Work Text:
Mark Webber is, among other things, absolutely certain that the asshole who botched his hit is one Sebastian Vettel. He’d know those dirty blonde curls and ergonomically small hands anywhere.
Which is a little bit of a problem, because he’s also certain that Seb is a consulting software engineer and has never held a gun in his life.
… Which is another problem, because if Seb lied about his job, what else has he lied about in their three years of marriage?
(For the record, it’s not that Mark is any better, because Seb thinks he’s an accountant. He’s not not an accountant—it’s just that his accounting job isn’t the only thing he uses to help pay their mortgage.)
(He’s starting to think Seb’s engineering job isn’t the only thing Seb uses to pay their mortgage either.)
A hysterical laugh bubbles in his throat as he hastily packs away his M24 and cleans up the evidence of his being near the scene. He’s so fucked. The bank announced that interest rates were going to keep hiking without federal assistance, their high-rise apartment still hasn’t sold because the goddamn housing bubble burst the day they put it on the market, and most importantly, the target has walked away unscathed. Also, his husband is a mercenary.
Without the reward money, he can’t get the funds they need to renovate their kitchen and bathrooms—and like hell is he going to spend resources rigging the local radio show contest for cash. A thought stops him in his tracks, halfway through slipping their local music shop tag on the handle of the gun’s case: Does Seb get paid well? Mark is a lone wolf, but if Seb is affiliated, he might not be getting the full cut of his work. He makes a mental note to call their real estate agent when his location can be traced again and ask about new visitors.
By the time he’s ready to leave, Seb is long gone, the building opposite Mark’s just as empty as it always seemed.
“Oh… my God,” is all DC has to offer when Mark relays this information to him much later that day, during one of their break room water dispenser sessions.
“I know,” Mark says, morosely tracing the edge of his eco-friendly, sustainably-made water bottle. Seb had bought it for him earlier in the year, after he went down a climate change rabbit hole and really understood, for the first time, just how dire a situation their planet was in. Because that was who Seb was—caring and smart, the kind of person Mark vowed to protect from his life as an assassin. “Shit like this gives a guy trust issues.”
And DC has been there from the start, before Ann got Mark into a life of crime, before Mark climbed his way to the top and became the best of the best. Unlike a certain someone, he could be trusted with this.
“No kidding,” he says, reliable as ever. Grimacing, he pats Mark lightly on the shoulder. “Well, if you ever need a couch to sleep on?”
“Thanks, DC.”
“Anytime.” The older man pats him once again, for good measure, before sauntering off to his office.
Mark sighs, rolls his shoulders, and tries to think about his accounting clients for the rest of the afternoon.
He gets a text on his burner phone before he leaves the office for the day and nearly drops his water bottle.
He’s been assigned a seven-figure hit on Seb by the original commission.
Before he can so much as blink, the phone buzzes again with another text.
They’ve also assigned Seb a seven-figure hit on him.
You’re insane, Mark texts.
You fucked up, is all they reply.
He forces his feet to move towards the bathrooms. He locks himself in the stall and does not scream.
When he gets home—one hand pressed to the garage door button to close it, the other tugging at his key that’s gotten stuck in the lock after the door opens, again, they’ll have to oil it or something—he calls out his usual, “Babe? I’m home,” and is immediately assaulted by… the scent of tomato sauce and freshly baked bread. If Seb wanted to throw him off his game, normalcy is definitely one way to go about it. That’s his tactic, after all, even if he doesn’t quite plan on murdering his husband. At least, not before he gets answers first.
Warily, he checks that the garage door has closed completely, then gets the key free and finally steps into their house. The home-from-work routine is a practised one already: Shoes off first, set the briefcase down by the wall, hang up the coat, then nudge the shoes onto the mat by the door. Pick the briefcase up, and then—
“Mark,” Seb pops around the corner into the small foyer, wiping his hands down on his ADORABLE FROM MY HEAD TO-MA-TOES apron. For a moment, Mark forgets about the assassin thing and reaches out with his free hand to pull Seb in for a quick greeting peck on the cheek. Seb bears it with his usual smile before tilting his head and making it a proper kiss.
“Hi,” says Mark when they break apart.
“Hey,” replies Seb. There’s a slightly calculating look in his eyes, like Mark is a problematic code that Seb’s been hired to find a solution to, but the expression is gone as quickly as it sets in. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made bread rolls, want one?”
If that’s the way they’re going to play it. Well—he’s not the best for nothing.
“Sure.” He lets Seb tug him into the kitchen, making a brief stop in the living room so he can toss his bag on the couch, and takes a bite of the bread roll that’s presented to him. It’s warm, buttery, and perfect. Nothing’s really been amiss so far.
“Water,” Seb hands him a glass. He downs it obligingly.
Another thought crosses his mind: Maybe Seb also doesn’t plan on killing him? Maybe Seb doesn't know?
“How was work?” He asks between bites, cautiously gauging the blonde's reaction.
“Oh, you know,” Seb settles himself back at the stove and stirs the sauce a couple times, peeks over the pot of boiling water to check on their pasta noodles. “Tell me about your day?”
Mark makes himself useful, opening the cabinets to pull out plates. “Oh,” he says, careful to keep his tone neutral, “y’know.”
The only sound between them is the stove fan, the bubble of boiling water, and the sizzle of sauce on the pan. Mark's hand inches towards the drawer where they keep their utensils.
“Yeah,” and Seb’s shoulders slump almost imperceptibly. “No, I don’t.”
So they are doing this.
Mark grasps the drawer knob so hard he’s not sure it won’t break off entirely, which they absolutely do not need when they’re already pressed for money. In the space of a breath, he forces himself to relax and open the drawer to get forks and knives out. Partly for dinner if asked, but mostly to defend himself.
“I mean,” he falters, shifting through the day’s events to find something worth talking about that might keep up the charade. “It just wasn’t very exciting. I met a client who had the most half-assed paperwork, one of those artist types, and he kept all his receipts in an empty paint can?”
“Sure,” Seb turns the stove off and moves the pot and pan to the unused side, then fiddles with the clip-on strainer. Can one get killed with a clip-on strainer? “Because your things are always so organised.”
The most skilled assassin in the world would be able to use everything in the kitchen as a lethal weapon, even an expired pack of instant noodles. Mark is not the most skilled in the world, perhaps, but he thinks he'd know if Seb was, or at least he wouldn't be so daft as to miss something like that—anyway, he's fairly confident he could take the other man down with what he’s got on hand.
“One, I am organised, and two, nothing really happened, you see?”
Sighing, Seb brings the pot over to the sink and tilts it, allowing the water to pour out instead of throwing it on Mark. “Can you bring me the plates?”
“The p—yeah, yes.” Mark sets them on the counter, between the sink and the stove. He’s got forks and knives against the plethora of things Seb could use, he can spare the plates.
“Thanks. Listen,” Seb continues after a weighted pause where he sets the pot down and grabs the tongs to take out the noodles. “I’m just going to say it. I signed us up for marriage counselling.”
“You—what.” Is he going to die by therapy?
“And you can’t fight me on this, all right? I know it’s not something you’d go for, because you’d rather pretend everything is fine,”
“You’re going to spill the sauce. What do you mean, we’re not fine?”
“Oh, oops, thanks—no, no, it’s not like that, I think we’re still it for each other”—Seb puts the now-empty pan in the sink and turns the faucet—“it’s that marriage is work, and it needs trust and communication.”
“Here,” Mark takes the plates from the counter and sets them on the table, and after a moment of reluctance, places the forks and knives in place as well. “Don’t we trust each other? Communicate?”
Seb starts washing his hands. “I trust you not to cheat on me, but it’s not the same as, I don’t know if I’d trust you with my life in peril, or something. Wash up for dinner.”
“Okay, yes, and I trust you wouldn’t cheat on me,” he skirts along the counter until he reaches the sink and rolls the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows, then makes grabby hands for the soap. “Look, we’re communicating right now, and there isn’t a situation where you would need to, you know, entrust your life in my hands. We’re normal people—”
“Yes, and normal people after three years of being married are usually different. I feel like we still don’t even know each other.” Seb pouts beside him.
“Don’t we? And can we even afford counselling?”
“It’s partially covered by our private health insurance.”
“Seb.” Mark shuts off the tap a tad harder than is necessary and wipes his hands roughly on the towel. After a calming breath, he spins to face his husband and makes a twirl gesture with his hand. Seb obligingly turns around, his back to Mark.
Silently, Mark steps forward into Seb’s space, fingers automatically working at the knot of the apron. “You trust me enough to put your back to me,” he murmurs, watching as the ghost of his breath makes the small hairs on the back of Seb’s neck stand on end.
He could have killed Seb a thousand different ways in the time since he came home. Seb could have killed him in another thousand different ways.
“Let’s not do this,” he presses consolatory kisses onto Seb’s skin: One peck at the nape of his neck. A lingering kiss on Seb’s fluttering pulse point, and two more kisses to seal it. Seb leans back into his touch and hums, tilting his head to the side to give Mark better access.
Three lingering kisses down the line of his shoulder, another three quick ones up. Another long one behind his ear, where he breathes in the faint scent of Seb’s shampoo. A short one to punctuate it.
L-O-V-E.
He doesn’t say it often enough, uncomfortable with the way the word sits on his tongue and how it makes him feel small inside. But he knows it to be true, even now that his husband might also be a killer in hiding. He’s simply far better at showing his affection than being wordy about it.
“We don’t need counselling, Sebastian,” he says against the delicate skin of Seb’s ear. I love you.
Seb moans lowly, his head rolling back onto Mark’s shoulder. “You make me so distracted.”
“Do I?” Mark finally undoes the knot and takes the opportunity to run his hands along Seb’s sides. He suddenly feels—tired. Tired of fighting and of the day’s events and of questioning if Seb is going to kill him.
“I’m sorry, baby,” the blonde turns in his arms to face him, gaze dark and hungry. “We were supposed to have a nice dinner.”
“We still can,” Mark leans in, touching his forehead to Seb’s and closing his eyes. Maybe the stress of the day was more taxing than he thought. "Just give me a minute." The world is starting to go woozy.
“I timed it wrong, really, I just got flustered.”
Wait. “What?”
“The water was supposed to go with the food.”
“You—what?”
“You didn’t think I’d know it was you? Oh, Mark, this is exactly why we need marriage counselling.”
Before Mark can reply, he feels his balance slipping, and he’s out cold before he even hits the floor.
When he comes to, he’s in bed wearing nothing but boxers. His head hurts like a bitch. He wracks his brain to remember if he got drunk the night before, and it all comes rushing back violently.
“Seb?” He tries to sit up, but he can’t move. His limbs are—literally tied down. With their fun ropes. He closes his eyes and lets his head flop back on the pillow, a pitiful groan escaping him.
“Oh, you’re up early,” Seb’s voice floats over from somewhere to his left. Mark cracks one eye open and sees his husband walk in, deftly loading a Sig-Sauer P220.
Christ.
“I didn’t consent to this.” Mark tugs futilely at the ropes. “We’re going to need to throw these out. The connotations are fucked forever.”
“That’s wasteful, honestly,” Seb tsks. “Anyway, aren’t you glad I used them and not the ties for recycling? Your wrists aren’t chafing because I’m nice."
“Babe, if you were nice, I wouldn’t have married you.”
That one gets the gun pointed at his head. It’s probably deserved.
“See, this is another problem we need to discuss with the counsellor. Marriages can’t just be built on sexual compatibility.”
“Please don’t talk about sex when I’m tied up in bed.”
“You dog,” Seb gestures exasperatedly. Mark tries to remember that the gun is loaded. Maybe it’s the drugs still circulating his system and making him insane, but his dick is starting to take a mild interest in the situation.
“Sebastian, can we talk? Without,” he jerks his chin, “y’know?” Before he’s unable to hide anything else.
Seb wavers for a moment, but it’s perhaps a testament to the years of trust and communication that he sets the gun on the nightstand. He crosses his arms instead and sits on the bed, next to Mark’s hip. The quirk of his eyebrow is prompt enough.
“I’m a mercenary. I’ve been one since before we met.” He lets that sink in—the truth, the ugly truth he’d been trying to protect his husband from. When he opens his mouth to continue, however, Seb’s phone starts ringing shrilly, and both of them jerk in surprise.
“Hold on, this might be important,” Seb mutters, holding up a finger while he fishes his phone out of his pocket. His blue eyes widen comically, and Mark is about to ask what could be more important than the reveal of a relationship-long secret, when—
“Nico, hey! How are you?” Seb greets, much too brightly. He turns his panicked expression to Mark, who at this point is also panicking, because he’s being held hostage after being drugged by his spouse, and their fucking real estate agent is on the phone.
“Awh, it’s great to hear that the kids are doing well. Yes, Mark is right here, why don’t I put you on speaker?”
Mark shakes his head so hard he gets dizzy. Seb grabs a handful of his hair to keep him in place, then makes a show of putting them on speaker.
“Hi Nico,” he forces out, trying to sound normal. “Everything all right?”
“Oh, it’s more than all right,” Nico says from the other end, his voice grating on Mark’s ears and frayed nerves alike. “You remember how we had a visitor the other day to the apartment looking to buy?”
Suddenly, Mark’s headache is gone. Good news + a visitor looking to buy = ..???
“Yes..?” Seb says, unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.
“They made an offer today—and they’re willing to meet the asking price!”
Mark looks at Seb, hysterical.
Seb looks right back at him, equally crazed.
“No fucking way,” he twists his wrists to move and release some of the anticipation. Holy shit. Seb’s grip in his hair tightens painfully.
“Oh my gosh, what, I thought the market was so bad that we’d have to lease and become landlords,” the blonde starts babbling in disbelief.
“How do we—can we accept their offer?”
Nico laughs vibrantly on the other end. “Thank the government for slashing interest, honestly. I can get started on the paperwork and kick off the process. Just wanted to call ahead and let you know the good news.”
“Yes, please,” Mark breathes.
Seb is practically vibrating out of his skin. “That would be—thank you so much, oh my—thank you.”
“Anything for you boys,” he purrs, unaware that Mark is going to go bald if Seb doesn’t let go soon. “Be in touch soon! You enjoy your weekend, bye-bye now.”
They echo their goodbyes, wishing him a good weekend as well, which he inevitably would because Lord above, his commission—and the room falls silent.
“Um. Ow.”
Seb startles, releasing his poor hair. His phone lands somewhere to Mark’s side.
“Mark,” he enunciates after a beat, eyes shiny. “We’re going to pay off our fucking mortgage.”
And how can they not be okay after this? “God, come here,” Mark says, and Seb wraps himself around Mark’s—still bound!—body. “I’d put my arms around you, but. You know.”
“Shut up,” Seb buries his face in Mark’s neck. “This is such a mess. I was supposed to kill you.”
“That makes two of us.”
Mark strains his neck so that he can place a kiss on top of Seb’s head. It’s worth it for the way the blonde snuggles closer.
“When we met, I was on a job,” Seb sniffs disdainfully. “I was supposed to be interrogating the guy who was harassing me, and you stepped in, all—chivalrous and, and handsome, with your stupid denim jacket.”
Guiltily, Mark casts his mind back to that moment: Seb looking bored at the bar, dressed awfully in a t-shirt two sizes too small and hideous plaid shorts, an older man looming beside him. “You looked like you could hold your own,” he admits. In retrospect, the then-stranger hadn’t looked intimidated or scared, just mildly irritated.
“Horner would have been dead in a minute,” Seb agrees, absentmindedly pawing at Mark’s abs. “But I liked that you had the guts to step in. At least a dozen other patrons in that place, and only you did anything.”
If Mark is honest with himself, the fact that his husband isn’t who he thought he was... doesn’t bother him. Mostly, he just wants his limbs free so he can hold him properly for this confession. The thought sends a chill up his spine—he’s more than painfully aware of his weak spot.
After several moments, Seb acquiesces to the million-dollar question.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is uncharacteristically small, like he’s unsure of what to do for the first time in his life. “Even if I wasn’t—y’know?—if you were in danger, and someone found me to use against you, shouldn’t I have known?” He trails off into silence.
Part of Mark wants to give into the guilt, and the other part is crying unfairness. Never one to easily give in, he counters: “Why didn’t you? The same thing could have happened to me, and you didn’t tell me either.”
Seb visibly digests that, then pauses in his ministrations. He props himself up on his elbow, furrowing his brows and pouting quizzically down at Mark. “What?”
“You’re hired arms as well, the same risks apply,” Mark insists, “and you didn’t tell me either.”
“Darling,” blinks Seb, “I’m intelligence. If anything happened to you, the agency would have stepped in to help.”
“You—what.”
“I thought you… saw me?” Seb’s pout turns to a frown. “I could have sworn you had your gun pointed right at me.”
“I—yeah, yes, but not to shoot, I was trying to find out who botched my hit!”
“You mean you botched my assignment. Marko’s been on our surveillance list for years, you weren’t allowed to shoot him.”
“So you shot my bullet out of the air?”
“You were so obvious about being there. Of course I had time to plan evasive measures.”
A dozen dots are connecting in Mark’s head. Seb had been there long enough to see Mark set up, even when he was assured the place would be clear. “My commission implied that the target had to go so that they could cover up another thing, and that because of the cover-up, nobody had their eye on him; what are the chances you’d be on shift in your exact location when they told me to be there?”
“Slim, but not impossible.” He can see the gears turning in Seb’s head as well. “But slim, especially if—and correct me if I’m wrong—you didn’t do your own recon.”
Mark hums vaguely. It’s true, but he usually does his own recon even when asked not to. The stress of moving and selling their old place had made him desperate for an easy job, and when DC let him know about a potential contact…
“What time is it?” Seb asks, apropos of nothing.
“Am I supposed to know? You drugged me.”
Muttering under his breath, Seb pats around Mark’s body for his phone, emerging after a few painful elbows to his ribs with a quiet, a-ha!
“We should get on the move in a few hours. Someone set us up; I don’t think it’s safe to sleep here tonight.” His tone is matter-of-fact, measured, and confident again, and a small part of Mark feels relieved that he’s back to normal.
Then, Seb slides off the bed, tugs off his sweatpants and Beatles shirt, and folds them neatly on top of the laundry hamper.
“You can’t be serious,” Mark says faintly, in awe, staring at his husband bare ass with a newfound appreciation. “Now?”
“We’re getting out of debt, Mark, you’re not leaving until we’re done celebrating.” Seb crawls back onto the bed and straddles him, leaning down to kiss him filthily.
“Oh my God,” is all he can gasp out between breaths, unconsciously grinding up with what little leverage and movement he’s allowed.
Seb pulls away to cackle, a tinge maniacally. “Is that a gun in your pants, or are you just pleased to see me?”
Mark finally gets untied, and Seb kisses his wrists and ankles in apology. It’s hard to be angry about anything, though, as he continues to ride the high of mind-blowing sex and post-nut clarity. Yeah, the connotations of the ropes haven’t been ruined completely.
When they eventually get on the move, it’s almost midnight. They’re dressed mostly plain and incognito, except Seb is wearing a form-fitting pair of tactical pants, and Mark almost wants to have another round before they set off. No luck: Seb foists a heavy black bag onto Mark’s lap. He can already feel the hard outlines of various firearms through the bag.
“Just in case,” says Seb sunnily, who then winds his way around the car to get in the driver’s seat.
Mark doesn’t bother asking where they’re going—it’s probably a government-funded safe house of some sort. He mentally double checks that they have everything: Overnight bags in the backseat, weaponry in the trunk, and road trip snack bag in its usual place on the backseat floor with Seb’s gluten-free trail mix. The essentials.
The ride is quiet for the most part, and Mark watches the rearview and side mirrors for any suspicious activity. Sure enough, after about twenty minutes, there’s a black truck tagging them that comes into view every couple blocks and falls behind.
“You remember when we went to that local amusement park, back when we started dating?” He asks casually, eyes fixed on the car behind through the mirrors.
“And you failed miserably at mini golf?”
Mark’s heart fills with immense fondness. “Asshole. I was thinking about the boat ride, where we both had to cycle to keep it moving.”
“You’re lucky I know how to translate Markspeak to normal speech,” replies Seb instead, “because you are terrible at instructions and working with others.”
Then the gunfire starts.
Seb floors it and swerves into the lane with incoming traffic, cutting across to turn left at the next intersection. The sound of car horns fades behind them, and Mark knows the play immediately—Seb is getting them to open roads, minimising traffic and potential victims of crossfire.
Mark curses under his breath when they right themselves and nearly rips the bag open in his search for a usable firearm. He lands on a fully-loaded Glock 17, which—okay. Good enough.
He presses on the window switch, watching impatiently as it slowly slides down. Seb manages to spare a hand, even though he’s going 130 in a 60 zone, and does the same.
The night sky and city lights ripple past as Seb manoeuvres their Honda Civic around like a madman. Mark undoes his seatbelt, takes a deep breath, and positions himself halfway out of the window so that he can shoot.
His first two shots go wide, but the next four or so hit the other car’s front windshield. Swearing, he ducks back in to take cover. The truck must be reinforced with something bulletproof, as the glass only cracks marginally. He shoves himself out again, aims at the wheels instead, and uses the last shot to get the bad guy in the passenger seat between the eyes when they lean out of their window. The truck screeches and careens into a barrel roll.
Seb’s hand on his belt buckle tugs him back into the car.
“They had to make life difficult,” Seb grumbles, yanking the wheel to the right and launching them down a side street, then moving them onto another main road. There are sirens behind them now, and Mark spots four identical black trucks following them when he glances at the mirror.
“Could you call for backup?” Mark fishes through the bag for another gun, something that can fire faster, and pulls out—“how the fuck do you have a Škorpion?”
“Job in Sweden a few years ago, also no,” Seb spins the car into a U-turn and speeds past their pursuer and the cops in the opposite direction. “If someone set us up, they could be intelligence as well.”
“You told me it was a business trip,” Mark fishes around for magazines. “I was there with you in Sweden!”
“That’s not technically a lie!” They swerve around a van. “I can scout out a crime ring and sightsee with my fiancé, what’s wrong with that?”
“Everything? And another thing,”—the lever on the Škorpion gets flicked to 1—“if you’re intelligence, how did you not know about me already?”
“Right, because of course I’d do a background check on you,”
“That’s your don’t-be-stupid voice! You didn’t do a background check?”
“No, all right? Take the wheel, please,” Seb undoes his seatbelt and leaves Mark scrabbling for the wheel. Calmly, Seb plucks the gun and magazines from Mark’s lap and pokes his upper body out of the window, somehow managing to twist while keeping the gas pedal to the floor.
“Don't give me the—! What!"
But it's too late. Seb's already locked, loaded, and shooting at Bad Guy Trucks 2/5 and 3/5 like he isn't in a moving vehicle.
"Why the FUCK," Mark has to yell to be heard above the wind and sounds of a gunfight, “wouldn’t you do a background check on the person you’re going to spend your life with?” Heart in his throat, he clutches the wheel and focuses on weaving between traffic.
“Because,” Seb bellows back, “marriages are built on TRUST,” he yanks the gun’s handle knob back to release the now-empty magazine, “and COMMUNICATION.”
Like quicksilver, he jams another magazine in and lets the bullets fly. There are massive explosions behind them lighting up the night. Mark’s pretty sure this stuff has only ever happened in cheesy action flicks.
Satisfied that their pursuers have been dealt with, Seb nimbly hands Mark the Škorpion and settles back in his seat. He buckles up decisively before tucking his wind-mussed hair behind his ears, taking the wheel, and abiding by speed limits once more.
“We took a couple hits to the rear, but I think Mikey can fix it without charging us our firstborn child, hm?” Mark reaches behind to place the gun gently in the backseat, freeing him to nudge Seb’s arm lightly.
Seb glances at him briefly in wonder, then fixes his eyes on the road again. “Add that to the list of things we’re going to talk about with the marriage counsellor.”
“What?”
“Before we got engaged, you said maybe to kids, but now that we’re going to be in a good place financially and have that extra room—?”
Mark exhales a measured breath, blood pumping with leftover adrenaline. He has no idea how Seb switched gears so fast. “I still don’t know. Kids are a big decision, and it’s not like—sweetheart, we’ve killed people. We just killed people.”
Seb frowns deeply and doesn’t reply. They spend the rest of the ride in a stony silence.
When they reach the safehouse, it’s the early hours of the morning. They’re on the other end of the city, near a set of townhouses in wealthy suburbia. Mark almost feels self-conscious when they park next to a Porsche.
“We can take it for a spin later, if we have time,” Seb shrugs off his seatbelt and steps out of the car, raising his arms in a stretch.
“Take what for a spin?”
Seb doesn’t reply, choosing instead to open the back door and start collecting their stuff. Mark also gets out of the car, shouldering the gun bag, and then it dawns on him.
“The Porsche is yours?”
The money he made being a mercenary could have also gotten him a Porsche at some point, to be fair, but he’s an accountant, and he knows when things look suspicious. Besides, their Honda Civic hadn’t let them down before, and it didn’t let them down now.
The only indication that his husband has heard him is a small, but undeniably smug, self-assured smirk. Mark tries to ignore how much more attractive Seb is in this element—he suits the action-packed life, and it’s not hard to imagine that his efficiency and calmness in high-stakes situations is terrifying to enemies. He wonders why Seb was only doing surveillance and scouting on jobs, if he’s already proven to be a fantastic shot and fast thinker.
Together, they bring their things to the front door, and Seb hesitates a little before unlocking it.
“Wait,” Mark telegraphs his movements before touching Seb’s elbow—he doesn’t like being grabbed suddenly—”will intelligence know we’re using one of their safehouses?”
Seb flounders more, moving to hold Mark’s hand almost skittishly. “It’s not theirs, really.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Because there is one, and he’s doing that nose scrunch thing where he’s trying to decide if talking about it or showing it would be better or worse.
Decision ostensibly made, Seb pushes the door open with his free hand and ferries them inside. Immediately, Mark sees the problem.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” says his husband, “but do you remember my ex?”
“Is she here?”
But the house doesn’t look like it’s been lived in for some time. There are dusty photographs lining the foyer, and the first one on Mark’s left is unmistakably of a younger Seb, a cute blonde, and a chocolate labrador cuddling together during a picnic.
“No, no, she moved out shortly after I changed divisions,” Seb shuts the door behind them and locks it. “We were work partners before we were together, but we didn’t work very well as romantic partners.”
“You bought a townhouse with your girlfriend.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
But it was like that, and Mark can see it in his mind’s eye: A nuclear family, a perfect couple with two kids and a dog. Dad owns a Porsche, Mom works from home. Picnics in gardens, neighbourhood barbeques, family vacations to Disney. One kid becomes a doctor, the other an artist. They grow old in a semi-detached house that’s full of life and love.
All at once, Mark’s blood runs cold; he’s standing in a milestone of the relationship that could have been everything Seb ever wanted.
Seb gazes at him anxiously, chewing on his bottom lip while he reads Mark’s expressions. Mark can't breathe.
“You never let me visit this place,” he keeps his voice soft and forces himself not to visibly clam up with—whatever he’s feeling. “Never. It was exactly like that.”
Inadequate. That’s the word. They’re “proper” adults with things like good credit scores, and they’ll pay off their mortgage together, sure. But Mark never really offered the emotional vulnerability he knew Seb craved, never promised anything more than maybes, and he always excused it with the thought that he was protecting them from his second job. Seb wants kids. Seb calls his mother every week. Seb wants a proper family. Seb—
Seb is still holding his hand, running a soothing thumb along his knuckles. “No, my parents pitched in because they thought we were going to get married. We didn’t do it together, not like us.” His tone grows steadily urgent, like things are spiralling out of his control.
Mark wants to wrench himself free; every nerve in his body is jumping, and the photos on the wall feel menacing and judgemental. Instead, he pulls away under the guise of taking off his backpack and setting their bags down. Seb hurriedly does the same before taking Mark’s hands in his again.
“It’s different,” Seb insists. His eyes are wide, his frown pleading. “Mark, it’s different. We got married because we chose to, not because it was the thing to do. I was under pressure to propose to her after we got this place, do you see?”
“And if she hadn’t left you? The pressure wouldn’t have mattered anyway, yeah?” The words come out sharp and poisoned. Mark regrets them as soon as they leave his big fat mouth.
“That’s not fair,” Seb scrunches his nose again, then settles into an irritated pout. “No, that’s not fair. You’re talking in hypotheticals when the reality is I changed divisions because I met you.” His grip on Mark’s hands tightens almost painfully. “I did less field work, I went on dates with you, I changed my life for you.” Closing his eyes, he takes an unsteady breath. “She moved out first, but I left first.”
The admission seems to take the fight out of him, as though it was a truth he didn’t want to speak aloud. How long had he spent thinking about his choices under this very roof?
If Mark didn’t already feel like shit, he absolutely does now. He raises their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of Seb’s hands in apology.
“You love me,” he realises, maybe several years late, and realises several seconds too late that it’s the wrong thing to say when Seb’s expression crumples.
“I do, asshole,” Seb opens his eyes and shakes Mark’s hands off to poke him viciously in the chest. “I just don’t like you very much right now.”
With that, he storms off into the house, leaving Mark with all of their stuff, which he figures is fair.
As a couple, they’ve gone through worse fights. There was that time in 2013 where they almost called off their engagement entirely, another time after they got married when Mark was stuck on a job and Seb gave him the cold shoulder for a week, but—they all pale when recontextualized in their current situation.
Mark quietly organises their things, only enough that it’s easy to grab and go within a few minutes if necessary. When he’s done, he finds Seb in the master bedroom, still fully dressed, curled on top of the covers of the queen-sized bed. Seb isn’t asleep; he can tell by the tension in his shoulders, if not the uneven breathing. The pot lights are off, but the lamp on the nightstand is on, casting a dim golden glow around the room.
“Sebastian.” Mark doesn’t bother undressing either as he climbs on the bed as well. He settles behind his husband and lays a hesitant hand between his shoulder blades. Seb’s reaction is violent and instantaneous: He curls tighter into himself, then unfurls and rolls into Mark, immediately tangling their limbs together and fitting his body along Mark’s side. Mark manages to rest his arm around Seb and holds him, rubbing comforting circles into Seb’s back.
“I’m sorry,” and those are rare, coming from Seb. “You couldn’t have known.” His voice is muffled by the fabric of Mark’s shirt.
Gently, Mark moves his hand to coax Seb into looking at him. The low light casts long shadows over Seb’s face. Mark tucks his blonde curls behind his ears with delicate fingers, smooths over the tangles, and Seb relaxes into it, looking well and truly exhausted. He’s gorgeous, always, but he’s never more beautiful in Mark’s eyes than when they take solace in each other. Mark likes the thought that they’re both the fire and the healing balm for one another, injurious and comforting in a balanced measure.
“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."
They stay like that for a bit, Mark massaging light circles onto his husband's scalp. He contemplates letting it end there, going to sleep, but words force themselves up through his throat, choking him with their need to be heard.
"I love you,” he confesses. Too loudly, too abruptly, like it’s the biggest secret he’s ever had to keep, and he's just set it free. "I—."
He's said it before, obviously, sparingly, but it's never felt as raw and honest as this. Seb’s breath hitches, and Mark leans in to close the distance between them, unable to speak more. Seb meets him halfway.
He presses kiss after kiss onto Seb’s lips, sucks lightly on his tongue, cradles his jaw in his hand like he’ll seep through his fingers if he lets go. He doesn’t know if they’ll ever be okay, not the way they’ve pretended to be, or if they'll ever adjust, or what they'll do next.
After a while, Seb tucks his face into the juncture of Mark’s neck and shoulder, his breaths already evening out. Mark places another kiss on top of Seb’s head, glad he’s unbound and can do so properly this time, before closing his eyes as well. It can all wait until morning.
The morning brings sheer chaos with it: First is a threatening text to Mark’s burner phone that they miss, because Mark isn’t inclined to check his devices when he has two spit-slick fingers in Seb’s ass and Seb’s dick down his throat. The second is a threatening call placed to Seb’s burner phone that they don’t miss, and it prompts them to get moving as fast as possible and headed towards relative safety.
“I know a place,” is all Mark offers when they load their stuff into the Porsche.
“You’re lucky we share our car insurance,” Seb warns as he tosses the keys. Mark catches them midair and tries not to act too excited.
They pull up in front of DC’s house about forty-five minutes later and are greeted by the man himself wearing a ratty, plaid bathrobe over his pyjamas. The perks of not really having neighbours, Mark supposes.
“Mornin’,” DC waves, far too perky for nine in the morning on a Saturday. “Coffee?” He asks, once Seb and Mark make their way up his driveway.
“Water’s good, thanks,” Mark says, almost feverishly relieved to see a friendly face. “You all right, mate?”
DC grins at him and ushers them inside. “Never been better. Sebastian, good to see you.”
“DC,” Seb nods politely. Mark winces internally—the two of them never quite got along, but needs must, especially now that they’re on the run.
“You can put your stuff here, have you had breakfast yet? Why don’t you join me in the kitchen? I make a mean omelette, Mark can vouch for them,” DC keeps talking as he leads them through the house.
When they step into the kitchen, however, they’re greeted by the sight of four men with guns pointed at them, and a quick glance backwards reveals another two slipping behind. The original, botched hit sits at the table behind them and raises his mug in greeting.
“Target 94092, Helmut Marko.” Seb’s voice is eerily smooth, his body perfectly still. “You’re in good company.”
“Agent 501, Sebastian Vettel,” says Marko, in a mockingly similar tone, though he seems to lack any wit to match the verbal jab.
DC sweeps past the men with guns and takes a seat across from Marko, angling the chair to face them.
“Right,” says Mark, slowly, “what’s all this then, David?”
Someone snaps their fingers, and suddenly, every gun in the room is aimed at Seb.
“This?” DC looks around dramatically and cackles with delight. “Oh, this! This is how we solve all our problems, Mark.” He beams. “Consider it a favour from an old friend.”
“You’re holding my husband at gunpoint.” Mark’s brain is churning through motives and escape plans, and the best thing to do now is stall. Silently, he spares a nanosecond of appreciation for DC’s theatrical tendencies.
He has a TDI in his boot and the Glock tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket. Seb has the Sig hidden somewhere and a Gerber Mark II strapped to his arm. They’ve both got gloves and layers—poor protection, but better than nothing.
DC waves his hand dismissively. “You don’t even like your husband.”
To Seb’s credit, he doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing, imperceptible to anyone who hasn’t spent the last five years memorising his face.
“Almost every complaint at work is Seb this, Seb that,” the older man continues, rolling his eyes. “You’d think Seb is a particularly nasty client, but he’s just the missus! Eh?”
Marko snorts into his mug. DC looks inordinately proud of himself. Mark balls his hands into fists to stop himself from doing anything rash, like explain things to Seb. They’re going to get marriage counselling after this, anyway.
“And you know I got caught in a bit of top secret trading, where I met this one,” he jerks his thumb at Marko, “and one Christian Horner, who had a very interesting story about you, Mark, and Seb, surprise! So we figure we’ll do a little hokey pokey, spin youse around, and ta-da, ”
“You called the original hit,” Mark realises, “you lied to me.”
Wagging his finger, DC tsks, smiling wide. “But you’re going to be a free man, Mark Webber, as am I.”
Marko stands up. “We’ll collect Sebastian, take care of the rest, and you can go back to your lives,” he announces. “We only need the intelligence agency.”
Just when he motions for the gunmen to seize Seb, though, all hell breaks loose.
Seb kicks low and sweeps the two men in front of him, ducking to avoid the bullets from behind, which land squarely in Marko’s chest. DC shrieks in surprise. Spurred into action, Mark also ducks and closes his fist around the TDI, then quickly rears up and slits the throat of the first gunman he sees behind Seb in one smooth movement. His momentum propels him into a spin, and he spots Seb in a blur, turning to cover his six.
The TDI finds itself wedged in another gunman’s throat, stopping him in place. With his free hand, he’s already pulling out the Glock and shooting, putting a bullet clean in the forehead of another man.
There’s a quiet, wheezing breath, and then the sound of another body slumping to the ground as Seb twirls his bloody Mark II around his fingers. DC stands alone in the middle of the carnage.
“You’re not getting out of this one,” he backs away violently into the table, sending the mugs rolling and crashing onto the floor. “The police will get you.”
Seb hums contemplatively and steps over a dead body, twirling the Mark II around again. “How about, ‘Fraudulent accounting executive commits murder-suicide’? I like that better.” In the space of a heartbeat, he has DC pinned against the table, the knife digging into his jugular.
Mark has an almost fully-loaded gun in his hand. He angles it so that the barrel is pointed at the ground and also steps over the corpses at their feet. Now that the immediate danger is gone, the sting of DC’s betrayal is starting to make itself known, and he’s angry.
Years of friendship, of working together, and the man throws it all away for nothing. What he could have achieved with taking Seb is something Mark refuses to think about, but the fact of the matter is that his dearest friend broke every tie to him within seconds. Was their friendship really so—did DC seriously think Mark would be okay with his plan?
Then guilt sets in, washing over his nervous system like a lonely wave. If Mark hadn’t groused so much over minor things, or if he’d been more verbal about liking his husband, would things have been different? What did a sustainable water bottle mean to anybody who didn’t know why he had one?
Sensing Mark’s inner conflict, perhaps, Seb holds out a free hand towards Mark. The request is implicit: Trust me to make the right decision.
Wordlessly, he places the Glock in Seb’s palm. Seb closes his gloved fingers around it, then puts it in DC’s unwitting hands and forces it under his chin. The knife clatters to the floor.
“We can do this the easy or hard way,” the blonde purrs, pressing the barrel hard into the older man’s skin, “or the fun way, which would you prefer?”
Instead of replying, DC spits in Seb’s face.
“You think you’re so tough. He hates you,” he snarls viciously, “he says it every time I see him, he hates you and wishes you were never married, that he stayed with Ann instead because you disgust hi—“
Parts of DC’s brain get blown out of the back of his head. Seb lets the body go limp and collapse to the floor.
“We have to clean this up,” Seb says crisply, then reels off instructions like a machine. “Start by putting his prints on the guns, we’ll get new ones. You work on running his kitchen knives through the knife wounds on the bodies, I’ll rework the scene.”
Mark stares blankly at DC’s dead body and simply elects to let Seb call the shots for a little while longer.
He’s part-way through re-stabbing the last gunman with a butcher knife to conceal the more precise edges of his TDI when Seb appears in the doorway with their things.
“It’s good, Mark. The police won’t ask too many questions,” he says, sounding more like himself.
They’ve arranged the bodies and weaponry to make it look like Marko showed up with a few men, then backup arrived after a scuffle. Marko getting caught in the crossfire worked all too well for them. They’ve given their guns to the men who'd be at the right angles and picked up the remaining ones. Maybe the blood splatters don’t quite line up exactly, but the scene is perfectly serviceable, especially since it’s likely that the police won’t come for quite some time.
“DC lied.” Mark wipes the TDI on the hem of his shirt before sheathing it in his boot once more. He looks up at Seb, who’s chewing on his bottom lip, brows drawn together slightly.
“I wasn’t going to talk about it.”
“But I know it hurts.” Staggering to his feet, he approaches his husband cautiously, entreatingly. “You have to know, I never said I hated you or any of it—I do like you, Sebastian. I like you so much I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Seb’s hands flutter at his side, like he can’t decide if he wants to keep them still or reach for Mark. Mark makes the decision for him and grasps Seb’s hands in his. It’s the right choice, he knows it is.
“Can you trust me?” He asks finally.
“I love you,” Seb replies, his voice rough, as though it’s an answer.
In a way, Mark supposes it is.
Their marriage counsellor’s name is Katherine with a K, and she gets a general read on them far too quickly for Mark’s comfort during their first session.
“When would you say things started looking up,” she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, “after the stress of selling the apartment was alleviated, or after the stress of your partner’s stress was alleviated?”
“Wouldn’t the two have been instantaneous?” Seb frowns. They’re still getting to know one another, and already Katherine has figured out how to talk to Seb.
“Of course, but it’s a matter of how we frame the situation. If you frame a conflict between the two of you, for example, in terms of who is hurting whom, then that will hurt both of you more in the long run. Compare that to, say, if you were to frame the conflict as the two of you working out an issue together.”
Mark nods slowly, and his hand twitches with the urge to write notes for the sixth time in an hour.
They absolutely cannot tell her that he was drugged and bound when the moment happened.
“The thing is, we were a little, ah,” Mark fishes for words.
“Occupied,” finishes Seb, “after we got the initial call. And it was such a blur, we didn’t know what to think until the weekend was over.”
Katherine beams at them from across her desk. “It’s all right, you can talk about your sex life here. Actually,” she leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “I’m glad to know things are going well in that department at least—too often I get married couples in here asking if the use of Viagra is insulting.”
Mark suddenly kind of wants to die, but the way Seb’s been smiling at him lately—the way they share a knowing glance now—makes the embarrassment worth it.
They vowed to be better husbands after they left DC’s house, taking another route back to their home and zig zagging across the city to shake off any potential trails. Seb promised to try and be more open about his needs, and Mark promised to try and let his walls down completely. So far, it’s resulted in long conversations, longer make-out sessions, and fantastic sex.
It’s also resulted in the Porsche and their Civic being parked next to each other in their 2-car garage, which is a sight that doesn’t fail to make Mark smile like an idiot. They’ve spent the past week off from work going back and forth between their old apartment and their new house with boxes of their things; he sees it every day. It’s all exhausting in the best way, and Mark is comfortably aware of change on the horizon.
“I love him,” he declares to Katherine, unwilling to let his insecurities get the best of him and making good on his promise. “It’s not just about the sex, I love you,” he adds a beat later, feeling his cheeks heat when he turns to Seb, “and we’re here because we’re it for each other—we just need more help in the communication department.”
Seb doesn’t bother hiding his expression. He goes pink and smiles softly at Mark, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and takes his hand.
“I love you too,” he says, with quiet conviction.
For a moment, it’s just the two of them, buoyed in the knowledge that they’re more solid than they’ve ever been. Then—
“That’s wonderful,” Katherine sighs happily, “I can tell we’re going to work so well together. Now, before we end this session, did you say you were covered by your insurance?”
“Partially,” they chorus. Mark bites the inside of his cheek to keep down a bubble of hysterical laughter.
… Yeah, they’ll be okay.