writing: the sharpest lives (ch.3) - au
Previous chapters: 1, 2
Yep. Part three. Not alot happening in this.
fic: the sharpest lives (ch.3) | characters: steven gerrard, fernando torres, david beckham, xabi alonso | pairings: steven gerrard/fernando torres | pg-13 | 1227 words | AU
the sharpest lives (ch.3)
It was morning by the time most of his staff had filed in for the day. Steven Gerrard re-entered his office to be greeted with the smell of fresh coffee and the site of a rough looking young man seated in the chair in front of his desk.
Steven sat down, cupping his hands carefully around the warm cup and sipping it gratefully before lifting his eyes to the other person in the room.
"Good morning Fernando. I take it you’re here too see me?" Steven smiled and raised one eyebrow, an art many expected he'd worked hard to master.
"It's about last night. I was out on a job when Benitez was assassinated...Sir."
Steven frowned at the sudden revelation, coffee suddenly forgotten as he absentmindedly dropped it from his hands into the bin and leant forward.
"What?" It was the first he'd heard of it. Benitez hadn't mentioned a job (any job) involving Torres in the past week. He knew there were some events he never got informed of, by Rafa nor Fernando, but this didn't appear to be one of them.
"It was his son Steven. His son was here in England. That's who I was sent too."
"Was, what do you mean he was here?"
Fernando paused, eyes wide with concern and possibly fear. His fingers which had been shaking and quivering nervously over the edge of the desk suddenly gripped it as he looked up.
"Well I. I mean he could be here." Steven's frown deepened till it looked like he might not be able to see at all. "He's gone missing." It was a whisper and Fernando glanced fearfully round the room as though expecting Benitez to step from the shadows brandishing his sleek silver gun from inside his jacket.
"You let Benitez' fucking son go missing? What the fuck were you doing?" Eyes livid the Scouser stood up, towering over the still seated Fernando who appeared to be shrinking back into the cushions. "Actually please don't answer that. Please."
Fernando didn't dare utter another word in fear of starting an earthquake. He watched a silent Stevie pace round the room, hand pressed to his forehead. It was always better to leave Gerrard to his own devices on occasions like these, to not move nor make a sound till there was a sign it was safe to do so.
Phrases like "fucking useless" and "Jesus Christ" rapidly left his mouth, an air of panic about them. Fernando shifted in the chair causing it too creak.
Suddenly Stevie stopped and walked slowly back towards him, stopping beside Fernando's chair. The younger man gulped loudly, the mere presence of Gerrard pressing down upon him. But then Steven reached out, running his fingers over the worn material of Fernando's suit that rested on weary, tired shoulder blades. He gripped it, massaging the muscle with his hand gently and Fernando sighed meekly, not even realising he'd been holding his breath.
Stevie knelt on the ground and turned the younger man round to face him, smiling gently as he brushed a hair back from his face. He felt him stiffen and jerk suddenly at the movement and Stevie scowled ever so slightly.
"Why are you scared of me?" he whispered leaning ever closer, hand spread languidly over a thigh now. He promptly pressed his mouth against that of Fernando's, sighing as soon as contact was made and letting his other hand travel up and weave it's way through soft hair.
He felt Torres undoing the buttons at the neck of his shirt and grinned, reaching over for the phone on his desk.
"Aurelio," he clearly addressed his assistant, clearing his voice then pausing and biting his lip as he felt Fernando run his tongue over a nipple, "I want some peace. No more visitors for now thanks." He cast the phone carelessly aside as he felt nimble fingers finally pluck open the button on his trousers.
**
“Where the fuck are we now?” Xabi made a face at a message sprayed in bright yellow paint over the front of one of the many desolate houses. It’s windows were broken and from what Xabi could tell it hadn’t seen human life (apart from the delightful ones who left such warm greetings in spray paint) in a while.
“I’ve told you already I know where I’m going,” Beckham walked at least a foot ahead, glancing with casual interest at their surroundings.
Xabi buried his hands further in his pockets. It was cold and he wasn’t in the mood for walking round dodgy looking areas where it felt like he might be mugged at any second. Beckham seemed to read his mind at this point with a quick comment of “People looking to cause trouble don’t come out till after dark anyway.”
“Ah!” David suddenly shouted in triumph, in penetrated the quiet air swiftly and made Xabi jump, “up ahead there Xabi.” He grins.
Xabi scowls. “Who in their right mind would build any sort of company here? We’re so far out of the city.”
“But this isn’t any sort of company is it Xabi? Better not to draw attention to this sort of business is it not?”
He had a point but Alonso would never admit that. They walked further on and suddenly the large grey building came right into view. Xabi gaped at it, rough and untidy looking with some graffiti of it‘s own. He’d expected something … more. Expensive, plush, sleek. Assassins wore black suits and shades and drove Aston Martins didn’t they?
Maybe he’d stereotyped them all to James Bond, he thought, as they made it to the footpath just outside the front door.
David walked on in casually, stopping in the foyer too a few puzzled looks from the receptionists, before turning right and going through another door.
It was entirely different inside Xabi realised. Clinical, white floors that looked as though they’d never seen dirt before and crisp black walls. It was deadly silent apart from the soft noise their feet made as they walked down the never ending corridor.
They came to another door where a security number was required, Xabi didn’t see but Beckham pressed something quickly and the doors beeped and opened before them revealing an even cleaner looking foyer.
David smirked and headed straight down one of the corridors to the left, the one barely anyone went down unless required. There was a timid looking man at a desk, sitting tapping quickly on his keyboard. He looked at them with frightened eyes but they strolled past.
“Ehm. Excuse me sirs?” he stuttered and stood up, watching them walk on, “excuse me! Mr Gerrard isn’t taking visitors at the moment. Appointment or no appointment.”
David smirked and laid his hand over the door handle.
“Really?”
He pushed down on it and it swung open. He could see why he didn’t want any visitors.
Gerrard was standing at his desk, a younger (“assistant” Becks guessed) man sat on it in front of him, tanned thighs spread willingly and both of them stripped of all clothing.
Steven breathed and looked up as the other man flushed bright red and squirmed then, trying to get away. Gerrard didn’t look the least bit embarrassed as he raised his eyebrows at Fabio before greeting the man at the door.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Yep. Part three. Not alot happening in this.
fic: the sharpest lives (ch.3) | characters: steven gerrard, fernando torres, david beckham, xabi alonso | pairings: steven gerrard/fernando torres | pg-13 | 1227 words | AU
the sharpest lives (ch.3)
It was morning by the time most of his staff had filed in for the day. Steven Gerrard re-entered his office to be greeted with the smell of fresh coffee and the site of a rough looking young man seated in the chair in front of his desk.
Steven sat down, cupping his hands carefully around the warm cup and sipping it gratefully before lifting his eyes to the other person in the room.
"Good morning Fernando. I take it you’re here too see me?" Steven smiled and raised one eyebrow, an art many expected he'd worked hard to master.
"It's about last night. I was out on a job when Benitez was assassinated...Sir."
Steven frowned at the sudden revelation, coffee suddenly forgotten as he absentmindedly dropped it from his hands into the bin and leant forward.
"What?" It was the first he'd heard of it. Benitez hadn't mentioned a job (any job) involving Torres in the past week. He knew there were some events he never got informed of, by Rafa nor Fernando, but this didn't appear to be one of them.
"It was his son Steven. His son was here in England. That's who I was sent too."
"Was, what do you mean he was here?"
Fernando paused, eyes wide with concern and possibly fear. His fingers which had been shaking and quivering nervously over the edge of the desk suddenly gripped it as he looked up.
"Well I. I mean he could be here." Steven's frown deepened till it looked like he might not be able to see at all. "He's gone missing." It was a whisper and Fernando glanced fearfully round the room as though expecting Benitez to step from the shadows brandishing his sleek silver gun from inside his jacket.
"You let Benitez' fucking son go missing? What the fuck were you doing?" Eyes livid the Scouser stood up, towering over the still seated Fernando who appeared to be shrinking back into the cushions. "Actually please don't answer that. Please."
Fernando didn't dare utter another word in fear of starting an earthquake. He watched a silent Stevie pace round the room, hand pressed to his forehead. It was always better to leave Gerrard to his own devices on occasions like these, to not move nor make a sound till there was a sign it was safe to do so.
Phrases like "fucking useless" and "Jesus Christ" rapidly left his mouth, an air of panic about them. Fernando shifted in the chair causing it too creak.
Suddenly Stevie stopped and walked slowly back towards him, stopping beside Fernando's chair. The younger man gulped loudly, the mere presence of Gerrard pressing down upon him. But then Steven reached out, running his fingers over the worn material of Fernando's suit that rested on weary, tired shoulder blades. He gripped it, massaging the muscle with his hand gently and Fernando sighed meekly, not even realising he'd been holding his breath.
Stevie knelt on the ground and turned the younger man round to face him, smiling gently as he brushed a hair back from his face. He felt him stiffen and jerk suddenly at the movement and Stevie scowled ever so slightly.
"Why are you scared of me?" he whispered leaning ever closer, hand spread languidly over a thigh now. He promptly pressed his mouth against that of Fernando's, sighing as soon as contact was made and letting his other hand travel up and weave it's way through soft hair.
He felt Torres undoing the buttons at the neck of his shirt and grinned, reaching over for the phone on his desk.
"Aurelio," he clearly addressed his assistant, clearing his voice then pausing and biting his lip as he felt Fernando run his tongue over a nipple, "I want some peace. No more visitors for now thanks." He cast the phone carelessly aside as he felt nimble fingers finally pluck open the button on his trousers.
**
“Where the fuck are we now?” Xabi made a face at a message sprayed in bright yellow paint over the front of one of the many desolate houses. It’s windows were broken and from what Xabi could tell it hadn’t seen human life (apart from the delightful ones who left such warm greetings in spray paint) in a while.
“I’ve told you already I know where I’m going,” Beckham walked at least a foot ahead, glancing with casual interest at their surroundings.
Xabi buried his hands further in his pockets. It was cold and he wasn’t in the mood for walking round dodgy looking areas where it felt like he might be mugged at any second. Beckham seemed to read his mind at this point with a quick comment of “People looking to cause trouble don’t come out till after dark anyway.”
“Ah!” David suddenly shouted in triumph, in penetrated the quiet air swiftly and made Xabi jump, “up ahead there Xabi.” He grins.
Xabi scowls. “Who in their right mind would build any sort of company here? We’re so far out of the city.”
“But this isn’t any sort of company is it Xabi? Better not to draw attention to this sort of business is it not?”
He had a point but Alonso would never admit that. They walked further on and suddenly the large grey building came right into view. Xabi gaped at it, rough and untidy looking with some graffiti of it‘s own. He’d expected something … more. Expensive, plush, sleek. Assassins wore black suits and shades and drove Aston Martins didn’t they?
Maybe he’d stereotyped them all to James Bond, he thought, as they made it to the footpath just outside the front door.
David walked on in casually, stopping in the foyer too a few puzzled looks from the receptionists, before turning right and going through another door.
It was entirely different inside Xabi realised. Clinical, white floors that looked as though they’d never seen dirt before and crisp black walls. It was deadly silent apart from the soft noise their feet made as they walked down the never ending corridor.
They came to another door where a security number was required, Xabi didn’t see but Beckham pressed something quickly and the doors beeped and opened before them revealing an even cleaner looking foyer.
David smirked and headed straight down one of the corridors to the left, the one barely anyone went down unless required. There was a timid looking man at a desk, sitting tapping quickly on his keyboard. He looked at them with frightened eyes but they strolled past.
“Ehm. Excuse me sirs?” he stuttered and stood up, watching them walk on, “excuse me! Mr Gerrard isn’t taking visitors at the moment. Appointment or no appointment.”
David smirked and laid his hand over the door handle.
“Really?”
He pushed down on it and it swung open. He could see why he didn’t want any visitors.
Gerrard was standing at his desk, a younger (“assistant” Becks guessed) man sat on it in front of him, tanned thighs spread willingly and both of them stripped of all clothing.
Steven breathed and looked up as the other man flushed bright red and squirmed then, trying to get away. Gerrard didn’t look the least bit embarrassed as he raised his eyebrows at Fabio before greeting the man at the door.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”