Fic: Interrogation (VigBean) NC-17 - 2/2

[lannamichaels]

 
[Part one, along with headers, may be found here]






The move takes Sean by surprise. It shouldn't, not after what he's asked of Vig. But it does. And in the seconds before he hits the floor, he curses the rug-covered hardwood, which looks nice but doesn't do a damned thing to cushion the blow, and wonders why he didn't put in nice plush carpet. He knows. He's hit it before. But never with quite as much force he's about to experience.

He bends forward, tucks his chin in, consciously trying to avoid slamming his head into the wood. And as the chair finishes its descent, connects with the floor, he screams, not caring how it sounds. "Bloody hell." The pain strikes fast, cuffs jarring then tightening around his wrists, metal abrading flesh, drawing hints of blood. But before that can sink in, everything's pressed into Persian rug and oak floorboards by the chair and his own body weight. He doesn't hear the snap, but the ache ricocheting through his wrists would have him betting one or both could be broken. He breathes out in ragged noises, whimpers with no syllables.

That's more like it. Viggo touches Sean's toes, wiggling them around. "Shall I break these, or have I made my point?"

"Which point was that?" Words sputtered out between winces. The pain is still on the sweet side of excruciating. Broken wrist is one thing. Dislocated shoulder another. Both manageable. Broken toes, however, give Sean just an ounce of pause. Damned hard to walk. "That you can hurt me? Or that I'm not learning fast enough?"

"That testing me won't do you a bit of good. Keep a civil tongue in your head and you might come out of this alive. Lose that tongue, and you'll probably lose your life." Viggo takes Sean's big toe between fingers and pinches it. "And pretty painfully, as well."

In a strange way, Viggo's action is soothing, given that the pressure points in the big toe correspond to the brain and if Sean had a migraine, it's exactly what he'd want to Vig to do. As is, it takes his mind off the pain in his shoulders and arms. But he's not telling his pseudocaptor that. He opts to stay silent, try to shift a little of his weight down and off his arms.

Viggo moves his attentions downward and begins to tickle the bottom of Sean's foot. He scrapes his nail lengthwise, up and down, wondering if a foot massage might be in order. He's curious if he can make Sean come like this.

Sean reflexes, involuntarily pulls his foot up. Except with his ankle taped there's not much of anywhere for it to go. He wonders if anyone's safeworded on a massage. He bites back the chuckle at the tickle, turning the sound into a weird snort.

Viggo figures Sean would probably do his damnest to kick him should Viggo laugh at him. He makes slow circles with his thumbs on the pad of Sean's foot. "Eating. Out. Of. My. Hand," he whispers. "Don't think I can't make it happen."

"Kill me with kindness. Didn't think that was your style." Sean squirms, as much as a man who's handcuffed, taped to a chair and pinned to the floor can squirm. His foot is getting all the attention, but his cock is definitely taking notice. There may not be a spot on the bottom of the foot directly linked to his groin, but there are enough close enough to it to send the blood rushing south. Or is it north, since he's on his back, feet up in the air. He shakes his head at the insanity of even processing the thoughts.

"Not planning on killing you, not just yet. First I'm going to put you through the ringer, give you the complete experience. Then I'll see if there's anything in you worth salvaging.

"Do you know about dogs, 17? If you beat a dog every day, he'll become savage. If you pet him every day, he'll love you. But if you beat him on odd days and pet him on even days, he'll go mad. Become completely useless. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Explains a helluva lot about me, doesn't it," Sean mutters under his breath. He shifts the wrong way, exerting pressure on his wrists, forcing one cuff to rub against the other, both then pressing directly under a chair back rail, gouging his wrists. Get past it, Bean. You've been in a lot worse pain. Grimace. Wince. Breathe out.

Viggo pretends not to hear that. He and Sean can talk later about just what constitutes abuse and having yourself stolen instead of being given willingly. "Do you think you're a dog, 17?" Viggo poses the question academically, but doesn't stop the massage.

"No." First easy question of the night. Not that he's sure Viggo even wants an answer. Or cares what the answer is. Sean's foot reflexes on its own from the touches.

"Why not? Dogs are loyal, which you profess to be. Dogs are simple-minded, which I know you are. Dogs are furry, slobbering fools. Can't see how you don't measure up."

The smirk is all in Sean's mind. He opens his mouth, starts to defend himself, but decides not to. He knew before he opened his mouth there wasn't a good answer. Vig's like that, can take Sean's words and twist 'em so much he forgets what he said to begin with. He lets the insult couched in compliment slide by, leaving the discussion of their comparative intellectual abilities to a later, more sane, moment. Right now, his focus is on the pain in his upper body, the arousal in his midsection and the damned idiot tickling his feet.

Viggo was hoping for an answer, something to give him an excuse to put a razor to Sean. There's something about a blade against skin that always has him shivering. Vig doesn't get off on hurting people. He gets off on the way they look while he does it, the sounds they make, the way they love what he's doing to them. Viggo curious what sort of sounds Sean would make if Viggo nicked him.

"All this petting. Comparing me to a dog. You sure you don't get off on touching me, LT?"

Hell yeah. He could get off just looking at Sean also. Didn't have to be touching, though it was a nice bonus. "You sure you want to keep mouthing off? Do you have any idea what I'm doing to you right now?"

"Annoying the bloody hell outta me." The voice is all Sean's, not a character he's playing. And he mentally slaps himself for lashing out at Viggo the minute the words come out. "Testing my endurance," he says, slipping back into roleplay. "Didn't know foot massage was a certified torture technique, though. I am learning something after all, LT."

Viggo steps backwards. "If that's the way you feel about it," he says flatly. "I'll be back when you feel like talking."

That pretty mouth gets you in more trouble than your pride will let you get out of. Branagh's words. Accurate. Sean had never intentionally tried to aggravate Vig. Ever. He just had a nasty habit of saying what was on his mind. And refusing to take the words back.

Sean bypasses the mental slap this time and just slams his head backward against the floor. Might as well have a headache to go with the broken bones, he rationalizes, if there were a sane thought in his brain.

Staying out Sean's very limited line of sight and being careful to be as quiet as possible, Viggo goes over to a pair of jeans draped over a lamp. He doesn't bother to check whose pants, but there's a bulge in them that suggests cigarettes. And a lighter. Sean, in all his wisdom, had bought candles and nothing to light them with.

Turning his head doesn't help. Vig's out of sight. Still in the house. No door closed. Okay, Vig, we've hit on my one true fear. You leaving. Sean mentally runs through how he'd get himself out of this if Vig does decide to leave. Could rock the chair over. But then there's getting out of the tape. Enough pulling might do that. It'll hurt like hell, probably take off some skin. And then there's the handcuffs. Could dislocate his shoulder. That's pain he can tolerate. "Fuck," he mutters as his cock hardens at the scenario playing out in his mind of just how much pain he can endure. How close are you to seeing the world in shades of white?

Viggo pulls the Bic lighter out the front pocket and tests it out. It'll do. A pack of Sean's cigarettes are easy found in the back pocket. It's half finished, and Viggo figures that if Sean makes a fuss about it, he can always buy him a new pack.

Viggo plays with the lighter for a few more minutes, watching Sean out of the corner of his eye to see if there's any reaction.

Click. Familiar sound. Click. Again. Sean closes his eyes. Click. Faint odor. Chemical flame. Click. His lighter. He cranes his head in the direction of sound and smell. Can't see Vig. Knows what he's doing though. Playing with fire. He lets out a breath. A wry smile creases his lips.

Viggo spots an ashtray cowering in the corner and puts his loot onto it. He takes a folding chair from the closet and brings them over to in front of Sean. Viggo places the ashtray on the seat and faces the chair away from Sean. It takes some effort to lift Sean up from that ridiculous position on the floor, but Viggo manages. He says nothing, but smiles as wickedly as he can. This was a fun idea.

The pain in being uprighted is nearly as bad as it was in falling. One of Sean's wrists is numb, the other throbbing. But it's all worth it when he sees Vig's smile. The silence between them echoes off the walls. His own smile widens, tongue slipping out to lick lips, linger, trust and love conveyed in simple gestures.

Placing the ashtray on the floor, Viggo sits backwards on the chair. Legs spread and comfortable on either side of the padded back, Viggo reaches slowly downwards and picks up the pack of cigarettes. He makes sure Sean gets a good long glimpse of them. Viggo takes one out, puts it between his lips, and then lights it.

My cigs. Smile turns to a smirk. Last fuckin' pack in the house, too. Smirk shifts into a forced grin. Not saying a word.

Viggo is severely tempted to blow smoke in Sean's face and wipe that look off his face. Instead he leans forward and pulls Sean's shirt up and stuffs it into his mouth. He's never done this to Sean and he's not positive what will happen.

Viggo smokes the cigarette down to where he figures Sean won't yell at him later for wasting a perfectly good fag, and takes it between two fingers. He leans towards Sean and puts the cigarette out on Sean's right nipple.

There's exactly 32 seconds between realizing what Viggo plans to do and the moment the cigarette touches his flesh. Half a minute to spit out the starchy shirt and say the word. It takes Sean 27 seconds of that to rationalize why he's not safewording, then there's 5 seconds of waiting, remembering and preparing for the pain.

It's instantaneous, scorching. A tingle that sears into a radiating anguish. His body jerks back, instinct overriding desire, and he bites down hard on the wadded cotton. His eyes water. The pain winds itself into a throbbing ache as Viggo grinds the cigarette out.

When there isn't much more the cigarette can do, Viggo pulls it away from Sean's chest and drops it into the ashtray. There's a remarkably beautiful burn mark encircling Sean's nipple. Viggo wishes he could press his fingers into it, play around a little, but has a feeling that Sean would safeword if he did. Vig's willing to push Sean to safewording, but not on some silly thing like that.

Sean blows out a long breath, sucks in one and repeats the process. Several times. He knows the pain will subside. He knows, when he thinks rationally, with a mature 40something brain, he shouldn't subject himself to the pain. But the sadomasochistic seducer living in his psyche could scream a lot more loudly than the sane half of him. And he always gave in. So he bit down harder on the soaked shirt and tried to figure out where Vig was heading. Futile effort. He had little success second-guessing Viggo in their sex games, another fact that made painpleasure centers of his brain shout with joy.

Viggo waits until Sean has noticeably calmed down and then reaches into the pack and takes out another cigarette. He lights it, then holds it in his mouth while he pulls the shirt down. Doing his best not to cackle evilly, Viggo takes the fag from between his lips and sticks it in Sean's mouth.

Sucking greedily, Sean inhales the smoke, gasp after precious gasp. He reads Vig's face, shakes his head at how his lover is holding in the laugh, sarcastic remark or three other things he wants to share.

Viggo has to break the silence. Sean looks so out of place and at odds with himself. Anachronistic. Content. "Enjoying this, 17?"

Sean rolls his eyes at the question. The answer he might give is way too long and complicated with the cigarette in his mouth. He clenches it between his teeth and mutters out a backup response through the smoke. "Watcha think?"

"I think you're becoming complacent."

"Bloody hell. No." Or at least that's what Sean thinks he says, as the words are mangled out of his mouth.

"Really? How confident are you of," without pausing, Viggo reaches over to take the cigarette out of Sean's mouth and hovers his hand just above Sean's unmarked nipple, "that fact?" Viggo blanks his face as he touches the butt to Sean's chest.

"Confident enough," Sean says as Vig pulls the cigarette from his mouth. His thought process is interrupted, waylaid or otherwise sidetracked as the burning embers connect with flesh. He winces, flinches. "Enough to know that bloody well hurts," he grunts out through the pain. "You date James Dean in your last life?"

"No. Least, don't think I did. Can't really remember the past lives," Viggo says honestly, completely out of character, and he forces himself back into it. "And why the fuck does it matter who I make my bitch, Bean?"

We'll talk later Sean thinks, laughing to himself at Viggo's lapse, silently mouthing "love you" behind the smile 'cause I'm betting you did. "Don't matter to me, LT. Not one damned bit." In character. Terse words. "And if I'm your bitch, this must be foreplay."

"Oh, you're not my bitch," Viggo says. "Because I'd make damned sure you'd recognize foreplay." Is this foreplay? He doubts Sean will let him fuck him later, but he might be able to convince a blowjob out of him. Should there be foreplay for blowjobs?

"Could've fooled me." Sean drops the smile into a frown, lets out a sigh. "And here I was psyching myself up to be fucked by the great Mister Mortensen himself." Sean doesn't add that it would have to be a slow, gentle fucking, on his back, with his arms stretched out rather than cuffed and battered. And more than likely after his wrists had been well-bandaged. "Course, I still wouldn't give you any more information."

"You're still suffering under the delusion that I care what's going on in that little airhead of yours. First rule of the field, expect nothing. Second rule?" Viggo prompts, knowing that he's setting himself up.

"Expect nothing to hurt like hell," Sean deadpans. He's under no delusion that he could give the right answer. Or even close to the answer Viggo wants to hear. So he opts for, at least, a truthful answer.

It takes Viggo a moment to wrap his head around that. He smiles. "Precisely. But you like it that way, don't you, slut?" It seems the right time to give Sean that title. He's wanted to almost since Sean sat down in the chair. Slut for this, slut for him, always willing to take it another step deeper. His slut.

Slut. The word rolls off Viggo's tongue and into Sean's brain, where it sinks into its familiar, well-worn spot. He knows of very few words that describe him more adequately. He never liked the word before Viggo, who taught him with patience and braided leather and, oh yes, a healthy dose of love, that being his slut was the most coveted title he could hope to hold in their relationship. Far more repercussions than lover. Much more responsibility than husband. Feeding his pain addiction was just an incredibly pleasurable fringe benefit.

"Yes," he says, almost inaudible, wondering if they've slipped out of roleplay, moved past the scenario into just him and Vig, hurting each other in the best possible way.

'Yes'. He said 'yes'. Viggo doesn't know - doesn't care - if Sean's in role or not, just hearing that word, that answer, in response to such a loaded question sends sparks traveling through Viggo's body. "Good boy."

Viggo's half-smile has Sean's cock interested again, blood coursing. "Sometimes." It's a murmur. "Sometimes not." Words softly falling out of his mouth. Sean's mind is elsewhere, floating in the pain. He shifts, a tinge of numbness in the hip, tracing down the thigh. He shrugs his shoulders, releasing endorphins that surge downward and recoil off his wrists, etching a shiver of borderline orgasm through his body.

"Always," Viggo promises. "Always my boy. You're not always good," that's back in role and Viggo makes sure it comes out harsh. "I've had better and most certainly will have better. But I think I'll keep you around. Keep you naked except for you dogtags. And I'll do that until you fucking convince me that you won't get yourself killed in the field!"

Sean closes his eyes, tilts his head back, lets the pain rush through him, Viggo's voice caress him. He breathes slowly, methodically, in and out. Reopening his eyes, he tilts his head straight. "You do that, LT. Keep me around. Train me right." Lips part, tongue slinks out and back. "Make me your own," slight pause, "Perfect. Toy. Soldier."

Why, Mr. Bean, I could almost begin to think you're trying to seduce me. Viggo leans forward until his chair is almost tipping over, and does his best to capture Sean's tongue. He misses, hitting Sean's chin instead, and growls. Dammit. "Wasn't the sort of training I had in mind," Viggo says, lips brushing against Sean's stubble, "but it'll do." Viggo pulls back slightly and then bites down.

"Fuck," Sean shouts. Instinct overcomes reason, even though the pain isn't that horrible. Mostly it shoots straight to his groin, a damned uncomfortable sensation at the moment. As Viggo's teeth disengage from flesh, Sean shakes his head. Intentionally. Near-violently. Slamming against Viggo's jaw. Not really caring how little or much damage he does. "Bastard," he sneers. "That wasn't exactly the training I had in mind either."

Viggo doesn't see it coming. It's somehow more painful that way. Sean hit him right against where he'd had some work done in his molars, and pain shoots through his gums from his cheek. It's not enough to loosen the teeth, just enough to make Viggo want to hurt Sean. Very. Bad. Maybe break a chair against his shoulders. Crack his ribs. Make him fucking feel it.

Viggo reaches into the box and pulls out the black blindfold. He stretches it between his hands and contemplates his prisoner.

Sean's smarting himself from the blow, sure he's going to have a nasty headache come morning. Provided he's conscious enough coming morning to realize it. He shakes it off, then works out his jaw, the muscles tensing in his neck. Watches Viggo's movements. Smiles when he pulls out the black cloth. Blindfolding's not so bad.

Viggo can see the thoughts going through Sean's head. Viggo's only used a blindfold before on light stuff. Cut off his sight and suck him. Cut off his sight and spank him. Nothing that would bring him even close to safewording.

Viggo decides he's going to set out to destroy that conclusion.

"Dropping back to tried-and-true methods," Sean says softly, neither truly in nor out of character. "Blind your victim. Disorient him."

"Wrong," Viggo answers evenly. He wraps the cloth around his left hand a few times and then takes the end between his thumb and first finger. He begins to twist his right hand inward.

Realization filters slowly into Sean's brain, seeping its way in and around synapses floating in pain. Sean watches, his mouth opening and closing, wanting to say something, but not sure of the words. His eyes follow Viggo's fingers, twisting and curling cloth. Viggo can't be doing what Sean knows he's doing. He can't be going to ... they haven't done that, never talked about it ... "No." One word. Not really a question. Nor a declaration. Just a single syllable hanging on Sean's tongue.

"Yes," Viggo answers. He waits for a moment longer, giving Sean a chance to say that one fucking word he never says, and then stands up. He makes his way behind the chair, unzipping himself as he goes. If he's going to go for the safeword, he might as well go all the way.

Sean tenses, tightens his shoulders, pulls against his restraints. Blood trickles down his fingers from where the steel cuffs have finally rubbed flesh raw. He tries to center himself, reassure himself that if Viggo really is going to do it ... the voice in his head laughs that he can't even say the word silently ... he trusts Viggo. With his life.

Viggo takes advantage of the slack in the silk to pull down his boxers. It's a little difficult to get the elastic around his erection, but Viggo manages. "Remember, 17," Viggo whispers as he presses himself up against Sean's forearms, "this is for your own good."

for your own good Sean sinks deeper, willingly taking himself to a place he hasn't visited in a long time, winding a path through the labyrinth of memories. Familiar words. Sean, trust me. It'll be good for you. Different voice. Sean wages war with his own mind, telling himself he's safe with Viggo, that this man won't hurt him, won't let Sean hurt himself as much as those who stood by, watched, urged him on.

"Don't," he says. "Not this." He knows how half-hearted the plea sounds, and he's betting it'll fall on unlistening ears, just like it had all those years ago.

"Yes," Viggo repeats, growls, for the moment not caring for the way desperation is leaking into Sean's voice. He thrusts once against Sean's twisted arms and then drops the makeshift garrote in front of Sean's eyes to rest against his neck. "This. Failure, 17. Any last words?"

"I trust you." Hesitant words, nearly whispered out as Sean registers the familiar pressure against his neck. His world blackens as he closes his eyes, then the images begin.

"Kenneth, don't." Satin draped over his shoulder. "Promise. I won't do it again." A seemingly endless length of black satin, loosely folded over. "I'll be good." Twisting around his throat.
"I know you will." A whisper against his ear. "And this lesson will be good for you." Sean shivers at the kiss on his ear. "You trust me?"
"Yes." It hadn't been a lie. Not then. There had been implicit trust in the power play between them. Kenneth didn't tie Sean's hands. He simply told Sean to keep his palms flat against the wall. And Sean did it.

Sean steadies himself for what's to come, tracing out in his mind the minutes from first pressure to choking to losing consciousness.

Sean trusts him. He's known it for a long time, but it's a very sobering thought now. Sean trusts him. Viggo's read conflicting reports on how long it takes to lose brain cells. He isn't going to chance anything. Ten seconds on, ten seconds off. He kisses Sean's sweaty hair and steps back, tightening the silk against Sean's throat. It takes very little effort to cross his wrists behind Sean's neck.

He's going to earn Sean's trust.

Sean swallows, involuntary reaction to the constriction. The sensation of floating is immediate, moreso because his eyes are shut. No reality to ground him. "Let go, Sean. Don't fight it." The voice is too real, even though he knows it's in his head. Sean opens his eyes and stares ahead. Where the chair should be stands an old lover, arms crossed and leaning back against the wall. "No," he whispers as the silk tightens.

Viggo holds his breath so he can hear Sean clearly. Not the safeword. Damn the man. How far did he think Viggo could take this? Viggo yanks the cloth taut and holds it there.

"Does it feel good, Sean?" The imaginary Branagh sneers, walks toward Sean. "Tight enough?" Leans down, too close. Are you counting the seconds till you black out? Lips brush his.

Sean fights for breath, as much against imaginary lips bruising his as against the silk tightening around his throat, constricting the air passage more with each passing second. He jerks forward. Vig's hands pull back.

The kiss deepens. "You won't say it." Taunting voice. "It's simple, Sean. Say the word." Talk. Kiss. Talk. Or do you trust him to stop before you're dead?

Viggo pauses, waits. He doesn't like the way Sean is shaking. It's too real. This is all too real. Viggo starts to slacken the silk, but stops. Sean hasn't said so yet. And the time isn't yet up.

Sean's eyes are too dry. He tries to focus. See through the mirage.

"You're no better than when I left you. Pathetic addict."

Sean knows it's all his imagination, the increasing lack of oxygen. Branagh isn't really there. Viggo wouldn't allow it.

"So desperate. You're afraid to stop it. If you do, he might never take you this far again."

Not true. Silent words. Sean's throat aches.

Branagh hunkers down in front of Sean. "You never said it for me. You never let me break you."

Sean drops his head as far as the silken binding will allow, choking himself as his forehead tilts forward. "No, Kenneth, I didn't." Sean's voice is raspy, wispy, words slurred and slammed together. "He's better than you." A breath and Sean releases a final whisper. "White."

Viggo drops the cloth.

His hands are shaking so badly that he drops the key twice before he can bring it out of his pocket to unlock Sean's wrists. He ends up on the floor somehow, grabs around for scissors to cut Sean's legs free.

He safeworded. He fucking safeworded. Vig could throw a party.

The apparition dissipates, along with the voice in Sean's head, as Sean gasps for returning air. He doesn't move. Can't. His wrists fall free of the cuffs simply because that's how gravity works. He still isn't sure what it is he's done. Of exactly why he stopped Viggo. And he's afraid, just like the voice said.

Viggo tears the tape away from Sean's ankles, ripping it as much as he can. Sean's cock is next. Viggo does his best to be gentle. Sean's had enough of this.

Sean, though...Sean's just sitting there. Not helping. Not hindering. Viggo prays he hasn't gone into shock.

"It's all right." Viggo doesn't let his voice go above a whisper. He doesn't want to scare Sean. "You're safe. Everything's fine, Sean.

"I love you."

"I know." It's all Sean can do to form the words, transport them from brain to mouth. He's tripping down off the pain's endorphin rush. "So, did I pass the test, LT?" He shrugs down into the chair, content to drift right out of it onto the floor.

"With flying colors, 17." Viggo brings Sean's hands from behind the chair and starts to look them over. Sean's right wrist looks to be broken and his left badly sprained. There might be more damage; he doesn't know. "Sean, I'm going to need to patch you up. Are you thirsty?"

"Very." Sean swallows, throat dry, brain connecting with just how drained his body is. "Patch me up?" He winces as Viggo's fingers touch his wrists. "Right one's broken, I think. They both hurt like hell." He half-smiles. "Pulled my shoulder out of joint again."

Viggo begins to make a mental checklist. He's not sure that he's equipped to handle anything broken. "Anything else?"

"Psyche's a bit ripped." The smile widens, more genuine that it's been in several minutes. His head is slowly clearing, reality setting in. "There's silvadene in the refrigerator you can put on the burns."

Two things he can do something about. Viggo moves his hand across Sean's chest and pokes at the burns. "No nipple rings for you, young man, for a good long time. As for your psyche," Viggo hesitates but, dammit, he has to know. "In your hallucinations. Just how...how far were they?"

"Ouch. Don't do that." Semi-serious tone. The burns don't really hurt that much, although Vig's right about the nipple rings. Not that Sean was planning on getting them anyway.

The other question he can't throw off quite as lightly. He owes Viggo an answer. An honest answer. "All the way. It never stopped being you doing it. I knew that." A slight pause. "But Kenneth was standing right there in front of me. Making sure I remembered." Sean shifts his left hand enough to lay it over Viggo's hand. The throbbing is bad, enough so that he doesn't want to think about how moving the other hand will feel. "How he'd wrapped the satin around my throat. How I'd stood there, hands unbound and pressed against the wall, and willingly let him tighten it till I passed out."

Oh, shit. Viggo hadn't known Sean'd done this before. If he had...well, he still would have done it. But he'd have talked Sean through it more. Chased away the demons. And Branagh. Fucking Kenneth Branagh. Viggo would track him down and give him a piece of his mind if that didn't mean leaving Sean for a few days to do it. He wouldn't bring Sean with. If Viggo had his way, Sean would never have to look at Branagh again, whether by celluloid or social life.

"I'm sorry. I never meant to drive up memories."

"Don't apologize." Sean wants to hold Viggo, preferably curled up in the blankets on the bed. "The memories drove me to safeword. That's something I've never done." Truth out. Maybe more of a confession that Viggo wants. Or can handle.

"You're never safeworded?! Jesus Christ, Sean, you've been doing this for how long?" Viggo thinks he should be honored that Sean gifted him with it. Or scared at how much history he's dealing with. Sean's never said no before. Taken everything and never said stop. Jesus fucking Christ.

Sean cringes, as much from the level of Viggo's voice as what he knows is going through his lover's head. "You want an explanation? Or you just want to scream at me a little bit longer. And before you answer, mind helping me move to one of the more comfortable pieces of furniture we own?"

"Godammit, Sean! You can not just throw something at me like this and expect me to take it with a nod and a smile. Don't throw it back at me, damn you-." Viggo stops himself, reminds himself that putting Sean on the defensive when he's hurt will only make him say things they'll both regret, orders himself to back down. Sean's temper is a prickly thing. "Sean. Please. Just answer me this. Did none of them try to push you, or were you just too proud?"

"Move me to the bloody bed, Viggo," Sean says tersely, "and I'll answer your questions. Every last one of them. Just get me prone." Sincere grimace. "Please."

That's an evasion if Viggo's ever heard one. "Fine," he says flatly. He gets an arm beneath Sean's knees and one balanced under Sean's unharmed shoulder. He stands up, staggers slightly, and takes the three steps necessary to deposit Sean on top of blankets.

"Much better." Sean's body sinks into the comforting warm blankets, his head into the plush pillows. He's not evading Vig. He's not sure where to start. Or how best to answer Vig's questions. "About 20 years," he says. "You asked how long I'd been doing this. Two decades, off and on." He calms his breathing. "Until now I never had a good reason to safeword. Wouldn't with Kenneth. Not sure he ever expected me to. Part of the reason for that particular word. Or that he'd pay attention if I did." Sean watches the anger seethe in Vig's eyes. "Not totally his fault, Vig. I was young. And stupid. And I was willing ... no, I wanted to take everything he'd give me. No holds barred."

Bastard. He got Sean into this, explained him the rules, and then didn't fucking follow them. There's something to be said for capital punishment. And torture. To hell with pacifism, some people fucking deserve it. "And the others?"

Vig's angry. Sean knows it. And there's no way around making him angrier. Then there's the fact that Sean is guessing he has to answer all the questions before he gets any medical attention.

"Daragh never pushed me that hard." Sean shakes his head. That's not the best way to put it. Because the bloody Irishman had left more physical scars on his body than Branagh ever did. "Honestly, Vig, Daragh had an uncanny ability to stop the instant before I'd consider safewording. Knew exactly where the edge was." He lets out a sigh, expelling it on a long, drawn-out breath.

No quarter for bushed Englishmen. Viggo's beyond caring for how much he hurt Sean. He knows, goddamit, know that he's been hurt more. Better. Further. And never fucking said the word. "And Purefoy? And Terry?"

Sean wants to sink into the bedcovers. Vig's in one of his calmly mad states. The madder he gets, the calmer he gets. And it drives Sean insane. He would feel infinitely better if Vig were ranting. Or at least thinks he'd feel better. At least he'd know what Vig was thinking. But, then again, he's not sure he wants to know that. Because that might realize his worst fears: That Vig won't want him anymore.

"Nigel doesn't count," Sean says slowly. "That was fucking, pretty much pure and simple." Sean stops, looks up at Vig, tries to find reassurance in his eyes. "James, however," his voice drops, "he was more like ... he fed on the pain as much as I did ... and he took up where Daragh ..." Sean closes his eyes, breath hitching as he recalls the aftermath of a stormy night in the Ukraine when makeup wouldn't come near covering the three men's collective bruises.

Viggo marvels at just how much Sean put up with. None of these men cared. He'd thought Daragh, maybe, from what he'd heard of the man, but if he handed Sean over to some bastard who only wanted someone to hurt...that's not something done by someone who cares. Viggo's always known that Sean was stronger than he looked. He had to be, with lovers like those. Damn them. They had no right to do what they did.

Viggo reaches out and covers Sean's left hand with his "It's ok, Sean. I'm not upset." Complete lie, but Sean should not be the recipient of it. Not here, not now. Now like this.

"You lie about as badly as I do." Sean laughs. "Kinda pathetic for actors." He twines his fingers up into Viggo's, ignoring the pain as his wrist stretches already aching muscle. "You want to hurt every one of them for what you think they did to me." He presses lightly. "And you want to know what makes you different. Why I said the word for you."

"The thought did cross my mind," Viggo admits. Both of them, really. Hurt them for hurting Sean and wondering what button he pushed that the others had been unable to reach.

"I didn't want to make you hurt me that much. Didn't want to make you stop yourself when you really didn't want to." Sean scrunches down into the pillow. He's damned close to falling asleep, just from the mental exhaustion. "Mostly, it's because I love you. I can't say that about any of the others. Not even Daragh."

"Love you, too," Viggo replies softly. He doesn't want to disturb Sean, but the wrist doesn't look good and needs to be treated. "Sean? What's that hospital you have friends at?"

"Number's on speed dial," Sean says before realizing how it sounds. Explaining that it's handy because of the girls probably wouldn't make much difference. "It's direct to ER desk. Tell 'em who you're calling for and ask they have a bed free."

Viggo nods. He'll ask Sean about it later. He hits the third number on the speed dial and does what Sean said. Bed's free, according to the nurse on call, and say hello to Mr. Bean for Valerie.

"Sean, I'm going to need you to get up. Can you do that?"

"Don't exactly have much of a choice, do I?" Sean would much prefer to just lie on the bed, fall asleep and wake up when it's all over, but since that's not an option, he shifts slightly, pushing himself up on his elbows. It hurts, much worse than he wants to admit. "Might grab me some sweats. And the grungy trainers."

The sneakers were found under the bed after a brief search and gray sweats that Viggo suspected weren't really gray at all lay in the second drawer. Sean can go without boxers. Viggo says a quick prayer that the nurses are discreet and don't ask too many questions about the origin of Sean's injuries, and begins the laborous process of getting Sean into clothing.

As he's dressing, or being dressed as the case were, it dawns on Sean that his skin is red and chafed where Viggo had ripped off the tape. "At least that'll be covered by the sweats," he mutters to himself as Viggo gently maneuvers his arms into a short-sleeved t-shirt. Sean winces and grimaces and moans all the way to the hospital, lamenting that he can't even properly bury his head in his hands because his wrists hurt so goddamned much.

Viggo checks Sean in, amazed at how quickly they're rushed through. It seems that they've seen it all and better, which makes Viggo wonder just how long Sean's been patronizing this hospital, and how he got them to be so discreet. He finds himself looking back over his shoulder every few minutes, half-expecting a photographer to jump out and capture Sean's battle-weary look for the world to see.

"Calm down, mate." Sean resists the urge to lean over and kiss Vig, who's standing by the gurney. He knows they're safe, that no one's going to ask too many questions, but that would be tempting fate just a bit more than either of them are comfortable with. "Val here's going to take care of it." He nods to the raven-haired nurse checking his vitals.

"Mark on today?" he asks her.

"No, you've got Eric. I called him down myself." She makes a note on the chart. "So, what stupid thing did you do today?"

Before he can answer, the curtain draws back and in walks a bleachblond who is definitely older than the 20something he looks. "MisterB, bang yourself up a bit?"

Viggo looks like a deer caught in the headlights. He tightens his hold on the metal rod that's closest to Sean's hand, and tries not to do anything stupid. Sean knows these people. He trusts them. They aren't going to call the cops and report domestic abuse.

"Still haven't come outta the punk phase, Eric?" Sean's voice is lighthearted. "Sure your mum'll be happy when you grow up." The banter is familiar, easy.

"Yours, too, if you plan on growing up." Eric touches the left wrist, rolls it gently in his hand. "Flex your fingers." Sean does so with a minimal amount of pain. "You're right-handed, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Sean sighs.

"Bad news, then." Eric lays the hand down and turns his attention to the right wrist. Sean winces the second his fingers touch it. "Wiggle 'em." Sean barely moves the fingers in response. "You actually broke something this time. X-ray shows fractures in two bones. Left one's just badly sprained. I'll wrap it. But this one's gonna take a cast." Eric lays the bruised hand back onto the gurney. "Not even going to ask about the abrasions and ligatures." He leans in. "Mark and me can buy ya some padded ones for Christmas?"

Viggo blushes as Sean laughs. He hasn't been noticed yet, and hopes it'll stay that way. Get Sean good as new and then take him home. Nothing else in the plan.

"Very funny, Eric." Each turn of his wrist while being casted draws out more pain. Sean lets out a breath, half-smiles at Vig. Wants to reassure him it's not his fault, but this isn't the place or time. "Think it'll heal alright?"

"You're not going to be doing any fancy swordplay for a few months." Eric starts the final wrap of the cast, leaving it with a nice red cover. "But nothing on the x-ray indicated you needed pins in it, so that's a good sign. Now, cast is gonna be on for six weeks. Minimum. You'll be able to use the fingers, but that's about it. This other wrist should start to feel better in a week or so, but be careful not to reinjure it." Eric picked up the chart and started making notes. "I'm gonna give you some major painkillers, cause this is gonna hurt like hell later tonight. Promise me you won't get addicted."

"Yes, sir," Sean snaps out.

Viggo freezes at the word. Sean gave him a list of people he's played with, and Viggo trusted it. Viggo doesn't mind, really, that Sean's fucked half of London, but he never expected to meet someone who's dommed Sean in the middle of a hospital.

"Cut the dramatics, Bean. I'm not on the nominating committee." Eric flashes a wide smile as he hold out the prescriptions. "One's for the most intense pain, which you're going to feel as soon as the shock wears off. Second's milder, more of a sedative, cause sleeping on that's gonna be a bit rough. Third's an antibiotic, just to be on the safe side."

"Alright." Sean looks over at Viggo, holds up wrapped hands. "You mind?"

"Make sure he takes them just like ordered," Eric says as he passes off the pieces of paper to Viggo. "No undue stress on the wrists. Or that shoulder, which I'm betting he dislocated again, but you pushed back in."

Viggo takes the orange cylinders, taking special note of which is which. There's no chance he's going to get Sean get addicted. Withdrawal is not pain he can get off on.

"Yes, Doctor..." Viggo prompts, knowing they haven't been introduced, knowing that the name is on the tag off the coat, knowing that Sean'll think he's trying to make him feel guilty, but still curious as to how the two know each other.

Sean looks up at the pause. "Shite. Sorry." Sean's not sure if he's supposed to feel guilty for not introducing them or for doing it honestly. "Eric Andrews, trauma doc extraordinaire." He motions between the two men. "Viggo Mortensen, partner in everything that matters." He smiles. "And my date for Mark's party, provided I'm not in traction."

"Nice to meet you," Eric says.

Viggo shakes his hand. "How do you do?" Sean's date? For what?

Would he have to wear a tie?

"I don't envy you the task of keeping him in one piece," Eric says as they release hands. "You're free to go. Now get out so I can deal with some really sick people."

"Sure. See ya in a few weeks." Sean hops off the gurney. "Take me home, Vig?"

"Your wish's my command," Viggo offers Sean his arms and, with a nod to Doctor Eric, leads Sean out of the hospital. He has permanent markers in the car and he very much wants to get back to marking Sean, albeit in a less than permanent fashion this time.

In the morning, they'll talk.



 
 

Comments

[yehnica.livejournal.com]

Nearly an hour ago, I told myself to just read part one then go to bed. That was an order. Which I did not obey.

Now I'm smoking like I've just had the best sex in my life. This was... Mind-boggling. Thank you. It's been a long time since a cigarette tasted this good.

mormegil.

[lannamichaels]

wow. *adds making people smoke to list of talents* ;)


Thanks for reading!

[jenmstar.livejournal.com]

This was, um, wow. Really good. Yeah, I suck at feedback. Just wanted to let you know I read and enjoyed.

[lannamichaels]

*g* Glad you enjoyed. Thank you for reading!

[lady-razzle.livejournal.com]

Oh my god.

*Thud*
*MIsses lecture*
*Convulses*
*Dies*

Oh, god, thank you.
Must.Keep.Breathing.

[lannamichaels]

*revives you*

I completely understand about the missing lecture. Happens to me all the time. *g*


Thanks for reading!

[phantomas.livejournal.com]

In the morning, they'll talk.

oh, please? Please please please please please please please ?
Are you going to write the talk bit? Please?

[lannamichaels]

We've writtne some roleplaying scenes that occur after Interrogation. Listing can be found here.

Thank you for reading. :)

[phantomas.livejournal.com]

Thanks for the link :)

there's a treasure of stories there! Happy me :)
Thanks :)

lurkers anonymous

[(Anonymous)]

OMG he said it. I was so shocked I jumped...scared my poor plot bunny herd half to death. Thank you for writing a fic that was unpredictable.

Re: lurkers anonymous

[lannamichaels]

I was surprised as well. Safewording and all the flashbacks leading up to it were Luna's doing. So I know how you feel. *g*

Thanks for reading!