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Jan. 15th, 2004 03:16 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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wildemoose
Title: Something in Common
Fandom: Patriot Games/A Perfect Murder crossover
Pairing: Sean Miller/David Shaw
Rating: R
Archive: Just ask!
Summary: Two guys walk into a bar…
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I would have made them do this. But I don’t, and they didn’t. This is all pretend.
Warnings: None really, except that I think I may be constitutionally incapable of writing a Sean Bean fic without going into raptures over his smile…his beautiful, beautiful smile… That’s the only fluffy part, though, I promise.
Notes: Inspired by my viewing of “Patriot Games,” my adoration of Sean Bean, and my disapproval of how his character was written. (“Well, he’s an IRA terrorist, so he has, let’s see, no soul, no remorse, and no real motive for being bitter and desperate…except for his brother, father, and probably every other member of his family being killed in a struggle that’s gone on since the 12th century or so…but, you know, the American audience won’t really care about that, will they?”) And it just warms your heart to bring two mean guys together.
Sean Miller can feel the sneer blossoming on his face as he walks into the bar. Irish pub, my arse, he thinks. Probably serve fucking green beer as well. If he weren’t so tired, he would find whoever’s in charge of this place and tell him a thing or two. Like how a real Irish pub doesn’t have cardboard cutouts of leprechauns and four-leaf clovers on the walls, even on St. Patrick’s Day. Like how a real Irish pub doesn’t have a karaoke machine. Like how you have to be careful who you talk to and which doors you open, because sometimes you walk into a room and there’s a body laid out on the table. Like your cousin. Your uncle. Your father. He would tell him, and maybe slam his head into the wall a few times for punctuation, but he needs a fucking drink, and he needs one now.
He settles into a chair, table in the corner, back to the wall. First lesson: never turn your back to a roomful of strangers. Or mates, even. Just family. That’s where you’re safe. (Paddy tagging along with you and your mates. Paddy having his first drink, his first girl. Paddy sobbing in your arms when Da got killed. Paddy’s head smashed on the pavement, blood gushing from his mouth.) Second lesson: Family is more important than anything. That’s why he’s here, this shite pub, this shite city, this shite country. When he could be at home, doing…doing what? Sean stops himself. There is no home. There is no place to go back to. And that’s why he’s here, drinking too much whiskey and trying not to think about it. Because it’s hard, being a killer.
He thinks that the only good thing about America is that there are no last orders, and that he can sit here at midnight, feeling like he’s escaped. That he can watch these drunk bastards, sip his drink, and build up enough hatred so he can do what he has to do. Not that he has to try. Not that it’s so hard. Not that killing someone’s kid is anything especially difficult, not when that someone killed your baby brother. Not when you had to watch him die. You’re going to watch his kid die, and that’s only fair, because that’s the way it is. So why are you sitting here with this fucking awful whiskey in this fucking awful American bar? Sean usually figures that he’s got the solution to every question. This is the one he can’t answer.
So when the man with the cheekbones walks through the door, Sean is only too happy to let his mind turn somewhere else. Only too happy to let his gaze slide up the ridiculously chiseled face to the cold eyes with a hint of something haunted lurking behind them, something violent. Like Sean’s eyes. Not that he fancies blokes, nothing like that. But you take it where you can get it. Third lesson. And this one looks like he might be willing to give it. So Sean doesn’t mind when the man catches his eye, when he can see the parallel gaze running up and down his body. Poof, he thinks. But maybe not. Maybe he’s seeing Sean’s eyes, how they look just like his. Maybe he’s wondering what that means.
He doesn’t try to make conversation, chat Sean up, just slides right down with his beer in his hand. “David,” he says, by way of introduction. American. Sean could have guessed. But he likes him already, likes his smug self-assurance, his simplicity. Sean likes it when things aren’t too complicated.
“Sean.”
“Sean? What’s a real Irishman doing in a place like this?” The man’s broad smile is contagious, and Sean can’t help grinning back—his real smile, bright, showing all his teeth, not the one-sided sneer that he’s grown so used to. Paddy used to love that smile, used to tickle him and tease him until the tough exterior he’d worked so hard to cultivate melted into nothing. He hasn’t smiled like that in a long time.
“Getting pissed, mate.”
“Figures. I’ll drink to that. Cheers.” He taps the neck of his beer bottle against the edge of Sean’s glass, and Sean smiles again, because it’s such a stupid gesture, such an American thing to do. He can’t figure out why it’s so appealing. “So, any particular reason you’re getting pissed in a crappy bar on a Tuesday night?” Sean shrugs.
“Hiding out.” It’s sort of the truth. Most of the truth, actually. David nods.
“Hey. Me too.”
“What’re you hiding from?” If he’s going to do this, Sean thinks, he might as well play the game. And maybe have a few more drinks. Now it’s David’s turn to shrug, a fluid motion that looks rehearsed, like he’s practiced the perfect mixture of enigmatic and disaffected.
“Everyone. My life. The law.”
“The law?”
“Does that bother you?” David’s eyes are narrow, first squinting at Sean, then into his beer, and Sean can’t tell if his intensity is real or if it’s all part of this show he’s putting on, this game he’s playing. And Sean doesn’t really care, because it doesn’t really matter.
“Not at all, mate. I reckon we’ve got a bit in common.”
“Yeah? What would that be?” Sean tries to think of a reply—something witty, maybe, or even seductive, but it’s too late at night and he’s had too much to drink for that. He settles for the direct approach.
“That’s for me to know, mate. I’m going to have a piss.” And if he doesn’t take that hint and follow, he’s not what Sean’s looking for, anyway.
David obviously knows how to time these things, though, because he appears in the bathroom after Sean’s finished his piss but before he’s had time to put his dick back in his jeans, pushing Sean into a stall, slamming him up against the wall, and sinking to his knees almost before Sean can respond. And Sean smiles, his satisfied smirk this time, because he’s really never wrong about this kind of thing. Fuck, he knows what he’s doing, he thinks, and by the time he comes, he’s already reaching for David’s zipper. Not that he usually does this. Not that he’s a fucking poofter, not like this bloke. But one good turn deserves another, as his father used to say. Fourth lesson.
They barely look at each other afterwards, cleaning themselves up, tucking in shirts, checking their hair in the splotchy mirror on the wall. Blokes are better for this, Sean thinks. No kissing, no fucking cuddling, all that shite that girls need. Not worth it, that. David turns to him, that weird smile on his face, his hand on the door handle.
“Murder. Wasn’t it.”
“Eh?”
“You’re hiding out because you killed somebody.” Sean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod, doesn’t even move. David is already opening the door, but he’s not walking away. “You were right. We’ve got something in common.”
wildemooseTitle: Something in Common
Fandom: Patriot Games/A Perfect Murder crossover
Pairing: Sean Miller/David Shaw
Rating: R
Archive: Just ask!
Summary: Two guys walk into a bar…
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I would have made them do this. But I don’t, and they didn’t. This is all pretend.
Warnings: None really, except that I think I may be constitutionally incapable of writing a Sean Bean fic without going into raptures over his smile…his beautiful, beautiful smile… That’s the only fluffy part, though, I promise.
Notes: Inspired by my viewing of “Patriot Games,” my adoration of Sean Bean, and my disapproval of how his character was written. (“Well, he’s an IRA terrorist, so he has, let’s see, no soul, no remorse, and no real motive for being bitter and desperate…except for his brother, father, and probably every other member of his family being killed in a struggle that’s gone on since the 12th century or so…but, you know, the American audience won’t really care about that, will they?”) And it just warms your heart to bring two mean guys together.
Sean Miller can feel the sneer blossoming on his face as he walks into the bar. Irish pub, my arse, he thinks. Probably serve fucking green beer as well. If he weren’t so tired, he would find whoever’s in charge of this place and tell him a thing or two. Like how a real Irish pub doesn’t have cardboard cutouts of leprechauns and four-leaf clovers on the walls, even on St. Patrick’s Day. Like how a real Irish pub doesn’t have a karaoke machine. Like how you have to be careful who you talk to and which doors you open, because sometimes you walk into a room and there’s a body laid out on the table. Like your cousin. Your uncle. Your father. He would tell him, and maybe slam his head into the wall a few times for punctuation, but he needs a fucking drink, and he needs one now.
He settles into a chair, table in the corner, back to the wall. First lesson: never turn your back to a roomful of strangers. Or mates, even. Just family. That’s where you’re safe. (Paddy tagging along with you and your mates. Paddy having his first drink, his first girl. Paddy sobbing in your arms when Da got killed. Paddy’s head smashed on the pavement, blood gushing from his mouth.) Second lesson: Family is more important than anything. That’s why he’s here, this shite pub, this shite city, this shite country. When he could be at home, doing…doing what? Sean stops himself. There is no home. There is no place to go back to. And that’s why he’s here, drinking too much whiskey and trying not to think about it. Because it’s hard, being a killer.
He thinks that the only good thing about America is that there are no last orders, and that he can sit here at midnight, feeling like he’s escaped. That he can watch these drunk bastards, sip his drink, and build up enough hatred so he can do what he has to do. Not that he has to try. Not that it’s so hard. Not that killing someone’s kid is anything especially difficult, not when that someone killed your baby brother. Not when you had to watch him die. You’re going to watch his kid die, and that’s only fair, because that’s the way it is. So why are you sitting here with this fucking awful whiskey in this fucking awful American bar? Sean usually figures that he’s got the solution to every question. This is the one he can’t answer.
So when the man with the cheekbones walks through the door, Sean is only too happy to let his mind turn somewhere else. Only too happy to let his gaze slide up the ridiculously chiseled face to the cold eyes with a hint of something haunted lurking behind them, something violent. Like Sean’s eyes. Not that he fancies blokes, nothing like that. But you take it where you can get it. Third lesson. And this one looks like he might be willing to give it. So Sean doesn’t mind when the man catches his eye, when he can see the parallel gaze running up and down his body. Poof, he thinks. But maybe not. Maybe he’s seeing Sean’s eyes, how they look just like his. Maybe he’s wondering what that means.
He doesn’t try to make conversation, chat Sean up, just slides right down with his beer in his hand. “David,” he says, by way of introduction. American. Sean could have guessed. But he likes him already, likes his smug self-assurance, his simplicity. Sean likes it when things aren’t too complicated.
“Sean.”
“Sean? What’s a real Irishman doing in a place like this?” The man’s broad smile is contagious, and Sean can’t help grinning back—his real smile, bright, showing all his teeth, not the one-sided sneer that he’s grown so used to. Paddy used to love that smile, used to tickle him and tease him until the tough exterior he’d worked so hard to cultivate melted into nothing. He hasn’t smiled like that in a long time.
“Getting pissed, mate.”
“Figures. I’ll drink to that. Cheers.” He taps the neck of his beer bottle against the edge of Sean’s glass, and Sean smiles again, because it’s such a stupid gesture, such an American thing to do. He can’t figure out why it’s so appealing. “So, any particular reason you’re getting pissed in a crappy bar on a Tuesday night?” Sean shrugs.
“Hiding out.” It’s sort of the truth. Most of the truth, actually. David nods.
“Hey. Me too.”
“What’re you hiding from?” If he’s going to do this, Sean thinks, he might as well play the game. And maybe have a few more drinks. Now it’s David’s turn to shrug, a fluid motion that looks rehearsed, like he’s practiced the perfect mixture of enigmatic and disaffected.
“Everyone. My life. The law.”
“The law?”
“Does that bother you?” David’s eyes are narrow, first squinting at Sean, then into his beer, and Sean can’t tell if his intensity is real or if it’s all part of this show he’s putting on, this game he’s playing. And Sean doesn’t really care, because it doesn’t really matter.
“Not at all, mate. I reckon we’ve got a bit in common.”
“Yeah? What would that be?” Sean tries to think of a reply—something witty, maybe, or even seductive, but it’s too late at night and he’s had too much to drink for that. He settles for the direct approach.
“That’s for me to know, mate. I’m going to have a piss.” And if he doesn’t take that hint and follow, he’s not what Sean’s looking for, anyway.
David obviously knows how to time these things, though, because he appears in the bathroom after Sean’s finished his piss but before he’s had time to put his dick back in his jeans, pushing Sean into a stall, slamming him up against the wall, and sinking to his knees almost before Sean can respond. And Sean smiles, his satisfied smirk this time, because he’s really never wrong about this kind of thing. Fuck, he knows what he’s doing, he thinks, and by the time he comes, he’s already reaching for David’s zipper. Not that he usually does this. Not that he’s a fucking poofter, not like this bloke. But one good turn deserves another, as his father used to say. Fourth lesson.
They barely look at each other afterwards, cleaning themselves up, tucking in shirts, checking their hair in the splotchy mirror on the wall. Blokes are better for this, Sean thinks. No kissing, no fucking cuddling, all that shite that girls need. Not worth it, that. David turns to him, that weird smile on his face, his hand on the door handle.
“Murder. Wasn’t it.”
“Eh?”
“You’re hiding out because you killed somebody.” Sean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod, doesn’t even move. David is already opening the door, but he’s not walking away. “You were right. We’ve got something in common.”
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no subject
Date: 2004-01-15 09:13 pm (UTC)SQUEE!!!
Yum. Sex as gritty and no-nonsense as the men doing it.
Fabulous idea, putting these two together. They make quite a matched set, don't they?
Can't wait to read more from you!
-
no subject
Date: 2004-01-15 10:43 pm (UTC)PS May I archive this at Rugbytackling (http://www.rugbytackling.com)? We are in dire need of more crossovers *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-01-15 11:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 12:36 am (UTC)i like the intense characterization of Sean... and I like the fact that it's very realistic.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 01:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 01:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 01:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 02:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 02:14 am (UTC)This is so Sean. And, also, so very David, but mostly it's the Sean that got me. The narrative, the down-and-dirty, the Not that he’s a fucking poofter, not like this bloke...
And dear God no, US 'Irish' pubs are just wrong. Hell, even British Irish pubs are, and what Sean thinks about that - fantastic! (not in general, but for the character at least).
Oh, and I'm right there with you in the raptures over Sean's smile ;)
no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 02:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 03:04 am (UTC)I find I can't write a fic without going on about Sean's eyes...those beautiful, beautiful eyes... ;)
no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 02:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 03:02 pm (UTC)Ooh, I liked this...
Date: 2004-01-16 04:21 pm (UTC)Re: Ooh, I liked this...
Date: 2004-01-16 05:02 pm (UTC)