Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, and believe me, I'm not making any money off of my fanfic.
Notes: So shrift said, "I'd love to see Sark seduce Weiss. Yeah. Slinky Sark and big teddy bear Weiss, who so deserves to get some." And I owed her some slash anyway, and she deserves to get what she wants.
Of all the crappy assignments - and Weiss had seen his share of crappy assignments -- safe house duty had to be one of the worst. Not only babysitting, but babysitting some slimeball criminal or informant or generic low-life who was usually too stupid to be even slightly entertaining.
Next to him, Molson stood up and stretched, folding his fingers above his head and popping his fingers. "I'm starving."
"We just had lunch an hour ago," Weiss said. He looked across the room, over to the ratty armchair on the far wall, but their captive hadn't moved. Most of the time, he seemed to pretend they weren't there.
"Well, I'm hungry again."
"No more pizza. I see another pizza, I'm gonna puke."
"I was gonna run down to Roland's Deli. Get one of those corned beef things."
"Hmm. That does sound good. Wait a minute." Weiss glared up at him suspiciously, and sure enough, Molson was smiling. "Doesn't your girlfriend live right around the block from Roland's?"
"C'mon, Weiss. We've been stuck here for three days."
"You've got to be kidding. You want to leave me alone in a crappy hotel room with a federal criminal -- which is strictly against regulations, of course -- so you can get a little afternoon delight?"
Molson's face twisted into the most pathetic whine Weiss had ever seen on him. "I swear, I'll be half an hour. Tops. And I'll bring you back a sandwich. My treat."
"Now you're trying to bribe me?"
"Jesus, Weiss, lighten up." Molson grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
"Molson!" he yelled, but the door slammed. Five seconds later, he heard the car start up. "Bastard," he muttered sullenly, not caring for the moment what the other man in the room thought of him. He got up to pace, because other than watching the two channels the crappy TV got, it was about the only thing to do in a ten-by-ten hotel room.
One. Two. Three. Four. Turn. One. Two. Three. Four. Turn.
After his eighth or ninth circuit of the room, the other man finally spoke.
"Will you please sit down? You're boring me out of my mind -- an impressive accomplishment."
"Shut up, Sark," Weiss said, not pausing in his pacing. He saw Sark delicately roll his eyes. "The only reason you're not under serious lock and key right now is because Derevko's been brought in, and they don't want you two in the same damn building. As soon as they're done with her, you're heading straight back to your cell."
"Yes. That's certainly an incentive for me to behave. If I'm good, will you take me to the zoo?" The cultured voice was loaded with disdainful amusement.
Weiss stopped in front of him, enjoying the rare opportunity of looming over someone. "You think this is funny?"
"Hardly." Sark didn't seem to care that he was being loomed over. Not that anything ever impressed Sark.
"You know, she shot me last year. I almost died. It..."
"Yes," Sark snapped. "It changed your life. You saw the light in the tunnel. You came back a new man. We've all heard the story. Please, find another one."
"That's my best story! People love that story."
Sark pulled his legs up and shifted in the avocado-green chair, tucking them under him. It made him look small and almost impossibly young. "Given the chance, I'd be pleased to present you with another near-death experience."
One. Two. Three. Four. Turn. One. Two. Three. Four. Turn. One. Two--
"Goddamnit, will you stop pacing?"
Weiss threw himself down on one of the beds in exasperation and grabbed for the remote. "You know there's not going to be anything on TV."
"Anything is preferable to death by monotony."
He found a generic action thriller that looked like it dated back to the '70s, judging from the combined hideousness of the hair and the clothes. They watched in silence for a while as the hero defied his boss, kissed the girl, and traded quips with the villain.
"This is possibly the stupidest thing I've ever seen," said Sark.
"Honestly, what kind of a plan is that? Planting a bomb in a park? There's no strategic value in it. And what kind of idiot doesn't guard his perimeter?"
"I suppose you'd do better?" Weiss asked. "Wait, never mind. Forgot who I was talking to for a second. My own real live criminal mastermind."
"Yours?" Sark quirked an eyebrow at him.
"You're on loan."
"I consider myself fortunate to not be wearing a collar and a tag." And then he actually smiled, uncurling in the chair and stretching out his legs.
Whoa, thought Weiss. What was that? Was Sark...flirting? If he'd been a woman, Weiss would consider that flirting. Strange and slightly disturbing, but flirting.
No. Couldn't be. It was just Sark being Sark. Weird, sarcastic, and British.
The movie ended with a flare of gunfire and a triumphant fanfare. Molson had been gone for forty minutes. "I'm gonna report him, I swear to God."
"Of course you won't."
"Yes, I will."
"You won't," Sark said. "You enjoy being the type of man who doesn't do such things. You bend the rules for other people."
"What are you now, my psychoanalyst?" Weiss refused to think about all the stuff he'd done for Vaughn over the past two years. That was a totally different thing than Sark was talking about. That was being there for a friend.
Wait, Sark was moving. Arching upward out of the chair with a disturbingly intent look in his blue eyes.
"But I suspect that you don't really ever bend them yourself, for all the talk of your near-death experience and how you're a changed man."
Weiss swallowed dryly and just...watched as Sark circled around the bed and came to stand next to him. Sark's voice slid over him like warm summer air, languid and heavy with potential.
"There's a certain pleasure to be had in breaking rules, you know. Doing the unexpected." He leaned down, hands outstretched, and for a heart-stopping second, Weiss thought Sark was going to make good on his earlier threat and try to kill him.
He didn't. He slipped his slender hands under Weiss' belt and unbuckled it. Another deft movement, and his pants gaped open. Weiss watched in utter disbelief as Sark dropped to his knees and pulled down Weiss' boxers.
"Molson could be back any second," he protested weakly.
"Shut up," Sark said, and wrapped his mouth around Weiss' cock.
"Oh, Jesus," Weiss moaned. He was immediately, impossibly hard, and when Sark's agile tongue flickered, he saw stars. This had to be the stupidest thing he'd done in his life, including the time in sixth grade he'd tried to ride his skateboard down a railing in the park. It felt amazingly good, heat creeping down his legs and up his chest. He found his hand moving toward Sark's head, slipping his fingers into the short blond hair, and when Sark didn't protest, he tightened his grip.
Sark merely smiled up at him, his lips curving as best they could with Weiss' cock still in his mouth. God, his mouth -- hot and wet, and supremely confident as he sucked and licked and tormented. Weiss dug his heels into the bed and pushed upward. He distantly heard the cheap springs creak, but nothing seemed to matter besides getting deeper, deeper. Not the fact of Molson's imminent return. Not the fact that the man on his knees was a liar and a killer.
Sark's right hand anchored Weiss's cock; the other slipped inside his pants and fondled his balls in exactly the right way. Weiss spread his legs as much as he could, mutely encouraging Sark to press lower.
Whoa. Not that low. He started to mumble a protest, but Sark's right hand flew up and covered his mouth, muffling his startled cry as a finger teased his opening. He twisted up and away, half a second from knocking Sark across the room.
Sark pulled off for a moment and stared up at him, eyes glittering. "Come on, Weiss. Break the rules." And he shoved his finger inside to the first knuckle.
Weiss panted against Sark's hand, nearly out of his mind with a combination of arousal and confusion. Then Sark dove back down on his cock, flattened his tongue on the perfect spot, and pushed his finger further in, and the arousal took over. His head lolled helplessly to the side. Sark took the opportunity to slip two fingers into Weiss' mouth, rub them along his tongue, and bring them back down to wrap around his cock, stroking in time with the suction.
It was all suddenly too much -- the finger pressing into his ass, the fingers dancing on his cock, and Sark's terrible mouth, and Weiss cried out as his whole body seized and shook with climax. Sark was relentless, stroking him through the whole orgasm, swallowing the aftershocks and not letting go until Weiss whimpered something about oversensitivity.
God, Weiss thought, drifting through the afternoon sunlight that leaked through the polyester curtains. I just got a blow job from a terrorist. This is definitely the weirdest day of my life.
He opened his eyes when he felt Sark move and watched as he sauntered into the bathroom. Weiss zipped and buckled himself back to respectability, accompanied by the sound of the tap running and Sark washing his hands. The water stopped; Sark walked out and over to his chair, apparently uncaring that his erection was clearly outlined through his pants.
"Why did you do that?" Weiss asked.
Sark shrugged. "Why not? Now you have another story to tell."
And Weiss couldn't say another word until Molson walked back in, grinning, and tossed a bag at him. "Thanks, Weiss, you're the best. I told Hildy I'd come back tomorrow if I could. You'll be a sport, right?"
Weiss looked over at Sark, curled back up in his chair, smiling his secretive smile. "Sure, Molson. Anything for a friend."
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