch] I Wanna Live, Not Just Survive Tonight (Fassavoy)

Tên gốc: I Wanna Live, Not Just Survive Tonight

Tác giả: enby0angel

Nguồn: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12463926

Ngôn ngữ: tiếng Anh

Người dịch: Joel Freak

Thể loại: BL, fanfiction, crossover

Fandoms: Assassin’s Creed (2016), Wanted (2008)

Pairing: Fassavoy – Callum “Cal” Lynch x Wesley Gibson

Rating: Teen và lớn hơn

Nhân vật: Callum “Cal” Lynch, Aguilar de Nerha, Wesley Gibson

Tóm tắt:

Tuy nhiên, điều nổi bật nhất mà hắn nhớ được là đôi mắt xanh lấp lánh như thể chúng chứa đựng sao trời, cách mà chúng ánh với sự thích thú và bừng sáng xuyên bóng đêm.

**Chú ý: Bản dịch đã có sự cho phép của tác giả

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Hiệu Ứng Tràn. Đó là cách Sofia gọi nó – những ảo giác và mộng mị xuất hiện sau lần đầu hắn dùng cỗ máy Animus, những hình ảnh của Aguilar de Nerha và những giấc mơ về cuộc đời của ông. Hắn chật vật điều khiển và đè nén chúng trong một khoảng thời gian dài, nhưng có vẻ cuối cùng hắn đã phần nào có được chút kiểm soát. Ít nhất, hắn bắt đầu quen với chúng. Những cơn đau đầu không còn tệ như trước nữa.

Khi những ảo ảnh đặc biệt này mới xuất hiện, chúng đều là những cái nhìn thoáng qua trong khi mơ. Nhưng sau một thời gian, hắn dần nhận ra một số cảm xúc lạ lẫm, những cảm xúc chỉ có thể thuộc về Aguilar. Bây giờ hắn đã quen với giận dữ, hận thù và mất mát, nhưng những cảm xúc khác bắt đầu trồi lên – chúng mới mẻ và lạ lùng, hắn chỉ có thể nói như vậy.

Rất nhanh, những giấc mơ cho thấy hình ảnh thoáng qua của tấm vải trắng, và Callum gần như cảm nhận được nó khi hắn nhớ được Aguilar lướt bàn tay trên tấm vải. Hắn nhớ được mái tóc màu sẫm, rất mềm mại dưới đầu ngón tay khi Aguilar nhớ được đã từng luồn ngón tay vào mái tóc đó trong bóng tối và sự tĩnh mịch của màn đêm. Tuy nhiên, điều nổi bật nhất mà hắn nhớ được là đôi mắt xanh lấp lánh như thể chúng chứa đựng sao trời, cách mà chúng ánh lên với sự thích thú và bừng sáng xuyên bóng đêm. Chúng mang màu sắc của bầu trời mùa hạ, và Aguilar nhớ được ông đã không đủ vốn từ để diễn tả trọn vẹn chúng.

Và bởi vì Aguilar nhớ được đôi mắt đó, Callum cũng nhớ được.

Callum không biết đôi mắt, mái tóc, tấm vải thuộc về ai; hắn không chắc mình muốn tìm hiểu. Dù Callum đã quá quen ứng phó với chết chóc và mất mát nhưng hắn không thể rũ bỏ những cảm giác và xúc cảm đi cùng giấc mơ về đôi mắt xanh. Hắn chưa từng cảm thấy như vậy, và hắn không nghĩ ra từ nào – tiếng Anh hay tiếng Tây Ban Nha – chỉ để thử miêu tả.

Đó là… khao khát, gần như thế; nỗi khao khát được thấy lại đôi mắt ấy, để chúng xoa dịu hắn, để chúng nhìn thấu hắn.

Tỉnh dậy từ một giấc mơ, toát mồ hôi và thở hồng hộc, làn da râm ran, Callum nhận thức rõ ràng cảm xúc mà hắn đang trải qua mãnh liệt tại giây phút này là gì – yêu. Aguilar de Nerha đã yêu người mắt xanh bí ẩn này, và Callum chẳng biết gì về người đó cả.

Thật bực mình.

Những giấc mộng ngắn tiếp tục và một đêm nọ, Callum – đúng hơn là Aguilar – nghe thấy người mắt xanh cười. Tiếng cười rất đẹp, trong trẻo như chuông ngân nhà thờ. Callum tỉnh giấc cùng cảm giác trái tim sắp xông khỏi lồng ngực, và suy nghĩ đầu tiên hiện lên trong hắn là, “Hoá ra Aguilar đã yêu một người đàn ông.”

Những giấc mơ bắt đầu tràn vào tầm nhìn khi hắn không ngủ. Hắn sẽ thấy bóng vải trắng toát lướt qua tầm mắt và khi ngoảnh lại hắn sẽ chẳng thấy ai. Thỉnh thoảng hắn cam đoan mình cảm thấy bàn tay lạ, mát lạnh rà trên da khi hắn nằm trên chiếc giường bẩn thỉu trong một nhà trọ ven đường, chờ giấc ngủ đến chiếm lấy mình. Hắn cảm thấy hơi thở ấm áp phật vào tai khi đứng nhìn thành phố chuyển động xung quanh. Một lần Callum suýt thấy được gương mặt người đó. Hắn đang đứng một mình trên nóc một toà nhà chọc trời, quan sát những ánh đèn của thành phố và lắng nghe tiếng rì rầm của xe cộ bên dưới; quan sát nhưng không bị quan sát. Hắn vừa bước một bước lại gần mép của toà nhà thì một giọng trong trẻo nói tiếng Tây Ban Nha thanh nhã cất lên, “Cẩn thận đấy, hỡi người em yêu.”

Hắn quay ngoắt lại, lưỡi dao gắn trên cánh tay bắn ra, rồi hắn đông cứng trước một ảo ảnh. Đó là chàng trai choàng tấm vải trắng, đứng cách hắn hơn một mét. Hắn nhớ ra từng thấy màu xanh ngây ngất trong mắt chàng trai nhưng những đường nét trên gương mặt cậu biến mất khỏi ký ức hắn cùng với ảo ảnh. Callum thả lỏng, rút lưỡi dao lại dưới tay áo. Hắn nghe máu mình đập thình thịch trong tai. Điều khiến Callum ngạc nhiên nhất là hắn không thấy giận chàng trai vì đã lén tiếp cận hắn hay khiến hắn bối rối. Dường như hắn đã quen với cảm giác đó và hắn nhận ra mình không hề thấy phiền lòng.

Rất nhanh Callum hầu như không thể nghĩ đến việc gì khác ngoài chàng trai ám ảnh những giấc mơ của hắn. Khi không di chuyển Quả Táo từ nơi trú ẩn này sang nơi trú ẩn khác, hắn cố gắng vẽ cậu. Hắn không đếm nổi mình đã vẽ đôi mắt bao nhiêu lần nhưng lại không thể nhớ ra phần còn lại của gương mặt. Có lần hắn đã tức giận đến mức ném cây bút trong tay về phía đối diện của căn phòng. Hắn nghe thấy nó đập mạnh vào tường và gãy đôi.

Làm thế nào cuộc sống của hắn trở thành thế này? Hắn dành ra nhiều ngày cố gắng chạm đến những ký ức thậm chí không thuộc về hắn và cố nhớ ra diện mạo của chàng trai. Cậu ta đã chết được 500 năm rồi, hắn còn quan tâm làm gì? Thế nhưng…

Thế nhưng hắn quan tâm. Hắn quan tâm vì hắn không thể tống khứ đứa con trai chết tiệt đó ra khỏi đầu dẫu cố gắng thế nào. Bất cứ khi nào hắn chịu tổn thương, chàng trai đó đều ở bên hắn cùng giọng nói nhẹ nhàng và ngôn từ xoa dịu. Callum ghét cái cách hắn bắt đầu tiếp nhận những ảo ảnh, thậm chí còn ham muốn chúng. Sao Rikkin không để hắn chết cho rồi, chết tiệt?

“Chúng ta không bị thời gian chi phối, tình yêu của em ạ,” chàng trai nói và bao phủ bàn tay của Callum – của Aguilar – bằng tay của mình. “Chúng ta còn cả cuộc đời ở phía trước, cả vĩnh hằng. Em trải qua từng ngày chờ đợi chàng quay về với em. Em có thể chờ thêm một chút nữa, thân yêu của em.”

“Tại sao?” Callum thì thầm. “Cậu vẫn còn chờ sao? Cậu là ai?”

“Em thuộc về chàng. Em thuộc về chàng và chàng thuộc về em. Chỉ điều đó là quan trọng thôi.”

Callum lắc đầu. Điều này chẳng có nghĩa lý gì cả – nhưng mà từ trước đến giờ, có phần nào trong cuộc đời hắn có nghĩa lý gì đâu? Hắn thở dài. Chàng trai nhẹ nhàng ngâm nga một khúc hát ru, dần dần chuyển qua hát khẽ, và Callum thấy mình chìm vào giấc ngủ. Đêm đó, hắn nằm mộng thấy chàng trai nói với mình, “Hứa với em rằng chàng sẽ lành lặn trở về bên em.”

Hắn nhớ được một giọng chỉ có thể là của Aguilar từ miệng mình đáp lại, “Ta là một Sát Thủ. Lũ Dòng Đền khốn nạn sẽ không bao giờ ngăn được ta trở về bên em, hỡi tình yêu của ta.”

Từ lâu Callum đã bắt đầu trông đợi những điều không ngờ đến, đặc biệt là những điều liên quan đến ảo ảnh của chàng trai mắt xanh luôn ở bên hắn bất kể hắn đi đâu, tuy nhiên, tình cờ gặp được một sát thủ siêu nhân không phải chuyện hắn giải thích được.

Hắn đang ở Đông Moravia, Quả Táo được giữ an toàn trong chiếc túi khoác qua vai khi hắn len lỏi qua các con phố. Cách đây không xa có một tu viện; chắc hắn sẽ an toàn ở đó trong một thời gian.

Hắn bước vào toà nhà cũ, đầu cúi thấp, mũ trùm đầu che kín nửa khuôn mặt và một tay thường trực ở trên chiếc túi. Hắn đi qua vài người nhưng không ai quá chú ý đến hắn bởi vì với họ, hắn chỉ là một kẻ lang thang tìm chỗ trú qua đêm. Dù vậy, Callum biết mình đang bị theo dõi. Hắn nhìn quanh, vờ tỏ ra hứng thú với kiến trúc của toà nhà nhưng không thấy ai để ý đến mình. Hắn cúi thấp đầu như cũ và tiếp tục bước đi.

Hắn dừng lại. Ai đó đang ngâm nga và Callum nhận ra khúc ca đó, giọng hát đó ở bất cứ đâu. Đó là khúc hát ru tiếng Tây Ban Nha chàng trai mắt xanh thỉnh thoảng hát, khúc hát luôn luôn giúp hắn bình tâm. Do đó, mặc kệ đó là quyết định không sáng suốt chút nào, hắn đi theo tiếng ngâm nga.

Hắn im lặng dừng trước lối vào một căn phòng đầy những sợi dệt. Có người đang đứng tựa vào một thứ trông giống như chiếc khung cửi khổng lồ, và đây chắc chắn là người đó ngâm nga. Người đó ngừng lại và Callum cúi xuống sau lối vào, tránh khỏi tầm mắt người đó. Tuy nhiên, hắn không rời đi – hắn đã trải qua quá lâu mà không có được lời giải về thân phận của chàng trai mắt xanh, và chắc chắn đây là một nơi tốt để bắt đầu hơn là ra đi tay trắng. Giọng nói của cả hai giống hệt nhau. Người đó – nam giới – lại bắt đầu ngâm nga, và Callum quá tập trung vào giọng của cậu ta đến mức gần như không nghe thấy có kẻ lén lút tiến đến sau lưng.

Callum quay ngoắt lại và thấy một họng súng chĩa về phía mình, và hắn hất mạnh tay kẻ tấn công khi súng nổ. Viên đạn khiến trần nhà rạn nứt và Callum bị một cú đá nhắm chuẩn vào bụng ném văng ra. Hắn thành công lăn người lại và trở về tư thế cúi mình, nhưng kẻ tấn công lần nữa chĩa súng vào hắn và hắn thấy được ngón tay kẻ đó đang siết dần cò súng và cơ hội duy nhất hắn có là cố gắng cản nó nhưng hắn có thời gian để—

Hắn quăng mình sang một bên và phát súng đó quá to nên chắc chắn không thể là một khẩu súng duy nhất. Callum lần nữa xoay người và trông thấy người khi nãy đứng bên cạnh khung cửi hiện tại đang đứng trong hành lang với khẩu súng trong tay và chiếc khăn quàng quấn quanh đầu, che khuất tóc và nửa khuôn mặt dưới khỏi tầm nhìn.

Nhưng mắt cậu ta… trời đất quỷ thần, đó là chàng trai mắt xanh.

Chàng trai điềm tĩnh, trầm lặng, tràn đầy yêu thương có đôi mắt xanh, luôn khoác một tấm vải trắng mềm mại thường ám ảnh giấc mơ của hắn hiện tại vẫn còn sống và khỏe mạnh. Cậu đang mặc một chiếc áo khoác da màu nâu và cầm trong tay một khẩu súng.

Quỷ tha mà bắt gì thế này?

“Tôi không biết anh là ai,” kẻ tấn công Callum hầm hừ, giọng nói có vẻ là nữ, “nhưng chuyện này không liên quan đến anh. Đứng ngoài cuộc đi.”

“Tôi cũng không biết cô là ai,” người mắt xanh đáp, giọng nói khàn và mang đậm chất Mỹ khiến Callum ngạc nhiên, “và thành thật là tôi đếch quan tâm. Cút ngay.”

“Hắn có thứ tôi muốn.”

“Tôi. Không. Quan. Tâm.”

“Nếu anh hạ súng xuống, tôi sẽ để anh sống.”

Người mắt xanh cười lớn. “Cô thật tình không biết tôi là ai, đúng không?” Cậu ta dường như thả lỏng. “Tôi không biết cô là ai nhưng tôi biết cô là. Bọn Dòng Đền các người nghĩ các người thật cao quý và có toàn quyền chi phối kẻ khác. Biết gì không, đồ ngu, không có chuyện đó đâu. Và trước khi cô mở miệng hỏi thì trả lời luôn, tôi không thuộc hội Brotherhood sang chảnh với chữ ‘b’ viết hoa.”

Người phụ nữ cứng người, Callum chứng kiến bàn tay cầm súng của cô ta run lên nhè nhẹ. “Anh thuộc hội Fraternity. Hội Sát Thủ Fraternity.”

Mắt-Xanh nghiêng đầu, ánh mắt lấp lánh niềm vui thú. “Cô không nghĩ chúng tôi bỏ qua chuyện này chứ?”

Người phụ nữ siết chặt súng, nỗ lực ngăn bàn tay run rẩy hiện lên rõ rệt trong động tác. “Anh có thể tiếp tục giữ vị thế trung lập. Đứng ngoài cuộc đi.”

Mắt-Xanh nhướng một hàng lông mày. “Đây là nơi khai sinh hội Fraternity. Cô đang đứng trên lãnh địa của tôi.”

Tất cả diễn ra chỉ trong nửa giây: người phụ nữ nheo mắt và ngón tay cô ta siết cò nhưng Mắt-Xanh cũng hành động tương tự. Hai viên đạn xoáy trong không khí và đâm thẳng vào nhau khiến cả hai đều vỡ tan. Trước khi người phụ nữ kịp hiểu chuyện gì đã xảy ra và bóp cò lần nữa, Mắt-Xanh đã tặng cho cô ta một viên đạn vào chính giữa hai mắt. Cô ta ngã ngửa, đôi mắt mở trừng trừng nhưng không thấy được gì nữa, máu đỏ thẫm tụ thành vũng quanh đầu như một vầng hào quang chết chóc rồi tràn vào các vết nứt gồ ghề trên sàn, lan ra như mạng nhện. Trong khi tất cả những việc này diễn ra, Callum vẫn đang quỳ trong tư thế kỳ dị trên sàn, không chắc bản thân nên làm gì cho phải.

Hắn rời mắt khỏi người phụ nữ đã chết và phát hiện Mắt-Xanh đang nhìn mình với một sự chăm chú đáng sợ. Nó khiến hắn rợn gáy. Đôi mắt giống hệt, không nghi ngờ gì, nhưng chủ nhân của chúng đã thay đổi, bị năm tháng nhào nặn thành một người hoàn toàn khác biệt.

Chàng trai ôn hoà, dịu dàng và tràn đầy yêu thương mà Aguilar de Nerha đã say đắm không còn, và Callum chẳng biết lúc này hắn đang nhìn ai nữa.

“Bọn Dòng Đền chết tiệt.” Giọng nói của Mắt-Xanh kéo hắn ra khỏi dòng suy nghĩ. Đôi mắt cậu không hề rời hắn, kể cả khi cậu giắt khẩu súng vào lưng quần jean. “Chúng toàn xía vào chuyện của người khác nhỉ?”

“Phải,” Callum thấy mình đáp lại. “Chúng là như vậy.”

“Cô ta không làm anh bị thương, phải không?” Đôi mắt rà soát hắn từ trên xuống dưới xem có thương tích nào không.

Trừ vài vết trầy trên bàn tay khi hắn ngã xuống sàn – và mấy vết thương cũ, tất nhiên – Callum không cảm thấy bị đau chỗ nào. “Không,” hắn đáp lời thanh niên và cậu gật đầu. Mắt-Xanh bước tới trước vài bước và chìa tay ra. Callum không chần chừ nắm lấy và để cậu kéo mình đứng lên, một điều bản thân hắn rất bất ngờ. Từ lúc nào hắn không đề phòng người lạ vậy kìa?

Nhưng kẻ dị thường mắt xanh này đâu hẳn là người lạ, phải không? Nhắc tới mới nói, những lời tiếp theo phát ra từ miệng Mắt-Xanh khiến hắn choáng váng.

“Lẽ ra tôi sẽ nói thật mừng khi gặp lại anh nhưng anh không phải anh ấy, đúng không?”

Callum chớp mắt –thành niên vẫn chưa buông tay hắn. “Không,” hắn nói, giọng run rẩy. “Tôi không phải.”

Mắt-Xanh thở dài, nhìn xuống đất. “Vậy là Aguilar thật sự đã biến mất, phải không?” Đây không phải câu hỏi.

Callum gật đầu. “Phải.”

Mắt-Xanh lần nữa ngước lên nhìn hắn và nhướng một hàng lông mày. “Nếu anh không phải anh ấy, vậy anh là ai?” cậu hỏi.

“Callum. Callum Lynch.” Callum không nỡ rút tay về, còn Mắt-Xanh không có vẻ gì nao núng vì hành vi của hắn cả.

“Rất vui được gặp anh, Callum Lynch,” thanh niên nói, nụ cười hiện rõ trong giọng nói. Sau cùng cậu đã rút tay – Callum không hề lập tức nuối tiếc sự tiếp xúc, chắc chắn là không – và ra dấu về hướng căn phòng mình vừa bước ra. “Mời anh.” Callum nhìn lại người phụ nữ nằm chết trên sàn. “Đừng lo về cô ta,” Mắt-Xanh nói, nhanh chóng bắt được suy nghĩ của Callum, “đội vệ sinh sẽ đến ngay. Rất nhanh thôi sẽ giống như cô ta chưa từng ở đây.”

Callum không có lựa chọn nào khác ngoài quay đi và bước vào, Mắt-Xanh theo sau hắn. Ở trong phòng, bị hàng ngàn sợi dệt và âm thanh đều đều của con thoi di chuyển qua lại bao vây, hắn không thể nhịn được nữa, hắn phải hỏi, “Cậu là ai?”

Mắt-Xanh ngừng bước, Callum xoay người và lại thấy ánh mắt chăm chú nhìn mình. Mắt-Xanh giơ tay và tháo chiếc khăn quàng xuống khỏi tóc và mặt mình – sau một thời gian dài, Callum cuối cùng đã biết diện mạo của chàng trai mắt xanh, và nó khiến hắn ngây ngẩn.

“Chàng quá khen em rồi, tình yêu của em à.”

“Có lẽ, nhưng ta chỉ nói sự thật.”

“Wesley Gibson,” Mắt Xanh – bây giờ mang tên Wesley – nói. “Anh là hậu nhân của Aguilar phải không?”

“Sao cậu—”

Wesley giơ một tay, ngắt lời hắn. “Tôi biết tên anh. Tôi biết anh là Sát Thủ của hội Brotherhood, tôi biết anh đang giấu gì trong cái túi kia và tôi biết ả Dòng Đền đến để đoạt nó. Tôi biết Sát Thủ của hội Brotherhood là hậu nhân của Sát Thủ đời trước, nhờ vào ADN vòng xoắn ba mà các người đều có.”

Callum nhướng mày. “Tôi không biết cậu là ai,” hắn chỉ ra. “Tất cả những gì tôi biết là tên cậu và cậu đến từ một thứ gọi là hội Sát Thủ Fraternity.”

Wesley nhếch mép rất khẽ. “Anh không biết hội Fraternity à?” Đôi chút hổ thẹn, Callum lắc đầu. Wesley cười toét miệng, đút hai tay vào túi áo khoác. “Lịch sử dài lắm nhưng anh chỉ cần biết là trong khi anh có ký ức của tổ tiên anh thì tất cả ký ức của tôi đều thuộc về tôi. Chúng thuộc về tôi ở tiền kiếp.”

“Tiền…” Giọng Callum nhỏ dần. “Giống đầu thai chuyển kiếp?”

“Chính xác là giống đầu thai chuyển kiếp,” Wesley gật đầu. “Con người trước đây và con người hiện tại của tôi không có quan hệ máu mủ, theo tôi biết là vậy – hồi thế kỷ 15 họ không có thói quen giữ nhiều hồ sơ ghi chép cho lắm. Thời đó chủ yếu chỉ có chiến tranh và hành hình thôi.”

Callum phì cười. “Tin tôi đi, tôi biết đấy,” hắn nói, một nụ cười dần hiện lên khuôn mặt.

Wesley cười tủm tỉm. “Đầu thai chuyển kiếp là độc chiêu của hội Fraternity, tôi nghĩ thế, giống như ký ức di truyền là độc chiêu của hội Brotherhood. Mỗi hội đều có một danh sách tiêu chuẩn anh cần đánh dấu vào trước khi trở thành sát thủ.”

Callum gật đầu nhưng tâm trí của hắn phần lớn đều tập trung vào việc cố ghi nhớ những đường nét trên gương mặt Wesley. Cậu là một chàng trai đẹp – hắn hoàn toàn có thể hiểu tại sao Aguilar tha thiết với cậu đến vậy.

Nhưng Callum không phải Aguilar de Nerha. Hắn là một con người độc lập với mục tiêu và suy nghĩ của riêng mình, và Wesley hiện tại cũng đã khác. Cả hai đều rất khác với đôi tình nhân bị cấm đoán thuộc thế kỷ 15.

“Tôi chưa bao giờ biết cậu trông ra sao,” hắn thì thầm trước khi kịp ngăn mình lại.

Wesley hơi nghiêng đầu, im lặng yêu cầu hắn nói rõ hơn. “Ký ức di truyền, Hiệu Ứng Tràn, nó gây ra ảo giác; những giấc mơ và hình ảnh thuộc về ký ức của tổ tiên tôi, của Aguilar,” hắn giải thích. Rất nhiều ký ức là về cậu. Hoặc là chàng trai kia, tôi chắc vậy.”

Đôi mắt quá-xanh của Wesley lấp lánh sự tò mò gần giống như trêu đùa. Cố gắng không đỏ mặt, Callum tiếp tục, “nhưng tôi chưa bao giờ thấy mặt cậu, lúc nào cũng chỉ là mắt cậu thôi.”

Nụ cười trên môi Wesley phai nhạt, gương mặt cậu không mang biểu cảm gì và gần như không đọc được. “Với tôi cũng vậy,” cậu thừa nhận, tránh nhìn Callum. “Bất cứ khi nào những ký ức cũ về Aguilar ghé thăm, tôi không bao giờ thấy được mặt anh ấy, mặt anh. Lúc nào cũng mờ mờ. Bực thấy mẹ.”

Wesley bắt gặp ánh mắt hắn lần nữa, và trong mắt cậu có thứ gì đó lạ lẫm – đau đớn? Mất mát? Tuyệt vọng? “Anh nhìn giống anh ấy,” Wesley thấp giọng. “Hai người giống nhau thấy mẹ.”

“Cậu và cậu ấy cũng thế.”

“Đôi mắt chàng chứa đựng cả dải ngân hà. Chúng mang trong mình những vì sao.”

“Nếu đúng là vậy thì mắt em mang trong mình bầu trời mùa hạ, tình yêu của ta ạ.”

Wesley cười toét miệng rồi lắc đầu và nhìn xuống. Trông cậu có một chút ngượng nghịu, cả hai vai cũng hơi rụt lại. Callum không nghĩ ra nên nói gì, vì thế hắn nhìn quanh căn phòng. “Nơi này là gì?” hắn hỏi.

Wesley ngước nhìn hắn, khuôn mặt mang vẻ cảm kích vì hắn chuyển chủ đề. Cậu đứng thẳng người, duỗi hai vai và Callum cảm thấy sự tự tin dễ dàng lần nữa đong đầy con người cậu. “Nào,” cậu nói. “Tôi đưa anh đi tham quan một vòng.”

Callum cười, ung dung bước cạnh Wesley.

Sau ngày đó là hết lần đầu tiên này nối tiếp lần đầu tiên khác.

Lần đầu tiên Callum cứu mạng Wesley là khi cả hai bị thành viên hội Dòng Đền hợp tác với phản đồ của hội Fraternity tấn công (Wesley đã giải thích toàn bộ chuyện về Sloan với nỗi bực tức thấy rõ). Callum đã kịp chặt đứt viên đạn làm đôi trước khi nó bắn trúng Wesley.

Lần đầu tiên họ hôn nhau là khi vừa thoát chết trong gang tấc, một tình huống cả hai đều ghét phải nhắc đến một thời gian dài sau đó. Họ đều đứng dậy, cả người dính đầy máu và bụi đất, quần áo rách rưới và bẩn thỉu, và nhìn vào mắt nhau. Họ không biết người nào bắt đầu và cũng chẳng quan tâm đến điều đó, họ gặp nhau ở khoảng giữa trong sự mê loạn của nỗi tuyệt vọng và niềm khuây khỏa khi thoát khỏi cái chết. Họ gắn lấy nhau như nam châm và giữ nguyên tư thế đó như thể họ là nguồn ôxy của nhau.

Lần đầu tiên họ chung giường diễn ra cùng ngày với nụ hôn. Sau khi xử lý vết thương cho nhau, Wesley đã hôn Callum, một tay đặt lên gáy hắn để giữ lấy hắn. Tất nhiên Callum không cần thuyết phục vì những nụ hôn của Wesley đủ say đắm rồi. Lần đầu tiên của họ gấp gáp và tham lam, cả hai không muốn gì hơn ngoài phác họa cơ thể của nhau. Lần thứ hai rất khác biệt – chậm rãi, dịu dàng, là mọi thứ lần đầu không có, và thật tuyệt vời. Sau đó, họ cùng nhau chìm vào giấc ngủ lần đầu tiên, và có một đêm ngon giấc mà cả hai đều không có trong suốt nhiều năm qua.

Callum có nhiều kẻ thù, Wesley cũng vậy. Họ không thể cùng xuất hiện quá nhiều lần ở nơi công cộng bởi vì lúc nào cả hai cũng bị theo dõi. Callum chưa bao giờ có một cuộc sống bình thường, tẻ nhạt, nhưng hắn thấy bản thân ham muốn những niềm vui đơn giản như hôn Wesley ở nơi công cộng, hẹn hò ở quán cà phê, cùng đi dạo dưới ánh đèn của thành phố về đêm. Hắn rất hiếm khi có được những điều đó nhưng Wesley xứng đáng.

Callum và Wesley không phải đôi tình nhân bí mật của thế kỷ 15, nhưng họ là đôi tình nhân bí mật của thế kỷ 21.

Lần đầu tiên Callum ngỏ lời yêu Wesley là vào nửa đêm, trong sự im lặng của căn phòng tại khách sạn bên đường họ trọ lại. Wesley đang lướt bàn tay trên ngực hắn, và Callum không kiềm được những từ ngữ thoát ra miệng. Wesley hôn hắn trước khi hắn phát hoảng quá độ, và lặp lại lời hắn. (“May mà tôi cũng yêu anh đấy, đồ chết bầm ạ.”). Dù trước đây họ đều chưa từng thật lòng yêu một người, nhưng cả hai sẵn sàng cùng nhau tìm hiểu.

Hết


Bạn Joel dịch fic này làm món quà tặng chính mình, và thật may là hoàn thành kịp thời hạn.

Tựa fic là một câu trong bài Angel with a Shotgun (The Cab); bạn Joel để nguyên tiếng Anh, không dịch sang tiếng Việt. Bạn có thể nghe bài hát trong vid dưới đây.

Nhân tiện, đây là vid Brandon (Shame) x Wesley (Wanted).

Bạn giữ nguyên BrotherhoodFraternity, không dịch, bởi vì ‘brotherhood’ và ‘fraternity’ đồng nghĩa; dịch ra tiếng Việt sẽ khó phân biệt (lại một điểm chung nữa giữa Cal và Wesley).

Ngẫm lại thì hai thanh niên này có nhiều điểm chung đến kỳ lạ!

Người ta (cụ thể là kiếp trước của bạn Wes) có “terms of endearment”, thanh niên Wesley có “terms of revilement”. Wesley mà chửi với tần suất như trong phim chắc bạn Joel mệt mỏi.

[Cherik] Resemblance

Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandoms : Wanted (2009), Murphy’s Law Season 3 (2005), Hex Season 1 & Season 2 (2005)

Rating : M

Pairing(s) : Mcfassy – Wesley Gibson (Wanted) x Caz Miller (Murphy’s Law); implied Malachi x Azazeal, Jo Watkins x Malachi, Jo Watkins x Azazeal (Hex),

Genres : Fanfiction, slash, crossover, AU

Characters : Wesley Gibson, Caz Miller, Malachi, Jo Watkins

Warning: implied incestuous relationship

Summary :

The question was how Caz was able to tell so much about the boy’s eyes. His eyes were striking, yes; still, they weren’t striking as his tailored midnight outfit, and much less than the prominent tattoo on his neck, deliberately left for view by his open-collared shirt. The only reason Caz had been able to get a good examination of his eyes was because the boy had slid into the seat across from him, reserved for Wesley when he joined Caz later for an English breakfast. And also because his eyes were boring into Caz with a vehement passion exclusively saved for his most beloved or greatest adversary.

… Or, on some odd occasions, both.

Caz locked eyes with the boy and greeted him with a grin, taunting menace flaring like wild fire.

“May I help you with something?”

“Nothing,” the boy leaned in, countering Caz’s grin with his own cheeky one as he said, “it’s just you look so much like my dad, is all.”

An unlikely encounter of Wesley and Caz with the ‘messiah of the fallen angels’ – Malachi.

That this city was odd was the thought suddenly hitting Caz’s lazy mind as he sat in a little bistro, sipping his black coffee in the time of breakfast. Wesley had gone to tend to some small business and he’d promised to be back before breakfast was over; thus Caz had ordered a coffee and waited.

The morning was peaceful and the streets quiet, as though a mystical veil had been put over London, compelling its citizen to remain in sleep. The silence was unsettling compared to Caz’s still-fresh memory of this bustling city, and that was when the thought struck him: there were certainly strange things going on in this city. Well, to be fair, London, as Caz recalled, was never associated with ‘normal’ or ‘conventional’; but this time, it was a feeling of dreadful alienation that wormed through every nook and cranny that he felt, irrational yet couldn’t be shaken off, like an itch at the back of his mind he could ignore when occupied but became irritating again once he let himself relax. The dissonant serenity was one instance, another being the bizarre black symbol which seemed to be present everywhere, literally everywhere, even in this little bistro, with this pretty little waitress bearing it on the skin of her neck. Some odd fad he didn’t grasp?

And surely odder was the bevy of youths that just passed through the door, all dressed in black and having the same symbol tattooed on their neck. Their leader – Caz assumed – was a boy about sixteen or seventeen of age, ridiculously good-looking with brown curls and slightly tanned skin. The way he carried himself around the place exuded an air of recklessness and peril which immensely thrilled Caz – the similiar fatal attraction drawing him to Wesley in their first encounter at Belfast. In  a certain way the boy resembled Wesley, despite obvious differences in build and look; Caz had to admit, had he not already established a solid bond with Wesley, he would no doubt go for this boy, his age and sexual orientation be damned.

Another thing to remind Caz of Wesley was the boy’s eyes: piercing and carrying sharp chills within when they gazed at their subject. The color was the same – blue – though the shades were vastly distinct: Wesley’s was the blue of sky reflected in the ocean while this boy’s was the blue tint of ice.

The question was how Caz was able to tell so much about the boy’s eyes. His eyes were striking, yes; still, they weren’t striking as his tailored midnight outfit, and much less than the prominent tattoo on his neck, deliberately left for view by his open-collared shirt. The only reason Caz had been able to get a good examination of his eyes was because the boy had slid into the seat across from him, reserved for Wesley when he joined Caz later for an English breakfast. And also because his eyes were boring into Caz with a vehement passion exclusively saved for his most beloved or greatest adversary.

… Or, on some odd occasions, both.

Caz locked eyes with the boy and greeted him with a grin, taunting menace flaring like wild fire.

“May I help you with something?”

“Nothing,” the boy leaned in, countering Caz’s grin with his own cheeky one as he said, “it’s just you look so much like my dad, is all.”

Best pick-up line ever.

Caz couldn’t help sniggering when he asked with a little disbelief, “Me? Look like your old man?”

“Like splitting image,” the boy added, “to the extent it’d undoubtedly fool mortal eyes.”

Caz’s sniggers turned laughter. “Poetic much? Aren’t you a little too young to speak like that?”

“Can’t help. Dad speaks like that all the time. Kind of gets to me.”

“If your old chap looks like me, he must have had you at, what, ten years old?” Mimicking the boy’s gesture, Caz also leaned forward, cutting the already short distance between them.

“Much older, actually. Mother was young, but dad’s, well…”

Caz raised an eyebrow at his hesitation; he decided not to delve into the boy’s contrast use of tenses.

“…a dirty old man,” he commented between stifled laughter. “In fact, I don’t even know how old he was when he put me in my mother’s stomach.”

“So good for a son,” said Caz as he took out a cigarette. It was a bit silly of him to listen to some stranger’s family story (quite amusing by the way) – Wesley would laugh and call him a gossipy housewife, sure – but this was a good way to kill time; waiting was a truly dreadful bore.

While he was fumbling in his pocket for the lighter, from the group waiting behind the boy a girl wordlessly stepped up to light the smoke for him, as per the boy’s snapping fingers. Soon as she’d done her ‘duty’, the girl retreated to her place and resumed her silence.

Their ‘discipline’ had Caz amazed and struck him as a group of loyal servants following their absolute master, which was rather weird considering how all of them were roughly the same age and wearing more or less the same kind of outfit. His curiosity about the boy’s status prompted Caz to study him as he took in a lungful of nicotine. Holding the cigarette with his right hand, he went for the gun at his belt, hidden by his long coat.

Just in case

“Even your way of smoking is similar to his,” the boy said, after seconds of silent contemplation.

Caz grinned behind tendrils of smoke and threw his bag of cigarette in front of the boy. “At this point, I won’t be surprised if your old man smokes the same brand.”

“Not exactly the same, “ replied the boy as he was playing the bag with idle fingers. “One of his top favorites though.”

“Look, boy, if you miss your old man so much, why not go home and give him a hug, maybe a kiss? I don’t mind your company but my own may not fancy his seat being taken.”

To Caz’s surprise, the boy folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them, looking up at Caz with those pale blue eyes of his, made less piercing by a thin veil of emotion, perhaps longing.

“He left me some time ago and he isn’t available at the moment. Or anytime soon.”

The subtle addition of feelings in his eyes and the way he sounded made him much younger than his appearance – like a abandoned child – and it somewhat watered down all his strange behaviors since he took Wesley’s seat.

“…which is why I want to ask you a favor.”

“What do you want?”

“Be him for a while and…”

His eyes squinted at the mischievous gleam in the boy’s pale irises.

“…and receive this.”

His words were quick but his move was far quicker. His speed, almost inhuman, broke through Caz’s sharp instinct and trained defense as he pressed his lips firmly against Caz’s.

The boy smirked against Caz’s lips when he heard the twin ‘clicks’ echo dryly and twin rigid muzzles kissed his forehead and the back of his head.

“I believe you’re in MY place, boy, and I don’t fancy my place taken. Fuck off or I’ll make you.”

His mock British accent would be rather hilarious, provided it wasn’t spoken in a deadpan tone, accompanied by a gun. Just by his tone alone Caz could easily tell Wesley was deadly furious and his own code of ‘unnecessary violence avoidance’ was the only latch that kept him from blowing the boy’s brain. Yet the sight of his knuckles went bone-white denounced his hold on it was failing.

Caz reclined against his chair, making a distance with the boy; his gun, on the contrary, refused to part with the boy’s skull. Like Wesley, he, too, was very tempted to pull the trigger.

Despite threatened with two fully loaded guns, the boy was surprisingly unfazed; so were his followers. Their unmoving eyes became an anxiety that put a damp on Caz’s rage.

“Oh, your company’s back. Quicker than I thought. “

The boy chuckled, making a show of his licking his lips while gluing his eyes on Caz’s. “Mine seems unwanted.”

Slowly standing up from the seat, his gaze shifted between Wesley and Caz with obvious interest, all the while without the slightest concern about the guns and Wesley’s seething rage. “Thank you… for being him for a while…” he said, running his fingers absent-mindedly through his dark curls. “…do miss him too much, you know… Anyway, what a lovely company you have, desirable even…”

He wasn’t finished when Wesley’s fist came flying at his face. With a light tilt of his body, the boy dodged Wesley’s attack and caught a hold of his gun, forcefully steering it at Caz, the muzzle barely inches away from his forehead.

Wesley and Caz’s breath both hiked up.

“I really like both of you, which is a little strange for me. I guess, violence is uncalled for, eh?’

Wesley and Caz would remember what they were witnessing for the rest of their life, maybe in the next: the sight of the boy’s pale eyes turning red and his followers’ yellow, coupled with hellish pupils. Even the pretty little waitress that’d served Caz earlier was no exception. Behind them the walls were tainted with grotesquely shaped silhouettes

Quick as it had been cast, the illusion dissipated when the boy graced them with his cheeky grin. “See you later.“ He gave them a two-finger salute and made his way to the entrance, his gang following suit. “I’m called Malachi, by the way. Means Messenger,” he added, before disappearing from their sight.

It took them millennia to gather their wits, with a little help from the waitress’ calling for Wesley, who didn’t seem to notice he was standing frozen on his spot. The sweet smile she was wearing as she placed a glass of water and a menu in front of Wesley didn’t quite erase her devilish impression earlier.

“The fuck just happened?”

Wesley slumped back against the chair, beads of sweat visible at his temples.

“Who the hell is he? And him?”

“The former – no idea. The latter – his dad,” Cas replied between long, haste drags of his cigarette. “That shit of brat walked in, told me I had his old man’s face. Weird indeed, just not as weird as later.”

Wesley’s face went paler than it’d been. “Don’t tell me… father-fucker…?”

Caz winced at his choice of word and shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”

“Fuck!” Wesley cursed, fingers mussing his damp mob of chocolate hair. “Were we on drugs or something?”

“Probably. Except we weren’t,” Caz said and gestured to Wesley’s gun, still clutched in his tight grip like he’d entirely forgotten its existence.

“Holy shit!” Wesley exclaimed, slamming his gun on the table. Knowing how capable and unfazed the waitress was in dealing with ‘difficult situations’, he wasn’t bothered with subtleness.

Half his gun had been melted unshapely; the metal gave his skin a burn when he tried to touch it in disbelief.

Where the boy called ‘Malachi’ had grabbed…

“Crazy fuck,” Wesley barked out a laugh. “I’m scared shitless.”

“Well, that’s new. I thought there was nothing that could scare you.”

“Tell me you aren’t,” Wesley huffed.

“Way more than you are,” Caz admitted, inhaling another lungful of nicotine. “You saw that tattoo on his neck?”

“Yeah, his and theirs, and pretty fucking everywhere. Some new wacky fad?”

“Perhaps some cult.”

“This city’s getting nuttier than my last time here.”

“I suppose we won’t miss it for a while.”

Or a lifetime.

“Yeah,” Wesley agreed, dryly. “Next time someone offers us a job in London, remind me to shoot him.”

“Me first,” said Caz with a shrug. Taking the last drag of his cigarette, he crushed it in the ashtray and reached for the menu, which, of course, bore the same symbol on its hard leather cover.

“Still care for breakfast?” Caz grinned widely, waving the menu to Wesley, who took a side glance at the cover and grimaced.

“Maybe not. Let’s leave here. The quicker we finish our business, the sooner we can return to the States. Seeing that fucking symbol is enough to make me sick.”

Little did they know they’d soon be seeing that symbol in the United States.

——

Multitude shades of night reflected in his pale blue eyes as he watched, through the floor-to-ceiling window, London burn to life.

“Come back to me.”

A female voice commanded, turning his attention to the king-size bed in the middle of the room; on which laid a woman, dark hair cascading over her milky-white skin, barely concealing her feminine curves. He smiled and obeyed, losing articles of his clothing as he made his way back to the bed. When his head rested on her lap, he was like her, clad in nothing but his own skin, vigorous and youthful and sensitive to touch.

…and touch was her expertise.

He let out a soft sigh like a satiated cat as he felt her hand gently weaving though his curls to reach the skin of his neck, reconstituting the unearthly mark there with the tips of her nimble fingers.

“Jo,” he said, turning to look at her with his eyes, half-closed and glassy, “do you think I have any brothers?”

The woman stifled a laugh. “As if one little bastard wasn’t enough.”

“That means no?”

“Yes, that means no. Your father wasn’t very enthusiastic in childcare and your demonic howling almost had him gone mad several times. But for the whole ‘messiah of the fallen angels’ thing, I don’t think he would have ever wanted to make any children.”

“I feel unloved,” he groaned. “Why was I born to this cruel world?”

“To make my life miserable,” she quipped, “you and your daddy both.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, grinning cheekily at her. “But he’s been shagging women for millennia, I find it hard to believe I’m the only child.”

“Well, when he wasn’t making little devil bastards, he always remembered to use condoms.”

A laugh. “Someone’s jealous… ouch!”

He yelped, clutching his left ear, where Jo had mercilessly pinched.

“That’s to teach you some respect,” Jo reprimanded him. “But why suddenly bring this up, Malachi? It finally occurs to you that you have only child syndrome?”

Rubbing his ear, Malachi managed a pout before replying, “I saw someone who looks so much like dad it seems he’s dad’s son, not me.”

“Really? How alike?”

“If you see him, you won’t be able to tell the difference. I’d have mistaken him for dad if I hadn’t known he was human.”

Jo arched an eyebrow, half-surprised, half-dubious. “You’re sure you weren’t on drugs or under spell? I won’t be surprised if those angels resort to playing dirty.”

“Don’t take me for a stupid child, Jo,” Malachi deadpanned, his tone losing all previous gleefulness. “I know what I saw.”

Jo was hardly intimidated. “Not stupid, but a child nonetheless.” Gently pinching his cheek, she purred into his ear, “My child.”

Malachi made a derisive sound, but allowed the matter to slip. Arguing with Jo only further proved her point while he had better ways to show her later.

“He’s human and completely unaware of anything going on. He even threatened me with a gun.”

“I’d be surprised if he hadn’t,” Jo said, barely able to contain her snickers. “What did you do?”

“Nothing serious. I told him he looked like dad and…”

“And…?”

“…and I stole his lips.”

“Oh, that’s a surprise indeed,” Jo commented, mockingly. “I didn’t know you were also into men.”

“Not men, just him,” Malachi corrected her. “That he looks so much like dad made me want to take him right there.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Well, the same fact kept me from truly doing so. Paradoxical isn’t it?”

Jo’s eyebrows frowned into a disapproving scowl she was so used to as a teacher. “Azazeal would beat you bloody if he’d heard you.”

“Oh, don’t speak for him, Jo. I have a feelings he wouldn’t be too repulsed by it. Maybe even enjoy it.”

“You know, Azazeal, like you, is never short of female company. That’s even more so as he’s now in Hell.”

“I’ll make him forget them all.”

A devilish smile graced his lips as he looked at Jo attentively. “Give you some ideas for your erotica. I know you fancy that kind of stuff.”

“Cocky little bastard,” she cursed, unmaliciously. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell your daddy?

“I’d rather you did. That way he’ll be motivated to drag his arse up here to see me.”

“I don’t think Lucifer would let go of Azazeal anytime soon,” Jo quipped, recalling her recent visit to Hell. “Everyone down there knows why he was cast out from Heaven. Sort of an ancient crush, that is. His Father is a jealous God after all.”

“Screw him!” Malachi growled, “Next time you go there, tell that old fart soon as I finish here and up, I’m coming down to him next.”

“Last time I check, that ‘old fart’ isn’t quite ‘old’, not in look of course. Blue eyes, boyish face, great fashion sense – Victorian – and bloody gorgeous. No wonder he was His most favorite.”

She punctuated with a touch of sarcasm.

“Does dad fancy him?”

“Can’t speak for him. You have to ask Azazeal that.”

“I’ll put it at the top of my agenda.”

Jo contemplated Malachi for a few good seconds before saying, “You know, Malachi, it’s bloody like Electra complex. Only you are a boy.”

“I thought it was Oedipus complex.”

“Oedipus complex is when you want to kill your dad, not shag him,” Jo scowled. “What were you doing in my class?”

Studying your teats,” Malachi replied phlegmatically.

“Not having enough? I remember having to breastfeed you when you were a baby.”

“You weren’t with child at that time, were you?”

“Well,” Jo said, tugging a dark curl behind her ear, “obviously your daddy couldn’t find any other way to make up for your lack of maternal love, even if I couldn’t really give you what you needed.”

“Must have been hard for you.”

“You bet. I didn’t even breastfeed my own child – died right after birth. Not to mention you occasionally bit me with your demonic little fangs.”

“Didn’t I?” Malachi burst out laughing. “Can’t remember. Anyway, you’re the closest thing I have to a mother. And I’ve been sharing bed with you since forever. Does it qualify as Oedipus complex?”

“Sort of. A mixed case. I imagine Freud and Jung would find it intriguing. They’re both down there, by the way.”

“Remind me to ask them when I meet them.”

“Tell me, if you so wanted that Azazeal look-alike, why didn’t make him yours?”

“He’s owned already,” said Malachi, a brief image of bright blue eyes and sleek black leather flashing his mind.”Lovely one, just a little hot-headed.”

His voice trailed off, a touch of longing added to his tone. “A perfect fit. Body and soul…”

Jo didn’t fail to grasp the subtle change. “Envy?”

“Admire,” he said, “which is why I’ll let them live till the very last day.”

“Quite generous, eh?”

“I’m always generous with what I like.”

He said, and grinned at her. Her reply was a knowing smile.

“So, what’s you next plan?”

“I’m thinking about America. Maybe Florida. I heard the beaches are gorgeous this time of the year. And if we’re lucky, we can celebrate my first birthday on the Empire State Building.”

“Your first birthday? Right, gotta make it special. What do you want, then?”

“You always know what I want, Jo, as I you.”

She couldn’t help a rather undignified yelp as he suddenly turned them over so that she was now under him. He kissed her like the child he was, hungrily, greedily, on her lips. her ears, her neck and her breasts, making her giggle, then laugh aloud.

“Devil boy,” she cursed between breathless laughter.

“Plus, the quicker I’m done here, the sooner I can have dad back.”

His pale blue eyes flared like Inferno as he finished, “And I have a feeling I’ll be seeing that interesting duo in America.”

End

Note: In case you didn’t catch the hint, Lucifer is portrayed by James McAvoy (fancast by me) and ambiguously the ‘Charles Xavier’ in Fair Trade (‘Charles Xavier’ x Richard Wirth). This sort of explains his fascination with Richard Wirth (since Richard looks like Azazeal). He probably has a harem down there, full of men who bear Azazeal’s face (like Archie Hicox, Burke, Carl Jung, Stelios, Thomas Rainsborough, Guy Fawke…)

Jo’s fascination with erotica and her trip to Hell are canonical.

Jo’s comment on God: “His Father [God] is a jealous God” and Malachi’s comment on Wesley and Caz’s relationship: “A perfect fit. Body and soul” are both taken from Hex.

[Cherik] Getting Even

Somewhat a sequel to Beyond Flesh & Skin

Getting Even

Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandoms : Wanted (2009), Murphy’s Law Season 3 (2005)

Rating : T

Pairing : Mcfassy – Wesley Gibson (Wanted) x Caz Miller (Murphy’s Law)

Genres : Fanfiction, slash, crossover, AU

Characters : Wesley Gibson, Caz Miller, Cathy, Barry

Summary :

Caz’s face was so close to his that their lips almost touched, his breath ghosting warmly over Wesley’s skin as he spoke, “There’s a couple there. Is it the man or the woman you have eyes on?”

He leaned back into his chair and took a long drag of his cigarette. Softly blowing the smoke to Wesley’s direction, he added, “Or… dare I say, both?”

“Neither,” Wesley replied after taking a moment to contemplate the sinuous tendrils of smoke lacing with his fingers. “Let’s say they’re old acquaintances from Chicago.”

Caz’s eyes widened in realization and he smiled, an actual smile, not his usual smirks or grins. For a split second he actually looked… benign.

“I see. Sack-of-shit best friend and cheating girlfriend. The last you’d expect to run into in Manhattan huh?”

“Weslie ~!”

Cockney-accented voice deliberately dragged put, followed by the leather-bound menu hitting the oaken table with a thud. Killer instincts alerted, his body tensed momentarily, every fiber flaring up and ready to fight when long, lean cigarette-scented fingers seized his chin and tilted his head so that he was met with cerulean eyes.

Piercing. Smoldering. Much like a leopard’s.

Don’t cats loathe sharing attention?

“What, Colin?”

Catching the hand by its wrist, Wesley snorted, feigning annoyance to hide the heat assaulting his cheeks for getting carried away by Caz’s intense look, which seemed to undress him in one second just to devour him in the next. In bed, it surely was a turn-on; in public, it still was, yet what subsequently followed was awkwardness and embarrassment. They hadn’t donned a suit and dined at a five-star restaurant only to savagely tear off their expensive clothes and fuck each other like rutting animals in some toilet stall. Wesley preferred it later, and on a bed, please.

“You,” Caz said between a thin veil of smoke from the cigarette held between his left fingers, leaning back into the big, cushy chair and lifting his gracefully long legs to rest on… Wesley’s lap under the table, “insisted that we try fine dining for a change. And yet you’ve looked at that direction four times in nineteen minutes…”

“You’ve been counting?” Wesley’s eyebrows arched up in surprised blended with disbelief.

“… and fourteen seconds. Yes, I’ve been counting,” replied Caz, shark grin too wide for his own good.

Wesley winced a little when Caz’s calves – all of sudden and no doubt on purpose – rubbed him through the fabric. His body jolted and a deep blush threatened to creep up his neck as he realized how promptly some part of him reacted to Caz’s harassment. He did not miss the wicked gleam in Caz’s eyes, so peculiarly cat-like.

“Shit, put your fucking legs down Colin!”

Before the whole goddamned restaurant notice was a tacit warning.

Wesley wasn’t ashamed by their relationship, to say the least; still, as he had been straight and had a girlfriend (thanks for reminding), he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the whole idea of public teases and flirtations Caz was coercing him into.

Let them see. The defiant look in Caz’s eyes, half-hidden behind the glass of champagne, seemed to retort.

Knowing Caz Miller, Wesley was certain he wouldn’t bat an eye even if every single person on Earth watched as they were fucking.

Is this your way of asking to be handcuffed and whipped tonight? Wesley quirked an eyebrow and countered.

We’ll see who’ll do who. Taking a sip of his champagne, Caz smirked, and refused to move his legs.

If there was one reason for him to regret making Caz the perfect weapon like himself, it would be that things were particularly difficult to win dominance in bed. Sometimes, Wesley could best him while others, well…

“Seriously Weslie, you’ve been distracted,” Caz leaned in, his eyes squinting with a hint of menace. “Is there a beauty worthy of your attention around?”

“Off-work, off-trouble,” Wesley reminded him.

For a freelance assassin, our Wesley Gibson was surprisingly respectful to the law. When he didn’t need to break it, he preferred not to.

“No guns, knives or dynamites,” Caz grinned, placing his glass of champagne on the table and holding up both empty hands.

Wesley snorted. During his training, he had learned damn well that Caz possessed an uncanny ability to make a weapon out of almost anything, this half-full glass, for instance, or the golden liquid inside it.

Caz’s face was so close to his that their lips almost touched, his breath ghosting warmly over Wesley’s skin as he spoke, “There’s a couple opposite from us. Is it the man or the woman you have eyes on?”

He leaned back into his chair and took a long drag of his cigarette. Softly blowing the smoke to Wesley’s direction, he added, “Or… dare I say, both?”

“Neither,” Wesley replied after taking a moment to contemplate the sinuous tendrils of smoke lacing with his fingers. “Let’s say they’re old acquaintances from Chicago.”

Caz’s eyes widened in realization and he smiled, an actual smile, not his usual smirks or grins. For a split second he actually looked… benign.

“I see. Sack-of-shit best friend and cheating girlfriend. The last you’d expect to run into at Manhattan huh?”

Wesley’s answer was wordlessly grabbing the menu and contemplating the options. Since he forced all his attention on the variety of steaks and side dishes, he missed the queer glint in Caz’s eyes as he began studying the couple at the opposite corner with growing interest.

Like a leopard did his luscious meal.

Water was dripping down his chin, threatening to soil his expensive suit as Wesley looked at his reflection in the large, gilded mirror. His blue eyes contracted, cheeks flushed and lips a thin, strain line – all signs had indicated he was aroused.

Whether to mate or to kill, the lust was the same.

Wesley had been agitated since the moment he caught sight of Barry and Cathy entering the restaurant. Cathy was clad in a backless, wine-colored dress, showing as much skin as possible without being nude and pressing herself to Barry, who had his arm wrapped tightly around her waist in a possessive manner. He wasn’t jealous by their show – truth be told – had not felt a sliver of love for that cheating girlfriend the day he’d learned of her adulterous nature; still, just a sight of her being together with his once-best friend was enough to make his blood boil and whether he liked it or not, his attention had unconsciously kept veering back to them.

He scooped a handful of cold water and splashed on his face. Deeply he inhaled, filling his lungs with fresh air and then, exhaled. He repeated many more times to allow the water to seep into his skin and dampened his fire. He was the one to tell Caz they weren’t looking for trouble and going back against his words was the last thing Wesley wanted to do. Nights of leisure when they didn’t have to be on business like this were rare and he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than waste it to the likes of Barry and Cathy.

He took some tissues to wipe away the water on his face and hands. In the mirror his cheeks were still slightly flushed and his eyes were retaining a little murderous air but at least, his heart race had gone back to normal, the result of his rage subsiding thanks to the water. He spent a few more minutes fixing his suit and tie before leaving the bathroom.

Positive thoughts to keep his rage in check, Wesley mumbled as he was making his way back to the dining hall. He pictured Caz, all sharp and pretty like a leopard, in his charcoal suit, casually yet not inelegantly sipping his champagne as he waited for Wesley to join him at their table. He thought of what they could do, would do tonight until the dawn arrived and it spread a grin across his countenance, befuddling a few waiters and customers on his way – Caz’s shark grin was more contagious than he’d imagined. He chided himself for being distracted by Barry and Cathy while he should have been enjoying their time with Caz. Caz was his now, and Caz was far more loyal as a partner and faithful as a mate than Barry and Cathy would ever be.

He felt Caz’s eyes on him at his first step into the dining hall. It would be unsettling to most people, being watched inventively by such sharp, smoldering eyes – like a trembling fawn in the presence of a starving predator, waiting helplessly for sharp canine to rip apart the tender flesh of its neck and drink its warm blood. Not Wesley though. Wesley was no weak fawn and Wesley immensely enjoyed the predator’s attention focused solely on him.

He wondered if Caz would ever fail to blaze up the fire in him.

Caz was savoring some sort of dessert when Wesley came back to his seat. The manner in which Caz enjoyed the finer things in life – luxurious dining, expensive champagne, designer clothing and such – sometimes led Wesley to think if the former gangster-turn-assassin had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

Right after he sat down, he felt the weight of Caz’s legs on his lap. Just as Caz couldn’t keep his hands to himself, he couldn’t keep his legs either. Wesley had no other choice but to accept his fate as a leg pillow.

“Try some,” Caz gestured to the same dessert placed in front of him. “Really fine crème brûlée. Took the liberty to order it for you. You don’t mind?”

Wesley shook his head and dipped the spoon into the treat. To tell the truth, he hadn’t the slightest idea about what a ‘crème brûlée’ was in specific and fine dining in general since he hadn’t had a lot of opportunities in the past – the cost of one would have severely damaged his monthly budget. Thus he was fine with whatever Caz picked for him.

The cream was so soft it melted right on his tongue, leaving a lingering trail of sweetness which made his taste buds flutter.

“Shit, Colin, this cream- whatever it is- is so good!”

Caz graced with a smug grin.

All at once he leaned in, his nose almost touching Wesley’s, and he licked at a smudge of cream at the corner of Wesley’s lips. The moist sensation where Caz’d touched sent a ball of flame rapidly going south, which nestled in between his legs. Caz smirked upon witnessing his partner’s cheeks reddened by embarrassment and arousal both. He took a sip of his champagne, his tongue darting out to lick at his own glistening lips.

No, the God of Mischief’s name wasn’t Loki, Wesley seethed, his name was Caz Miller!

He managed to catch Wesley’s fist only a second before it connected with his jaw (which would be very painful for certain). “A kick in the teeth is good for some,” Caz softly sang, from some song Wesley’d never heard of, “a kiss with a fist is better than none. However… “ He placed a haste kiss on Wesley’s clenched knuckles before releasing him, entirely confident that his face wouldn’t receive another blow. ”… I prefer a kiss to a fist.”

Wesley was debating whether he should let it go when the sound of glass breaking caught everyone’s attention, his included, followed by the furious shouts and yells that were definitely inappropriate in a five-star restaurant (or anywhere for that matter). When he turned around, he was startled by the sight of Barry and Cathy engaging in a heated quarrel that climaxed with Cathy splashing her glass of red wine over Barry’s face, having his suit soiled, no doubt. Barry, shamed and enraged, would abandon any social norms and hit her if the restaurant’s security guards didn’t intervene and politely ‘asked’ him to leave.

Quite a show, Wesley thought, amused. What had made Barry so furious when only minutes ago they had been parading their love like the happiest couple on Earth?

He was greeted with Caz’s sardonic smirk when he turned back; the gleam in his cerulean eyes was too bright to trust he had been wholly uninvolved with this little ‘ruckus.’

Wesley arched an eyebrow questioningly, to which Caz only shrugged and signaled the waitress to bring the check.

The waitress’s face turned a shade darker than her mob of ginger hair when Caz blew a soft kiss at her after giving her a handsome tip. Wesley shot him a murderous look, trying to resist punching him square in the face, causing yet another ruckus. One in a night was enough for a prestigious five-star restaurant.

Someone had once told him, “Peace was always an option.” Right now he attempted to act on it. By saving his punches for later.

Wesley strongly suspected that it was a mere coincidence they encountered none other than Cathy, her eyes puffy, her makeup smeared and her mouth spitting venoms – for Barry, of course – as they were going through the parking lot. His suspicion only grew when Caz stopped about two feet from her, their echoing footsteps causing Cathy to look up and saw them both.

Her eyes went wide upon looking at Wesley – did recognize him – before her gaze shifted to the taller man by his side. The color that rose on her cheeks was disturbingly akin to the waitress’s as she approached them.

Fueled by intense jealousy, his rage flared up, threatening to burst out of him. He would have done something terrible (and violating his own code of not causing unnecessary trouble) if not for a pair of strong arms entertwining around his waist, breath scented with nicotine and champagne ghosting in front of his nose and firm lips capturing his.

Caz still tasted faintly of the crème brûlée earlier as their tongues battled for dominance and their hands roamed about each other’s lithe form, seeking control. It was the warning that they were in public and having an unwanted audience that lent Wesley enough strength and courage to not groan audibly when Caz broke the kiss. He cast a brief glance at Cathy, the corner of his lips lifting up and he led them both, arms still around Wesley’s waist, to where they had their car parked. Wesley didn’t need to see Cathy to tell her face had to be very ugly now.

The November winds put out some of the fire in him. Wesley tore off the tie to let his sweated skin kissed by the air; the sudden exposure to the cold caused him to shiver slightly.

Beside him, Caz was having his left hand on the wheel while his right was holding a half-burnt cigarette. He’d unknotted his tie, letting the silk fabric hang loosely around his collar bone, graciously outlined by the amber dome light. He was singing a horribly off-key yet not-so-unpleasant version of Garbage’s Crush.

“Something tells me you’d caused trouble.”

You’re just like me…” Caz finished the line and replied, “Causing trouble is my specialty.”

“How?”

“Easy enough,” a look of arrogance spread across his face. “A few roses, a flattery note and a little of Miller’s charms – there we had a fabulous show.”

Wesley’s snort was his poor disguise of suppressed laughter.

“You saw how all worked out. Plus…” Caz took a drag of his cigarette before he continued, “…she fell easily.”

“Barry even more easily…”

As Wesley burst out laughing, Caz resumed his off-key singing, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Really, Colin, why did that? You don’t know them nor they do you.”

After a while, Wesley’s laughter died out and he asked, wiping some mirthful tear off his eyes.

“Getting even,” he answered, “for distracting you. From me.”

Realization dawned on Wesley’s face and he shook his head, hitting Caz’s shoulders. “Show her I’m queer is hardly getting even.”

“No,” Caz replied with a grin, “showing her my boyfriend is hotter than yours is getting even.”

Another gush of laughter threatened to burst out again.

“You’re a fucking asshole!”

A moment of silence. “But thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

For once, Caz’s tone was free of innuendos or sarcastic remarks.

Wesley smiled. He liked Caz’s tone even when it was inappropriately flirtatious or sarcastic; but he loved it when it was sincere.

“Just to show my gratitude, I may not handcuff you tonight,” he added, after a short pause, “Still top you though.”

“We’ll see about that.”

End

Plenty of teases and fluff and little of plot.

A friendly reminder: Caz is a violent, maniac and bitchy asshole.

[Cherik] Beyond Flesh & Skin

Wes x Caz 01

Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandoms : Wanted (2009), Murphy’s Law Season 3 (2005)

Rating : M

Pairing : Mcfassy – Wesley Gibson (Wanted) x Caz Miller (Murphy’s Law)

Genres : Fanfiction, slash, crossover, AU

Characters : Wesley Gibson, Caz Miller, OC

Summary :

“I dream about yours,” Caz’s hands snaked around Wesley’s slim waist and settled on the front of his jeans. Through the fabric he fondled the boy, feeling complacent with the not-so-subtle change. “Hope that’ll please you.”

A click sound echoed in his ears and all of sudden his lips were kissed by cold metal. The same gun he’d used on his cellmate was now threatening to blow his brain off.

“Give me one good reason not to pull the trigger, motherfucker.”

The fire alarm went off, and chaos erupted.

The corner of Caz’s lips, barely healed, curved up in a smile. He’d heard the ruckus echoing beyond the iron bars – “rats” and “explosives” amongst incoherent shouts. He’d smelled the distinct odor of cordite traveling through the ventilation system. Both turned him on, made him want to shout and dance. He couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

That didn’t stop his smile turning into a wide grin, showing more teeth than proper.

“What’re ya grinnin’ at faggot?”

Obviously Caz’s grin, bordering on the edge of mania, had grazed someone’s nerves. Muscular am with a rhino tattoo barely visible under dark, coarse hair raised up and before Caz could retrieve his outrageous grin, he was struck hard across the face.

His lips split and blood dripped down his chin, onto the front of his prison uniform. “Pussy,” he spitted out and attempted to return the favor. For an ex-gangster his move was fairly decent, yet he was far too weak for his opponent, who effortless caught his wrist and yanked it down with enough force to send Caz falling face-first to the linoleum floor. A foot stepped on the side of his face, pinning his head flat against the cold material.

“Who’re ya callin’ pussy huh?”

Caz’s cheek burnt where the bare foot was, pain and anger both. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to remove the foot. It did, but only to plant a kick to his navel. Caz curled up into a ball, clutching himself tightly. He hadn’t eaten anything since the morning, his stomach practically empty, yet at the moment, he felt as if he was about to throw up. His throat stung and he tasted acid in his mouth.

“Pussy…” Caz’s voice was hardly audible.

He felt thick thighs clamping either of his sides, trapping him like a pincer, and a heavy, undeniable heat pressing to his back. If all the violence and pain hadn’t been enough for him to panic, this surely was. He had a very clear idea of what his cellmate could do to him, would do to him, and the knowledge made the pain his minimum worry. Caz squirmed between the stony thighs, kicking with all his remaining strength, which only resulted in the larger man gripping a handful of his hair and banged his head against the floor. The concussion blacked out his vision for several seconds and rendered his already weak resistance weaker still.

Caz shivered under the sensation of wet tongue assaulting the skin on his neck. His hands balled up in tight fists, blunt fingernails digging hot crescent holes into the tender flesh of his palms.

“Ya like it rough, don’t ya?”

Caz could not help a soft groan when a big hand twisted his hair again, harder this time, yanking it back so painfully he thought some of it must have left his scalp.

Robust fingers slipped past the waist band of his trousers, palming his cheeks before slapping them. Shots of pain went through Caz; he ground his teeth until his gums bled, the taste of copper mingled with acid flooding his mouth, threatening to overflow.

His body jerked violently when he felt a single digit enter him. It wasn’t foreign, truth be told – had done it before, had enjoyed it – yet for all the previous experiences he’d had up until now,  Caz wasn’t able to quench the feeling of utter disgust and shame swelling in his empty stomach.

“So eager to get ya ass fucked, right, cocksucker?” Breath feverish with lust and arousal blowing into his ear, finger drilling into him deeper and deeper.

“Not by you.”

A youthful voice edged with winter’s chill spoke up, followed sharp by several deafening gunshots, stunning Caz and his cellmate for a few seconds.

The metal door to their cell turned Swiss cheese and was kicked down, revealing a lean figure clad in leather, a M249 SAW in each hand.

“The fu…”

His cellmate didn’t have the chance to finish the curse, being abruptly shut up by a rigid kiss of the muzzle on his temple.

He would be wise not to test his skull against a M249 SAW.

A smirk spread across boyishly handsome features when piercing eyes looked down to meet Caz’s; the devious gleam in impossibly blue orbs sent a surge of electricity down his spine. His state of pain and humiliation momentarily forgotten, replaced by a raging flame coursing through his veins as Caz drank in the dangerous lithe figure clad in sleek black leather. Were he not trapped, he would have sprung up and ravished the boy like it was the only thing he was born to do.

“Now, please remove your-fucking-self from him and retreat to the corner, hands up, no sudden movement unless you want a taste of this.”

The man’s hesitation only earned him a loud smack across his temple. Blood was dripping where skin broke as he, slowly, cautiously, did as he was told.

“Can stand up?”

A gloved hand appeared in Caz’s vision, fingers outstretching in a silent offer to aid, which he took and borrowed the strength to get up to his feet. His legs were slightly trembling and he was feeling dizzy from all the blows he’d received; still, he managed to stand straight.

“Good. ‘Cuz I hate carrying your ass.”

The last syllable had barely left his lips when Caz wiped out the short gun from the boy’s belt in one swift movement and emptied the chamber’s content into the large man, who was having his face pressed to the wall and hands above his head.

It was either an insane mastery of aim or just some fucked up luck that Caz had missed all the man’s vital spots. Beyond help yet unable to die, he was lying in a pool of his own blood, roaring like a tortured beast.

Neither of them did anything to release him from his agony.

Caz returned the gun to its owner, head unconsciously held low and he missed the iciness in those electric blue eyes he was so intrigued by.

“Let’s go. Truck’s outside.”

The boy tilted his head and led, Caz following suit.

Fluorescent light filtered through the dusty tube on the ceiling cast a ghastly shade on the spartanly furnished room – a coffee table, a drawer, a double bed with tainted bed sheet. There was a layer of grime on the table, where the boy laid his M249 SAWs.

“My dad’s safe house,” the boy explained even before Caz opened his mouth to question. Removing his leather jacket and gloves, letting them fall carelessly to the floor, he turned around and pushed Caz down the mattress. With as much care as he did his jacket and gloves, he kicked off his boots – also leather – and climbed on the bed, straddling Caz.

“Long time no see, Colin.”

“Long time no see, Weslie.”

Their first proper ‘greeting’ after they had reunited.

Using his elbows to support himself so he didn’t sink into the mattress, Caz lifted his head, cerulean meeting electric blue, and he put on a defiant grin, showing his teeth. With his shark-like grin, he managed to appear menacing despite being straddled.

Wesley returned the grin before his fist connected with Caz’s jaw. Blood from his split lips dotted the bed sheet.

“What was that for?”

Caz’s tone – too calm for someone who got hit for no obvious reason – was laced with flirtatious hints.

“Belfast. The bar.”

“Still bitter about being deflowered? Or…”

Wesley’s reply was another blow, surprisingly lighter than its predecessor. On Caz’s bruised flesh, it felt all the same.

“And this?”

“The undercover cop.”

Caz’s pupils dilated for a moment, confusion dominating his facial features until realization came conquering.

“You’re jealous.” Caz punctuated his statement with a hard squeeze of Wesley’s ass. The boy’s slight shudder brought a grin to his lips. “If I’d met you first, I wouldn’t have bothered with that… King Kong.”

“You dream about that King Kong’s cock all the same, don’t you?”

“I dream about yours,” Caz’s hands snaked around Wesley’s slim waist and settled on the front of his jeans as he said. Through the fabric he fondled the boy, feeling complacent with the not-so-subtle change. “Hope that’ll please you.”

A click sound echoed in his ears and all of sudden his lips were kissed by cold metal. The same gun he’d used on his cellmate was now threatening to blow his brain off.

“Give me one good reason not to pull the trigger, motherfucker.”

Caz made no attempt to either stop or retrieve his hands as he opened his mouth. His lips stretched around the muzzle, his tongue darting out and he gave Wesley’s gun first a lick and then a thoroughly suck, making the metal wet and slick with his saliva. He was doing it with a burning slowness that was certainly both annoying and arousing to anyone watching.

Triumph shone in his cerulean eyes when he felt the weight on him shifting awkwardly.

He won. Every time.

“Because I’m good with tongue? That’s not too bad a reason, is it?”

He put his Cockney accent to good use, lengthening each syllable just long enough for the sensuality to sink in. If tone could speak for itself, right now it was giving off an invitation of sex.

Basically the core of their relationship – sex. And more sex.

And beyond sex, neither of them knew what bond could tie an assassin and a gangster together.

“Fuck you, teaser…”

Cool blue orbs turned murky and before Caz could smirk, his jaw received yet another blow.

Gun tasted metal. So did blood.

With blurred vision Caz watched Wesley threw the gun over his shoulders before hastily stripping himself naked, swears and curses freely rolling off his tongue. Then he felt his own prison uniform being tucked at and ripped off with more force than necessary, leaving his body bare and offered to the boy’s hungry gaze.

“Always eager, are we?”

His hands palmed the boy’s firm cheeks and gave them both a squeeze, strong enough to feel but not too strong that it would pain. Carefully treading between ‘rough’ and ‘gentle’, he knew exactly what made Wesley go crazy.

Practice makes perfect, and Caz was talented to begin with.

His deft hands were suddenly caught and wrenched back behind his head. With a soft ‘click’, Caz lost the use of his hands.

Caz craned his neck and got himself an eyeful of the sight of his hands bound to the headboard by a pair of shiny handcuff. He had tasted it too much to mistake it for any pleasure toys.

“What?” His voice came out soft, like a breeze.

“A quaint souvenir from the cops,” Wesley said, smirking. “Thought you’d miss it once out.”

Caz wanted to protest. Caz couldn’t protest. Because Wesley had claimed his lips in an extremely possessive manner.

Sharp teeth deliberately grazed the fresh wounds on his lips and Caz hissed, from pain or pleasure unsure.

Obviously the ‘rough yet gentle’ rule didn’t just apply to Wesley.

“I like to use my hands, Weslie,” he purred into Wesley’s ear, tongue darting out to lick his lobe. Wesley dodged him and straightened up.

His blue eyes were clear again, so clear that Caz could see his own reflection in them. And his eyes were blazing.

He reminded Caz of a panther which had just done playing with its prey. Now was time to devour.

“That’ll remind you to keep your hands to yourself.” Wesley slid back smoothly and situated his ass directly on Caz’s groin; the direct contact and pressure made Caz groan.

“And never touch my guns again.”

One calloused hand gripped his protruded hipbone with blatant dominance, Wesley brought the other to Caz’s bruised cheek, caressing it almost lovingly. The contrast in his gestures seemed to startle Caz to the point of speechlessness. Surely they’d had sex many times before, with dirty talks and shameless gropes never absent; still, any gesture that indicated something more than just venting out their lust was beyond their comprehension.

Sex was the core of their relationship; both tacitly intended to keep it that way – anything beyond flesh and skin seemed far-fetched for the likes of them.

“This time, I’m in control. And I’ll top,” Wesley spoke in a tone that frankly cut off any objection.

Caz’s whole body jolted when Wesley gave his feverish cock a light squeeze.

“Fuck you, teaser…”

“Tell me what you want and I may oblige you.”

His thumb idly drew small circles on the head, already moist. If pleasure was dynamite, Wesley’s touches had lit the fuse, and boy, how the fuse burnt fast!

In his haze of lust and impending climax, Caz felt like he was getting a taste of his own medicine.

“Tell me, Colin.”

Wesley’s hand closed tightly around the base, keeping Caz’s climax just a little out of his reach.

Pleasure and pain were only two ends of one spectrum; at the moment, Caz was trapped on his less preferable end.

“Tell me, Colin, and I’ll oblige you.”

“Just… fuck me… get on with it!” Caz hissed through broken pants, his cheeks flushed despite dark bruises. A fine sheen of sweats coated his fair skin.

Wesley’s eyes were speaking of storm.

“Happily.”

That was all he’d been waiting for.

It was like bathing in his morning porridge, Caz mused. Laying his head on the tiled edge, he slid deeper into the bath tub.

Though it was rather itchy under the skin, the sensation was not necessarily terrible. Moreover, this thick liquid was doing a marvelous job easing the aches worrying his shoulders, chest, hip and below.

When you leave Wesley Gibson in control, pains ensure, which is why you shouldn’t leave him in charge… which is particularly hard considering how much stronger he is than yourself.

Caz’s dilemma.

His head was still spinning from the hunger and fatigue. He would leave the bath at once had Wesley not ordered him to stay at least until his skin knitted.

Caz had taken orders from none except Callard; now that Callard was behind bars, he took orders from none except Wesley.

A pair of arms snaked from behind to cage him in a loose embrace. A mob of unruly chocolate hair rubbed against his neck. Caz tried to ignore the tickling and stayed still. It was harder than he thought.

Post-coital bliss, in Wesley’s dictionary, was tearing Caz from the warmth of his blanket and, literally, throwing him into a tub full of thick white wax, while normally people would just cuddle and make promises of breakfast in bed.

Though Caz wasn’t a fan of cuddling, he could do with a huge breakfast in bed. Irish preferably.

“What’re you thinking?”

Wesley’s hands hovered above the skin of Caz’s chest, deft fingers occasionally playing with his nipples. He grimaced when Wesley’s thumbs brushed the love bite he’d deliberately left there in the heat of sex; however, he didn’t stop the little harassment.

Caz was thinking about a full Irish breakfast, with eggs, sausages, generous slices of bacon and a dose of caffeine; instead he said, “How tender you were a few hours ago.”

“Define tender,” Wesley sighed and laid his head on the juncture of his neck and shoulders, lazy like a satiated cat. “I even prepared a bath for you.”

Caz snorted, but said not a word.

“Still bitter about being deflowered?”

“Do I look like I’m still keeping my asshole’s V-card?”

“By those in jail?”

Wesley’s tone took on a dangerous edge; his embrace around Caz tightened, almost painfully.

“I wasn’t that desperate. Not after I’ve met you.”

Wesley snorted, disbelieving; his arms on Caz’s shoulders loosened all the same.

The wax was lukewarm and cradling him like mother’s womb. Strangely relaxed in Wesley’s arms, he closed his heavy eyelids and was ready to drift off.

“Colin?”

“What?” Doziness made his voice akin to a soft purr.

“Come to the States with me.”

His shoulders tensed momentarily, then went lax under Wesley’s caress.

“Do I have a choice in this?”

“No,” Wesley’s hands reached under the wax surface, below Caz’s slender hip as he said, flatly. “If you refuse, I’ll blow your brain off – you know I can do that – and when the cops arrive, they’ll only find your naked rotting corpse.”

Caz stifled a laugh at Wesley’s bluntness. At the same time, an alien warmth seeped through his skin, his flesh and settled deep into his bones.

“You broke me out of jail to say this?”

“And to fuck you, yes. What, miss all those cocks you could get there already?”

“Jealous much?” Caz teased, barely able to contain his chuckles. “Not when I’m having yours. And of course…” Tapping his forefinger to his temple, Caz leaned back so that his head touched Wesley’s and whispered, “…I prefer my brain in here, not plastered on the wall.”

“That’s a ‘yes’?”

Caz shrugged. “Unless you find otherwise meaning,” he said and captured Wesley’s lips… munching on them with his unusually sharp teeth.

“Fuck it, Colin, I’m not bacon!”

Covering his mouth with one hand, Wesley backed away, putting some distance between them. Caz graced him with his shark-grin.

“I prefer you are. Feeling involuntarily like Bobby Sands here.”

“One and a half hours more. Be patient or else you’ll be walking funny the next few days.”

“Like you did after the bar?”

He laughed out loud when he witnessed an undeniable blush creeping Wesley’s neck.

Beyond sex, sensual teases and playful banters, what bond could tie a cold-blooded assassin and a wanted ex-gangster together?

Caz would like to find out.

End

*This is set in an alternate universe where Caz didn’t get shot by Murphy but ended up in jail. He met Wesley sometime after Murphy and their ‘relationship’ has continued till the time of the fic.

**Caz’s real name is Colin – Colin Miller.

***Callard is Caz’s boss – the main antagonist of Murphy’s Law Season 3.

[Cherik] Bolito – 01

1 – Counselor

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The very first time Wesley had seen that man, he had not looked like this.

If ‘this’ was to be put into words (which Wesley really didn’t want to), it would be ‘like a dog’.

A stray dog, dirty, drunken and hunted.

“Counselor,” Sloan spoke to him. “He has shown up in the Loom.”

The Loom weaved the names that would cause deaths to others. Preventing that was their duty.

Killing one to save thousands, killing thousands to save millions – the Fraternity’s code.

Wesley supposed he was a Fraternity now.

“The fuck with that name?”

Sloan was unfazed, being too used to the boy’s snarls and swears. He continues, tone ever serene, as if he was merely discussing dinners.

“Not his real name. Everyone calls him that though.”

“I thought the Loom would show true names, not aliases.”

“Not always. It shows the name everyone around him gets by.”

“Great,” Wesley snorted, “who knows how many fucking ‘Counselors’ there are in this country.”

There were thousands counselors, but ‘Counselor’ – only one.

It turned out finding Counselor wasn’t as hard as Wesley had imagined. Wherever he was, the man stood out from the crowd. The center of attention. The ladies’ choice. The men’s envy.

Wesley did envy him, yes. For even a pair of sunglasses Counselor was donning probably cost twice his monthly paid as an accountant manager. And that was only when he hadn’t taken any sick leave. Nor enraged Janice.

No wonder the Loom had spoken his name. Just the way he’d thrown a pool party this luxurious was big enough a crime.

To envy him was easy, to kill him was hard…

…especially when the man had smiled at Wesley – a wide smile, kind of shark-like – and crossed half the pool to offer him a drink. Scotch – Wesley’s favorite.

…especially when Wesley had grabbed the collar of his polo shirt and pulled him into a rough, bloody smash of lips and teeth, stunning him for a good minute before the man punched Wesley square in the face and stomped off. Gazing at his retreating figure, Wesley licked his split lips and smirked. Counselor had tasted like Scotch – strong and sweet, perfection with only a hint of nicotine to mar.

…especially when that night, Wesley had dreamed about pinning the taller man to the wall, making him moan in all variations of obscenity, and woken up in the middle of the night with a damp patch in his crotch. It was bullshit, Wesley admitted, but Counselor had turned him on more than Cathy or Fox ever had.

To kill him would be extra-hard, especially when Wesley didn’t want to kill him at all.

He would return to the textile mill empty-handed and make up some lie. Sloan would probably see through him and take the cue, sending Fox or someone else instead – he was too wild a card to offend, at least not before he destroyed Cross. As for Wesley, so long as it wasn’t his bullets pulverizing Counselor’s skull he was cool. He wasn’t that sick, thank you; having the desire to fuck and to kill the same man at the same time was definitely not his thing.

Sloan saw through him, as expected; and Wesley could not careless about who the old bastard had sent after Counselor’s head because not long after, Wesley buried the Fraternity with his own hands.

The second time Wesley had seen him, it had occurred on a street of Argentina, a whole year and four months after the first. Though no longer a Fraternity, Wesley could not have returned to his former job as an accountant manager (not after his grandeur ‘farewell party’ on the day he’d quitted). Changing career was a big ‘no’, because Wesley Adam Gibson, besides accounting and killing, had no other degrees that could give him a decent job to survive his ass in Chicago. Fortunately, before he’d downed to his last penny, Pekwarsky had asked him if he would want to ‘succeed’ his father. Wesley had shrugged and sure, why not; he hadn’t had many choices, had he?

So that was how Wesley had ended up in a freelance assassin career and for fuck’s sake, his business was booming.

Wesley’s target this time was an Argentinean drug-dealing mob boss and he’d gain a handsome sum just to load the cartridges into his brain – something Wesley would enjoy even without the pay. Money made it all the more pleasant.

Counselor stood out among the parading crowd like a sore thumb – a solid Caucasian in a sea of colors. Wesley spotted him at once, mildly surprised and thoroughly excited; it seemed a lucky day for him indeed. After forfeiting his ‘mission’, Wesley had never thought he would one day see him again – the man who had had the taste of Scotch. He was certain Counselor had been executed by the Fraternity, probably by Fox or the Butcher; yet here he was, all well despite looking a bit disheveled.

Counselor stood out among the parading crowd like a sore thumb – a solid Caucasian in a sea of colors.

Compared to the first time Wesley had seen in the pool party, Counselor was looking less than his best: his hair tousled, his designer cream-colored suit spotted and there was some grime and dirt on his cheeks, greasy with sweats – the heat in this country was even worse than Chicago at its worst. However, instead of the flush, Counselor was looking unusually pale.

Had he not already on a rented R1 running at insane speed with a covered sniper rifle too conspicuous on his back, Wesley would have come up to him and said hello just to test whether Counselor still remembered the man who had given him probably his first man-kiss. Would he punch him again and run off like a shrinking violet like he had one year and four months ago? Or would Wesley grasp him, ravish his lips and make his own wet dream a reality?

The thought brought a devious grin to Wesley’s face hidden behind the helmet. Maybe next time, thought the assassin with a hint of hope. If there was a second time, the chance of the third wouldn’t be unlikely, would it? And even if there wouldn’t be the third, then Wesley would just make it. If he had been able to hunt down Sloan – with his wits and slyness of an old fox – Wesley didn’t see how he was unable to find a man who didn’t even know he was being tracked.

Indeed third time came, as Wesley had expected. What had him surprised instead was the state he found Counselor in.

Like a dog. The words were a sudden lump of bile clotted in his throat, turning the taste of fine Scotch vile and bitter.

A dimly lit bar at a deserted corner of some street was where Nam had picked for their ‘rendezvous’. The talk had been brief since his Asian-rooted handler wasn’t the loquacious type; he had left almost immediately after placing a thick brown envelope in Wesley’s lap. “Enjoy yourself,” the words left his thin lips in haste and the man hurried out of the entrance, his lanky figure quickly melted into the late afternoon’s orange hue.

Enjoyed himself he had, for a man whose pockets stuffed with dollar bills was always a content man. And the Scotch in this dingy looking bar wasn’t half bad at all, which was a plus. Wesley knew he could always trust Nam to have good taste in booze.

He was savoring his Scotch in the least noticed spot when his acute hearing picked up the yelps of the barmaid and the distinctive sound of flesh being punched and kicked – he was too used to mistake it for any other, being the receiver countless times during his training. Normally he would mind his own ass and ignore whatever was occurring in the bar if his too acute hearing (again) did not recognize the soft, barely audible whimpers as acquainted. He jerked his torso around, nearly knocking his Scotch, and was greeted with a overly familiar figure. The cream-colored suit also helped, despite its terribly discolored state, the once expensive fabric smeared with dirt, sweats and a few blotches of brownish stains – others’ or his own Wesley couldn’t tell.

The bulky middle-aged bar owner yelled something in Spanish and raised his hairy arm. Like a bullet Wesley sprang up from his seat and dashed forward barely in time to stop another blow to Counselor’s guts. The barmaid gasped. The man glared at him and jerked his arm forcefully to break free of Wesley’s grip. However, Wesley’s hold was unyielding as his blue eyes bored into the older man’s, a gaze sharp and cold as a killer’s should be. It was only when the older man’s panic and fear were reflected in his own eyes and the bulky wrist in his hand became slick with perspiration did he loosen his grip. Wesley asked the bar owner what had happened for him to start beating the crap out of his customer, to which the man replied in rapid-fire Spanish rendering his own shitty Spanish useless as best. His gaze shifted to the young barmaid, silently demanding an explanation; he had seen her speaking English with a few Western patrons earlier and he knew she was able to manage simple conversations.

“He… he suddenly grab me,” her tone heavily accented and shaking, the brunet was on the verge of tears and Wesley softened his eyes in a pang of guilt for scaring her unnecessarily. “He grab me and call me Laura. Papa saw and got angry…”

Wesley glanced at Counselor, who had curled up in fetal position, saliva mixed with blood formed a little pool on the floor. He winced slightly and looked up to meet the barmaid’s eyes.

“He’s just drunk, that’s all. Here,” Wesley pulled out a wad of dollar notes from his jeans pocket and placed them in the young barmaid’s trembling hand. “For his purchases and mine and your troubles. Sorry about that.”

Apologizing even when it wasn’t really his fault – old habit died hard.

“Not enough?”

The brunet and her father both shook their heads so violently Wesley was briefly afraid they might snap their necks and erupted in a stream of Spanish that he could only pick out “gracias”. Guess that’s settled then, thought Wesley as he bended down to hook his arms under Counselor’s and lift him up. At close distance, Wesley could tell the man was reeking, a mixture of sweats, dirt, alcohol and puke that burned his nose. He ignored it as he walked them both, slowly, out of the bar.

That was when it hit him that he had no idea where Counselor was staying. Though he doubted Counselor would hear it, Wesley muttered an apology when he let the wall supported his weight while his hand dived into the man’s breast and trousers pockets in a slight hope that he might find something useful, a cell phone, a hotel card, anything to give him a clue. Instead, the only thing he found was a crumpled photo in Counselor’s left breast pocket. The woman in the photo looked comely and nice; Wesley wondered what relationship the woman and Counselor were sharing for him to treat her photo in such contradictive manner.

Wesley smoothed a few creases out of habit before folding it up and returning the photo to its place. Great, he spoke to himself, Wesley Allan Gibson, with his shitty Spanish and a stone-drunk man he’d barely known, out in the middle of an Argentinean street as the night sank in, entirely clueless about where he should go next. Fox would definitely be laughing at him for making a fool out of himself  if she was here to witness.

He briefly pondered if Counselor had any acquaintance in this city but when he glanced at the man’s dirtied face, he dismissed the thought. If he had, he would not have been in this bar drunk as a skunk and have had his ass beaten out. And even if he had, which number on Earth should Wesley call?

On the other hand, Wesley could just take Counselor back to his apartment/safe house left to him by his late father. The man could use a rest, maybe a little wash and a change of clothes – though Wesley doubted their sizes matched – until he was sober enough to find his way back on his own. Wesley could not help but laugh a little too loud at his own out-of-the-blue kindness. Saving the guy’s ass was already out of his character; now he even brought him home and intended to take care of him. Who was Counselor to Wesley Gibson after all?

Well, consider it ‘return the favor’.

The walk from the bar to his apartment wasn’t awfully long and Wesley could make it in less than fifteen minutes on foot. Yet today it took him twice the time as he was supporting a dead-drunk grown man. Counselor wasn’t heavy, to be fair; the man was almost skinny and Wesley winced slightly every time his bones accidentally jabbed his side. Weight Wesley didn’t mind but height difference was another problem. The man was fairly taller than Wesley and it took the assassin great effort to keep them both balanced and not tumbling over. Wesley was considering shouldering him like a sack of potatoes for the rest of the way when he heard a retching noise from his side. He reacted quickly and helped the man to a trash heap – thanks God there was one nearby – where he emptied the content of his stomach in a noisy manner. As Wesley half expected, the man probably hadn’t had any proper food for the last forty-eight hours, only burning alcohol to fill up his empty stomach. What had caused him to torture himself so, Wesley wondered while patting Counselor’s hunched back in an awkward fashion. That was when he felt it, a surge so forceful that almost had him off-balanced.

Wesley Gibson couldn’t mind-read; such was his estranged uncle’s ability. It was a piece of information he’d only learnt after Sloan’s death, that he still had a living relative and said living relative was – what the media called it nowadays – a mutant. The man was currently running a private school full of mutants in Westchester and much as Wesley had been impressed by it, he had to admit school life, with superpower teachers and superpower teenagers to boost, wouldn’t suit him. He had turned down the offer the moment it had been projected into his mind. To be honest, he was a little scared to be close to a person who would, literally, read others like a book. Not to mention his current ‘partner’, a man who grazed his nerves as much as Sloan, who could bend bullets far more effortlessly than any Fraternity members ever could; Wesley didn’t want a taste of his medicine, thank you very much.

Though Wesley couldn’t read minds, he was able to catch murderous intents right at the moment they entered his vicinity. The scenario played out in his mind like a video footage fast forwarding at highest speed, showing him how the assailant in question would approach, what sorts of weapon he would use, what moves he would pull and whether Wesley could react fast enough to counter or not. He wasn’t sure if it was a by-product of his training or a hidden factor in his DNAs recently awakened – family legacy and such – yet it had saved his ass a few handful times. Had it not for this mutation, Fox would have blown a hole in his brain that day on the train.

But this time was tad different; it wasn’t his own scenario that came to his vision. In fact, he was watching everything from a third person’s point of view, like a specter removed from reality – their reality. In his vision he saw a man in black hoodie carefully crept out from the dark of the trash-littered alleyway they were standing. He had no guns, knives or anything that came remotely close to a weapon except a small bizarre device Wesley had neither seen or gotten a hold of how it functioned. The hooded man sneaked behind Counselor easily enough, considering how drunken, weak and defenseless the latter was, and looped the funny-looking device around Counselor’s neck with abundant efficiency that Wesley couldn’t think it was his first time. He fled the scene as fast as he had shown up; no further effort was need; the device did its job beautifully.

The sound of clock ticking. Wesley counted.

At first second, the electric motor started.

At third, the noose tightened.

At fourth, the man started feeling something was wrong, despite his intoxicated state. He brought both hands to his neck, frantically trying to loosen the noose.

In vain.

At sixth, he fell to the muddy ground, rolling wildly while yelling.

At eleventh, his yells turned to chocked noises in sync with the motor’s.

At sixteenth, his fingers left him. Blood gushed out like broken pipes, from both his hands and his neck.

At twenty-third, the noose reached zero.

At forty-second, a stray dog went into the scene, sniffing at the motionless body. With a slight nudge of his muzzle, the head left the body. The vision went blank and dissipated.

The 'Vision'
The ‘Vision’

Whoever had invented this device had to be a genius, a fucking sick one. When Wesley rubbed his eyes – sore from the vision – he wasn’t surprised by the dampness on his fingers. Without much of a second thought, he wiped out his gun from his bell, aimed at the dark and emptied the chamber of its content. The bullets curved around the lamppost before they found their target. He felt the steel penetrate flesh and bones the same time Counselor collapsed. Wesley caught him and finally gave up the thought of walking the unconscious man the rest of the way. He piggybacked the man in a rather ungraceful fashion (unconscious man had no right to complain) and walked over to his victim. He founded the hooded man lying face down under the shadow of the lamppost, paid him only a quarter a second and picked up the strange device in his hand. Nam might know something about it, maybe even able to trace its origin. Wesley’s blood raged at the thought of the device’s inventor, of putting bullets into him and whoever had assisted him.

This was not saving the world or exacting justice or anything. This was just his own aching on the vehement urge of killing. Maybe he had been wrong about it. Maybe killing also had to do with the right person after all.

First thing first, he had to get Counselor to his place. The thought of taking the man back to his own place vanished like smoke; he would be dead the very moment Wesley left him on his own.

Strangely, Wesley didn’t question how Counselor’s safety had become his business.

Note:

1) Wesley is a mutant and he’s Charles Xavier’s distant nephew.

2) Nam is my original character.

[Cherik] Bolito – Prologue

0 – Killer

Wesley

Killing aroused Wesley as much as sex.

Perhaps, even more. Sex had to be with the right people – Wesley admitted deep down he was rather old-fashioned – but killing… well, killing didn’t.

Wesley wouldn’t deny he was every bit a psychopath.

Born to be a killer – bad. Born to enjoy being a killer – worse.

With a playful smirk that didn’t quite match his boyish features, Wesley gave a nudge to the gun in his right hand. The gesture was fairly teasing in nature, except the muzzle of his gun was kissing the other man’s left temple.

The man didn’t flinch, bracing himself against Wesley’s deliberate taunt. He had guts; Wesley was pretty fond of him.

“Why do you want to kill him?”

Perhaps he took Wesley’s sudden interest in conversing as a chance to escape with his life, the man swallowed dryly and opened his mouth.

“Someone wants him dead.”

His answer was brief and to the point. Wesley nodded.

A hired killer. Much like himself. The only difference was…

“Do you like killing?”

“What?”

“Do you like killing him?”

Wesley was barely able to contain his laughter at the look the other man was giving him.

“That means no, right? Well, too bad, I’ll have to kill you and I’ll fucking enjoy it.”

“Have we met before?”

“Nope,” Wesley grinned, giving the man a show of his perfect white teeth. “First time seeing your unattractive face.”

“Did I kill someone you knew?”

“Nope,” his grin became wry chuckles. “I killed most those I knew.”

He was satisfied when he felt the man flinch.

“Does someone want me dead?”

The man was being rational, Wesley could tell. Unfortunately he was dealing with some sort of a maniac.

“Wrong again. In fact I’ll get no penny out of ganking your sorry ass.”

The other assassin had but a moment to stare at Wesley with disbelief before he swiftly removed the muzzle from the man’s temple to press it into his mouth.

Blood and brain matter splashed over the horrible graffiti on the wall. It could be a good thing now that they would have a reason to erase it, the eyesore. Wesley amused himself with the thought while cleaning bits of blood and brain off his hands and face. He didn’t mind the persistent odor; the stickiness was what really bugged him – one of the two reasons why he loathed jelly. The other was his eavesdropping two cops joking how his mother’s face looked like ‘bad jelly’ after she had had acid poured over it.

Once he was done, Wesley glanced down at the corpse at his feet. His face, or what was remained of it, kind of looked liked jelly now – bad jelly.

“I killed you because I wanted you dead. Simple as that.”

He spared the corpse no other glance as he sauntered leisurely out of the dark alleyway.

“…and because I want him to live.”

This was the third. He wondered how many more would come.

Not that he minded blowing a few more asses to hell.