Warnings: a bit of blood
Summary: A hitman never walks off a job and lives. A hitman also never falls in love with his mark. Jeeves has just done both.
Disclaimer: They're closer to being mine here, but still no dice.
A/N: This was written for storyfan's movie challenge. It's not so much a re-write of a specific movie as a genre piece. It's sort of The Professional meets The Replacement Killers meets The Transporter. Sort of. Thank you to cerublu02 and random_nexus for looking this over for me!
The motel room stank like old cigarettes and despair, but at least it was cheap and anonymous. The clerk hadn't even given Jeeves a second glance when he'd paid with cash and given an obviously false name. Not even the blood on his otherwise pristine white shirt, visible under his black wool jacket and open waistcoat, had gotten a raise of the bored boy's pierced eyebrow. Jeeves was sure the clerk had seen worse, which made this the perfect place to lay low for the night.
Jeeves dumped his bag on the double bed and looked around the dimly lit room. Carpet stained with God knew what, hideous wallpaper peeling off the walls, large brown stain on the ceiling... not exactly up to his normal standards of hideouts, but it would do.
"Golly," said the Wooster kid from behind him, and Jeeves hid a wince. The kid never shut up, it seemed. "These accommodations are certainly.... Are you quite certain we can't get a room at the Ritz? Not that I really mind roughing it for the night, but the bar there does a spiffing martini, and I, for one, could use a good stiff one."
Gritting his teeth, Jeeves bit out, "No Ritz. Too high profile. We're staying here."
"Ah, well. I'm sure you know best." Wooster bent to inspect the bed's dingy bedspread with a sniff. Not for the first time, Jeeves wondered what it was that had kept him from fulfilling his contract. He rolled his eyes and pulled his Glock from where he kept it tucked at the small of his back. Ejecting the clip, he frowned at the amount of bullets left before sliding it home again. Still carrying the weapon, he headed for the bathroom.
He didn't dare completely shut the door between them, still on high alert from the chase and listening for the slightest hint of trouble, but he closed it halfway, needing a bit of privacy for this next necessary task. He put his gun on the toilet tank and shed his jacket and waistcoat carefully, easing them down his left shoulder with a grimace that he refused to allow to become a moan of pain. The left side of his shirt was drenched with blood down to his waist, where it was soaking into his black trousers. He pulled it off, too, carefully and slowly. The bullet hole was small -- thank God for the small caliber handguns that were so cheap and popular these days -- and had nearly stopped bleeding. Only a small trickle still seeped from the wound.
Taking the tiny bottle of vodka he'd nicked from the liquor store out of his pocket, Jeeves opened it one-handed and poured half the alcohol over the wound. It burned like hellfire, and he couldn't suppress this moan. He washed his hands in the sink, then prodded the wound. The bullet was near the surface, lodged in the bone, it felt like. He placed a towel between his teeth, then used two fingers to extract the bit of metal. It hurt like a bitch, and spots danced before his eyes, threatening to consume his vision entirely. He bit harder on the towel and willed himself to remain conscious. When the pain subsided, he threw the bullet into the trash and looked up to meet Wooster's eyes in the mirror.
The kid was pale, paler than Jeeves himself, and looked green around the eyes. "Good Lord," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you'd been shot. Shouldn't we get you to a hospital? Is it very bad?"
Jeeves shook his head. "They know they hit me. That's the first place they'll be looking for us. It's not that bad. I've had worse."
Wooster's eyes travelled down his naked chest, taking in the old scars from knife wounds and gunshots. "So I see. Is there anything I can do for you? Surely, another pair of hands wouldn't be unwelcome, what? I'm not much good around blood, but I'll do my best not to pass out."
Unbidden, a smile came to Jeeves's lips, for the kid did look like he was putting on a brave face and doing his best to be useful. "Tear that towel into strips for me, if you'd be so kind." He tossed a bath towel over, then set about cleaning the wound as much he could with their limited supplies. He took a swig of the vodka, then poured the rest over the clean hole, hissing as the pain flared red hot once more.
"You should sit down. You look like your head is about to make the acquaintance of this rather obnoxious linoleum floor."
"I'm fine," Jeeves growled out, but allowed himself to be helped down onto the closed toilet lid.
"Of course you are. Now what do I do with these strips?"
Jeeves talked him through dressing the wound, then took a minute to regain his composure while Wooster knelt and occupied himself with washing the rest of the blood from Jeeves's torso. Eventually, the kid broke their silence. "With all the running, I didn't get the chance to thank you," he said in a small voice.
"For saving me from those blighters with the bally huge guns. For taking me with you when you could just as easily have left me as a sitting duck. For taking a bullet and still protecting me. God knows why you did it all, but thank you just the same."
"You're welcome." Maybe it was the blood loss, or the vodka, but Jeeves could feel a warming in his chest. He refused to attribute it to Wooster's words.
"I'll be dashed if I know how you knew I was in trouble, though. I didn't know, myself, until I had the barrel of a .45 pushed in my face."
"It was a .38," Jeeves automatically corrected.
"Well, quite. Whatever it was, it was bally huge and unwelcome. Thank Heaven you happened along when you did, or who knows what would have happened to the Wooster corpus."
It was definitely the blood loss that made Jeeves reply, "It wasn't happenstance. I've been watching you for weeks."
The surprise was evident in Wooster's eyes. "Good Lord! Why?"
Jeeves could have kicked himself for the slip-up. Wooster didn't need to know all the details. How could he continue to trust him and follow his orders if he did? But then Jeeves really looked into the kid's wide, innocent, blue eyes. The same eyes he'd seen through the crosshairs of his scope. The same eyes that had rendered him unable to squeeze the trigger. The eyes that made Jeeves reckless. "I was watching you because those two hitters weren't the first sent to kill you. I was."
Wooster fell back on his arse in shock. "I say! What? I mean, what?"
"Do you know a man named Roderick Glossop?" Wooster nodded mutely, his mouth hanging open. "Seems you pissed him off one too many times. He paid me a tidy sum to put you down."
Wooster's jaw worked a few times before he could speak. "But you didn't. You saved me."
"I... told Glossop I was out. Gave him back his money. It seems he found a suitable replacement."
"You mean, you turned him down like a bedspread, so he found some other coves to do the dirty work?"
Jeeves dreaded the next obvious questions. Why? Why didn't you kill me? Why save me instead? He didn't have answers for those. Not yet. They didn't come, however. Instead, Wooster just stared at him until Jeeves's eyelids drooped with exhaustion. Then, he shook himself and said firmly, "You should be in bed. Rest is what you need. And a doctor, but I see why that's out of the question. Here, let me help you."
Together, they got Jeeves to his feet and to the lumpy motel bed. Jeeves sat on the edge, tucked his Glock under the pillow, and watched as Wooster paced the room. "Relax. I think we're safe until morning."
"Says the man without a target on his back."
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one with a hole in him. Hitters who walk off a job tend not to live long. I think it's safe to say that we're both targets at this point."
Wooster stopped pacing and had the grace to look ashamed. "Of course. Sorry, old thing. So what do we do now?"
"Now? We sleep. And in the morning, we run."
"I have a place in Mexico. It's safe. No one else knows about it."
"Mexico? I can't go to Mexico! What about my friends? My family? Well, to tell the truth, I wouldn't mind being half a world away from Aunt Agatha, but I'd miss Aunt Dahlia dearly."
"Look. It's either Mexico with me or a bullet from those two goons back there. Take your pick." The exhaustion was beginning to overtake him. Jeeves's eyes drooped even more and he stifled a yawn. Carefully, he laid down on top of the bedspread, his good arm tucked under his pillow and his fingers touching his Glock. He shut his eyes, then felt the bed dip next to him. Without looking, he knew that Wooster was sitting and staring at him. "Go to sleep. You'll need your strength tomorrow." Without waiting to see if Wooster complied, Jeeves drifted off.
The exhaustion didn't keep the nightmares away. They were the same as always, full of flames and the stench of death, except that, this time, the eyes begging him for mercy were bright blue. His dream self snarled and tightened his finger on the trigger. "No mercy. No reprieve. No--"
"NO!" Jeeves bolted upright, his gun in his hand and sweeping the dark room for intruders before he was fully cognizant. He was breathing hard and the hand holding the Glock shook slightly.
"What's wrong?" Wooster's frightened voice broke the dream's spell, and Jeeves lowered the gun.
"Nothing. Nothing." He ran his free hand over his face, and drew in a sharp breath when the action set his injured shoulder on fire.
Wooster was there immediately, curling around his back and wrapping long arms around him. "It's all right. There's no one here," he whispered reassuringly into Jeeves's ear.
Jeeves could feel his own cold sweat soaking the kid's shirt. He felt like a fool. This was why he always slept alone. "I'm fine." He tried to shrug the kid off, but Wooster only tightened his arms around him and stuck his nose in Jeeves's neck.
They sat like that until Wooster decided to let him go. He helped Jeeves lay back down, then curled into his side, his head resting on Jeeves's ribs. That's when the dreaded questions came. "Why did you give Glossop back his money? Why didn't you kill me?"
"I don't know," Jeeves answered flatly.
Looking up at him with his wide eyes, the kid asked, "Really? Or do you just not want to tell me? It's okay if you don't. Just as long as there is a reason. I'd hate for you to suddenly change your mind and murder me in my sleep."
Those damned eyes. If only they weren't so blue. Even in the dim glow from the streetlights outside, they reminded Jeeves of warm summer days and swimming naked in the ocean, two of his favorite things. He was helpless to ignore the question in those eyes. "I... just couldn't do it. I had you in my sights so many times, but I could never pull the trigger. There's something about you. I don't know. Your eyes...."
There was a pause, then Wooster asked quietly, "My eyes?"
"They're... innocent." Wooster turned his face into Jeeves's belly. His breath tickled the sparse hairs there. "I've killed a lot of bad men," Jeeves continued softly. "And I've made a lot of money doing it. I've never been unable to hit my mark. Not until you." There was another moment of silence, then Jeeves whispered, "I wasn't always this, you know. Once upon a time, in another life, I was a valet. A good one, too. I thought I was a good man. That was before.... That was before. Now, I kill bad men and try to tell myself that makes me good. But you... you're truly a good man, Bertram Wooster. Maybe one of the last ones left. I couldn't destroy that."
"'M not good enough, apparently," Wooster snorted.
Jeeves smiled despite his pain and fatigue, something he was beginning to learn that Wooster could make him do. "Why does Glossop want you dead?"
Wooster mumbled into his stomach, "I wouldn't marry his daughter."
"Oh? Why not? Is she ugly?"
Wooster's answer was a kiss to his stomach. Jeeves flinched as if he'd been hit. It didn't deter the kid. He kissed again, lower, dragging his mouth over Jeeves's skin.
"Oh." It had been a long time since anyone had touched Jeeves like that. He found himself torn between pushing the kid away and pushing up into his kisses. He compromised by growling, "What are you doing?"
The kid looked up at him with those damned eyes pleading at him now. "Thanking you. Showing my gratitude."
Jeeves's hand tightened on his gun, and he had to fight the urge to pistol whip the kid. "I didn't save your arse because I wanted some thank you fuck."
Wooster kissed him again and slid his hand over Jeeves's naked skin. "What about my mouth? Do you want that?"
The groan that escaped Jeeves's throat this time had nothing to do with pain. Wooster had a sweet mouth, he had to admit, even if it never shut up. And it had been so long.... It was tempting. But not under these circumstances. "Not if you're only doing this because I saved your life today, no."
The kisses stopped. Wooster sighed, his warm breath raising goosebumps on Jeeves's chest. "That's not the only reason. You said I was a good man. I watched you today. The way you moved, the way you fought. You were so brave. So strong. Fierce. You're a good man, too. A marvel. Even though I was terrified, I couldn't help but want you."
"That's the endorphins talking. Adrenaline does weird things to your body."
"It's not adrenaline. It's you." Wooster put lips to skin once more, kissing around Jeeves's navel. His tongue came out to taste the sweat still clinging to his stomach, and Jeeves forgot his protests.
Dropping the Glock, Jeeves wrapped his hand in Wooster's hair and dragged the kid up his body. Their mouths met in a wild kiss, tongues already battling for dominance. The kid sprawled over his body, careful of his shoulder, and tried to touch every inch of him at once.
They weren't wearing a lot of clothes -- Jeeves in only his trousers and the kid in a t-shirt and pants -- and it didn't take them long to get rid of them. Wooster did most of the work because of the gunshot wound, while Jeeves focused his energy on getting the kid's pants down past his narrow hips and his hand on the kid's arse. It was a nice arse, round and pert, and he briefly had thoughts of pounding it into the mattress until he moved the wrong way and pain exploded through him again.
"Shh, let me," Wooster hushed his cry and took control. He shed his pants and ripped off what clothes they still wore. Slithering down Jeeves's body, he licked and bit until he reached the half-erection that was threatening to deflate from the ache in the injured shoulder. He looked up at Jeeves with his impossibly blue eyes. "All right?"
"Do it," Jeeves growled in return. "Suck me." And the kid grinned and did.
If Jeeves liked Wooster's eyes, he fucking loved the kid's mouth. Hot and wet with just the right amount of tight suction and a hint of teeth. He'd obviously learned his way around a cock. No wonder he didn't want to marry some bird, not when he could give head this good. Jeeves clutched at his soft brown hair and hitched his hips up toward that delicious mouth, fully hard now and leaking on the kid's tongue. "That's good. Yeah, fuck, like that," he gasped as Wooster flicked his tongue just under the head. "Keep sucking just like that, and I'm going to come in your mouth, Wooster."
Wooster pulled off to nibble at the head and declare, "My friends call me Bertie, and as I currently have your prick in my mouth, I'd say we're on friendly terms, what?"
"Fine," Jeeves grunted and pulled the kid's -- Bertie's -- hair until he plunged down the shaft once again. Every thrust up caused pain to shoot down his spine and meet with the pleasure surging up from his groin, mixing in his belly into a heady cocktail of sensation. Dark spots began to dance in his eyes again, and Jeeves knew he was either going to pass out or come and hoped it was the latter. Just as he knew he was going to do the former if the latter didn't happen right that second, Bertie shoved a spit-slick finger up his arse, and Jeeves's back bowed off the bed as he came with a roar of the kid's name.
When a sharp sting on his cheek woke him up, Jeeves realized he had passed out. Bertie was sitting on his stomach, looking down at him with concern, the erection laying hot on Jeeves's belly clearly unaffected by his worry. "Are you all right?" Wooster asked him.
"Fine." That was the standard reply, but Jeeves then took a moment to really take stock. His groin was wet and sticky, and the post-orgasmic haze still clouded his mind. His shoulder ached like a bitch, and he was pretty sure it was bleeding again, but he'd live. "Fine," he repeated, a little more convincingly. Bertie continued to stare at him. "Are you gonna get off now?" he asked, annoyed at being gawked at.
"Oh, god, yes," Bertie groaned and ducked down to attack Jeeves's mouth. He'd meant of me, but the kid obviously had other ideas, grinding his still-hard cock into Jeeves's stomach as he kissed and bit at his mouth. Bertie tasted like come and, more faintly, like the cheap take-away they'd eaten what seemed like days ago now. It wasn't repulsive, so Jeeves let the kid invade his mouth as he wished, too tired now to really put a stop to the frantic kisses.
Bertie was whimpering into his mouth, panting the occasional profanity. "Fuck, fuck, touch me," he finally pleaded, and Jeeves slid a hand between their bellies to encircle the hot cock poking at his navel. "Yesss," Wooster hissed and leaned up. He threw his head back and fucked Jeeves's fist, coming seconds later. Jeeves could feel the warm fluid splashing on his skin and rolling down his ribs.
When it was over, the kid collapsed half on the bed and half on Jeeves's good side. "'S brilliant," he slurred. Jeeves hummed noncommittally. "But next time, when you're a little better, I want you to bend me over the bed and give me a jolly good rogering."
"Who talks like that?"
"Like what, old thing?"
"Never mind," Jeeves grumbled as his eyes closed. He thought briefly about the mess on his stomach, but decided to deal with it in the morning, when he didn't feel like he'd die if he didn't fall asleep immediately.
As his rotten luck would have it, the kid was as much of a talker after sex as he was before it. "I'm frightfully glad I didn't marry Honoria now, even if old man Glossop wants me dead. I dare say it would never have been that good with someone of the female persuasion. Not enough things to suck on, you know. Well, one would imagine, anyway. I say, how are we going to get to Mexico with no money and trained killers on our trail? And what will we do when we get there? Perhaps you could be my valet. That would be excellent cover, wouldn't it?"
"Go to sleep," Jeeves told him instead of answering the questions. Thankfully, he did, resting his head on Jeeves's shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist. If Wooster had pursued the matter, Jeeves didn't know what he would have told the kid. It was true that they had no money, not after paying for the motel room. They had no IDs, either. And Jeeves had no idea how he was going to make it to Mexico, or even if he could make it. He was definitely bleeding again, and it was no trickle now. And the men following them were good. Very good. And he only had three bullets left in his Glock. And....
Exhaustion finally won out. Jeeves turned his face into Wooster's hair and closed his eyes, letting himself be dragged under where the thought that it would be a miracle if they survived another day was obliterated by dreamless sleep.