Fiction: Mercenary - Part 5
Mar. 4th, 2011 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kethniName: A Mercenary Life - Part 5
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Scenes of a sexual nature
Word Count: Approx 2230
Authors Note: Back to part 4
Mohinder tumbles heavily off the horse with the world a blur of noise and colour. Matt’s weight pins him to the ground and then is suddenly gone. Shocked and shaken from the fall, and choked with the earth in his mouth and nose, it is all Mohinder can do to sit up and scrabble at the net.
Someone screams. Not a scream of rage or fear but of pain. Mohinder tries to crawl backwards but is unable to move the net. Someone else screams, and someone else, and someone else until the air is filled with it before gradually petering out to a soft blubbing that just… stops.
A shadow falls across Mohinder and he instinctively grabs a double handful of earth. As the net is yanked away, he desperately flings the earth up and, rolling onto his front, starts crawling away at high speed.
‘You pick a fine time to get some gumption,’ Matt’s voice complains.
Mohinder wriggles behind a tree before standing up and peering out.
‘Finished playing hide and seek?’ Matt asks, wiping soil out of his face. Around him tribesmen lay dead on the ground. Almost all of them have been slip across the throat or stabbed through the heart except for one whose neck has been broken.
‘Good Gods, what’s happened here?’
Matt picks up a large, blood-stained knife and wipes it on a tree. ‘They got a little overexcited during their exercise routine I guess.’
Mohinder stares at him. ‘You’re making jokes? There are… eleven dead men here and you’re making jokes.’
‘I can’t think of a better time to joke,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Here, stand still,’ he says, and brushes soil from Mohinder’s face.
‘Did you do this?’
‘I’m employed to protect you,’ Matt points out. ‘I’m not a murderer. I was defending both of us.’
‘No, you’re a common mercenary with a frighteningly casual approach to violence!’
‘I prefer “private contractor” and that’s pretty rich coming from a glorified grave robber.’
‘Ha!’ Mohinder snorts. ‘Is that the best that you can do? Well forgive me for considering cold blooded killing of eleven men to be in a completely different moral universe than reverently examining historical artefacts to benefit everyone!’
Matt puts his hands on hips. ‘Are we done debating relative morality now? Because I don’t know if Eden and Luke got away or not.’
‘I want a separate horse.’ Mohinder straightens his clothes. ‘I’m sure you can ride bareback if you really want.’
‘Not on a horse,’ Matt says with a smile.
‘Then walk!’
Mohinder walks over to the horse and climbs up into the saddle.
‘There might be more tribesmen around,’ Matt warns, grabbing the other horse by the bridle.
‘Then consider running,’ Mohinder says sharply, and spurs the horse on.
Mohinder rides for a couple of hundred yards before slowing the horse to a halt. He’s not a fool by any means and has no intention of actually losing Matt. In fact he’d have to get off the horse anyway as the way ahead is by means of a narrow rope bridge over a rushing river.
‘You took your time,’ he says tartly as Matt appears.
‘Don’t do that again,’ Matt growls, stalking over to him.
‘Or what?’
Matt grins and slaps a manacle onto his right wrist.
‘How dare you!’
Matt slaps the other manacle onto his own wrist. ‘How dare I? What the hell kind of a jackass move is taking off like that when I’ve just had to save your skinny ass?’
‘I’ve had enough of being treated like a bloody child! You’re fired, you hear me, fired!’
‘You can’t fire me. So get used to it. Now grab the horse and we’ll go over the bridge.’
Mohinder glowers at him silently and shakes his wrist experimentally. The chain between the manacles is a good fifteen feet, comfortably long enough for them to lead both horses across the bridge.
‘Don’t keep burning a hole in the back of my head with your staring,’ Matt says, glancing back at Mohinder.
‘I will stare at you as much as I want,’ Mohinder snarls. ‘I would suggest that you watch where you’re going.’
Matt snorts and returns his gaze to the bridge. ‘Right, because of this bridge there’s so much room to get lost.’
There is a long and painful creak from underfoot. Matt looks back and shares Mohinder’s look of horror.
And then the bridge snaps.
Mohinder rises from the water, spluttering and with his head ringing. Matt almost pulls him off his feet as he surges forward after the horses.
'Grab them quick!' Matt bellows over the sound of the pounding water.
'Get this thing off my wrist before you bloody drown me!'
Matt curses and takes the manacle from his own wrist. 'Go!'
They dash in opposite directions after the panicked horses. Mohinder struggles after the barebacked mare, finding himself kicked at and threatened as she tries to rear up. He glances back at Matt and sees him soothing the saddled stallion with soft words and carefully unthreatening movements.
'It's alright,' Mohinder says in his gentlest tone. 'You've just had a fall and a scare and you're standing knee deep in a rushing river and you've probably been injured and might need to be shot. But everything is alright.'
'Do me a favour and never try to reassure me,' Matt says lightly.
'I think you may safely rest assured there,' Mohinder retorts. 'However, if by some miracle that this horse can comprehend spoken English and not merely the tone of voice then I'm sure it would be intelligent enough to comprehend the facts of the situation that we find ourselves in.'
'I don't know about horses,' Matt says, leading the stallion to the shore, 'but I've met people who're plenty smart but don't seem to comprehend the facts of a situation they find themselves in.'
'I suppose that's a dig at me?'
'If the shoe fits, Curly.' Matt's mouth quirks up. 'Although not quite so curly right now.'
‘More soggy,’ Mohinder says sheepishly, running his fingers through his hair. He ties up the horse and starts preparing a feedbag.
‘Still suits you,’ Matt says, doing the same.
Mohinder chews his lip as he looks over at Matt. The wet clothes are slick against Matt’s skin, clinging to his body even as he moves.
‘Thank you.’
Matt meets Mohinder’s eyes and he smiles slightly. Then his eyes slide slowly over Mohinder’s body. Mohinder licks his lips and feels himself redden.
‘You’re going to catch pneumonia standing around in wet clothes,’ Matt says, giving the horse a final pat.
‘It doesn’t actually work that way,’ Mohinder says quietly, stepping away from his horse.
‘No?’
‘Not really,’ Mohinder says with a shrug.
‘Why don’t you get out of those while I get a fire going?’ Matt suggests.
Mohinder shivers slightly. ‘Stand here naked all by myself?’
Matt unbuttons his shirt and peels it off. He hangs it over a branch and does the same with his trousers, working them over his boots, but leaving his boxers on.
‘I’ll take them off when I’ve built the fire,’ he says, forestalling Mohinder. He bends down and starts building a fire.
Mohinder moves a little closer and peels off his wet clothes. Matt’s back is broad as he imagined with an intricate tattoo that runs up his spine and over his shoulders. It is a series of alternating straight and curved lines, some thick blocks, and some incredibly delicate lines, with the areas of bare skin striking against the black ink.
The fire blazes into life and Matt stands up. He peels off his boxers and hangs them over another branch.
‘You feeling shy?’ Matt asks, looking over his shoulder.
Mohinder walks over and stands next to him, warming his hands over the fire. Matt’s presence next to him is like a weight in the world; an irresistible gravitational pull that is impossible to escape.
Mohinder shivers when he feels Matt’s fingertips touch the back of his hand.
‘What happened here?’ he asks.
Mohinder holds up his arm. ‘It’s stupid. My father was a dreadful one for household maintenance. When I was a little kid the door handle fell off the living room door. There was a gap under the door so I put my hand under the door to pull it open, which was fine until someone pushed it from the other side. I scraped the back my hand on a nail in the floor.’
‘You’ve had this since you were a kid?’ Matt asks, examining the stretched scar. ‘Must’ve been nasty.’
‘Not as bad as that,’ Mohinder says, touching a slash of scar at the top of Matt’s arm. ‘What happened?’
‘I got stabbed. It happens.’
Mohinder licks his lips. ‘What about the tattoo on your back?’
‘You like tattoos?’ Matt asks with a smile.
‘I’ve never seen one like that,’ Mohinder says quickly. ‘It looks… ethnic?’
Matt brushes a lock of Mohinder’s hair out of his eyes. ‘It’s African. I was there for a few years. I spent a lot of time with one of the tribes there. Enough time to become an honorary member and that’s when I was given the tattoo.’
‘It’s amazing,’ Mohinder says.
Matt puts his hand on Mohinder’s hip and moves in closer. ‘I have a small one here,’ he says, moving his other arm to show Mohinder a small tattoo on his forearm.
Mohinder runs his fingers over the tattoo. ‘Only small one you’ve got,’ he says, blushing furiously. ‘Sorry, I don’t do this much.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Matt says gently, and kisses him.
Mohinder slides his arms around Matt’s waist.
Matt gently pulls them both down to the ground. Hands slide over skin and both men move and shift as they find ways to lie together comfortably.
The fires crackles gently as the flames climb higher. Ashes rise on the warm air, the delicate fibres caressed by the soft currents. The light of the flames embrace the firm, straight branches, lovingly lick the brown skin, and burn ever brighter.
Mohinder wakes in the last of the sickly, dying moonlight. The fire has died down enough for him to feel a chill. He dresses again in his now dry clothes and fetches some young, green branches to feed the fire.
‘You’re awake!’
Matt shrugs easily. ‘Looks like it. I sleep lightly. Got to in this job. Are you hungry?’
‘Starving,’ Mohinder realises. ‘We haven’t eaten in hours.’
‘Park your little ass there.’
Mohinder curls up on the floor with his arms around his knees. He has to or else he’s sure he’ll spin off into the atmosphere. He doesn’t do this. He barely knows Matt and he isn’t sure he likes the man in any way other than the purely physical.
The sense memory of Matt’s broad chest and strong hands comes back to him. The warmth of his lips against his mouth, his throat, chest, stomach, thighs, and cock still smoulders. Mohinder was raised to think of sex outside of committed relationships as dirty, crude, and disposable but in the flickering firelight with Matt it felt like a benediction, a holy rite, a prayer made flesh.
‘Here you go, Professor,’ Matt says, offering him a tin plate filled with fried beans. ‘Those’ll keep you going until morning.’
Professor! After everything… after what he’s said…after how they’ve…
Matt is intent on his food and barely looks at him. He doesn’t say anything else until he finishes off his meal.
‘Night, Curly,’ he says, yawning and then curling up on the floor.
In the morning, Matt finds Mohinder in a terrible mood. Glaring and glowering, stamping about as he gathers up his belongings and feeds the horses.
‘Most people are in a better mood when they’ve been sexed up,’ Matt says lightly, and almost shrinks from Mohinder’s snarl.
‘Is that so! Conducted extensive research have you?’
‘You didn’t pop my cherry if that’s what you mean,’ he says.
‘That was blatantly obvious,’ Mohinder sneers.
Matt shakes his head at the baffling mood swing. Okay so the guy is always on the irritable side but he’d figured a lot of that was defensive; that there was some shyness and social ineptness there. Last night he’d been sweet, a little clumsy in his flirting, but warm and affectionate. Matt’s used to casual sex, to the lies people tell, and the brush offs in the morning. He’s got a thick skin mostly and doesn’t take them seriously. Leastways he mostly doesn’t let them bother him. But Mohinder’s behaviour is sliding right through his defences and cutting at his guts.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Matt asks.
‘Do you seduce all your clients?’
‘You’re not my client,’ Matt points out. ‘That’s Arthur Petrelli and I sure as hell wouldn’t bang him.’
Mohinder draws himself up to his full height. ‘But you worked as a bodyguard for his son. Did you “bang” him?’
‘What’s this, retrospective jealousy? You going to boil my bunny next?’
‘Well forgive me for wanting to know if I’m simply one in a very long line of conquests!’
Matt rolls his eyes. ‘Conquests? You weren’t exactly fighting me off, Curly, and neither was Peter Petrelli or nobody else.’
‘Good Gods, you’re disgusting!’ Mohinder snarls. He turns and stamps away into the brush.
Matt rolls his eyes and finishes packing up the horses.
Then Mohinder yells in panic.
On to part 6
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Scenes of a sexual nature
Word Count: Approx 2230
Authors Note: Back to part 4
Mohinder tumbles heavily off the horse with the world a blur of noise and colour. Matt’s weight pins him to the ground and then is suddenly gone. Shocked and shaken from the fall, and choked with the earth in his mouth and nose, it is all Mohinder can do to sit up and scrabble at the net.
Someone screams. Not a scream of rage or fear but of pain. Mohinder tries to crawl backwards but is unable to move the net. Someone else screams, and someone else, and someone else until the air is filled with it before gradually petering out to a soft blubbing that just… stops.
A shadow falls across Mohinder and he instinctively grabs a double handful of earth. As the net is yanked away, he desperately flings the earth up and, rolling onto his front, starts crawling away at high speed.
‘You pick a fine time to get some gumption,’ Matt’s voice complains.
Mohinder wriggles behind a tree before standing up and peering out.
‘Finished playing hide and seek?’ Matt asks, wiping soil out of his face. Around him tribesmen lay dead on the ground. Almost all of them have been slip across the throat or stabbed through the heart except for one whose neck has been broken.
‘Good Gods, what’s happened here?’
Matt picks up a large, blood-stained knife and wipes it on a tree. ‘They got a little overexcited during their exercise routine I guess.’
Mohinder stares at him. ‘You’re making jokes? There are… eleven dead men here and you’re making jokes.’
‘I can’t think of a better time to joke,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Here, stand still,’ he says, and brushes soil from Mohinder’s face.
‘Did you do this?’
‘I’m employed to protect you,’ Matt points out. ‘I’m not a murderer. I was defending both of us.’
‘No, you’re a common mercenary with a frighteningly casual approach to violence!’
‘I prefer “private contractor” and that’s pretty rich coming from a glorified grave robber.’
‘Ha!’ Mohinder snorts. ‘Is that the best that you can do? Well forgive me for considering cold blooded killing of eleven men to be in a completely different moral universe than reverently examining historical artefacts to benefit everyone!’
Matt puts his hands on hips. ‘Are we done debating relative morality now? Because I don’t know if Eden and Luke got away or not.’
‘I want a separate horse.’ Mohinder straightens his clothes. ‘I’m sure you can ride bareback if you really want.’
‘Not on a horse,’ Matt says with a smile.
‘Then walk!’
Mohinder walks over to the horse and climbs up into the saddle.
‘There might be more tribesmen around,’ Matt warns, grabbing the other horse by the bridle.
‘Then consider running,’ Mohinder says sharply, and spurs the horse on.
Mohinder rides for a couple of hundred yards before slowing the horse to a halt. He’s not a fool by any means and has no intention of actually losing Matt. In fact he’d have to get off the horse anyway as the way ahead is by means of a narrow rope bridge over a rushing river.
‘You took your time,’ he says tartly as Matt appears.
‘Don’t do that again,’ Matt growls, stalking over to him.
‘Or what?’
Matt grins and slaps a manacle onto his right wrist.
‘How dare you!’
Matt slaps the other manacle onto his own wrist. ‘How dare I? What the hell kind of a jackass move is taking off like that when I’ve just had to save your skinny ass?’
‘I’ve had enough of being treated like a bloody child! You’re fired, you hear me, fired!’
‘You can’t fire me. So get used to it. Now grab the horse and we’ll go over the bridge.’
Mohinder glowers at him silently and shakes his wrist experimentally. The chain between the manacles is a good fifteen feet, comfortably long enough for them to lead both horses across the bridge.
‘Don’t keep burning a hole in the back of my head with your staring,’ Matt says, glancing back at Mohinder.
‘I will stare at you as much as I want,’ Mohinder snarls. ‘I would suggest that you watch where you’re going.’
Matt snorts and returns his gaze to the bridge. ‘Right, because of this bridge there’s so much room to get lost.’
There is a long and painful creak from underfoot. Matt looks back and shares Mohinder’s look of horror.
And then the bridge snaps.
Mohinder rises from the water, spluttering and with his head ringing. Matt almost pulls him off his feet as he surges forward after the horses.
'Grab them quick!' Matt bellows over the sound of the pounding water.
'Get this thing off my wrist before you bloody drown me!'
Matt curses and takes the manacle from his own wrist. 'Go!'
They dash in opposite directions after the panicked horses. Mohinder struggles after the barebacked mare, finding himself kicked at and threatened as she tries to rear up. He glances back at Matt and sees him soothing the saddled stallion with soft words and carefully unthreatening movements.
'It's alright,' Mohinder says in his gentlest tone. 'You've just had a fall and a scare and you're standing knee deep in a rushing river and you've probably been injured and might need to be shot. But everything is alright.'
'Do me a favour and never try to reassure me,' Matt says lightly.
'I think you may safely rest assured there,' Mohinder retorts. 'However, if by some miracle that this horse can comprehend spoken English and not merely the tone of voice then I'm sure it would be intelligent enough to comprehend the facts of the situation that we find ourselves in.'
'I don't know about horses,' Matt says, leading the stallion to the shore, 'but I've met people who're plenty smart but don't seem to comprehend the facts of a situation they find themselves in.'
'I suppose that's a dig at me?'
'If the shoe fits, Curly.' Matt's mouth quirks up. 'Although not quite so curly right now.'
‘More soggy,’ Mohinder says sheepishly, running his fingers through his hair. He ties up the horse and starts preparing a feedbag.
‘Still suits you,’ Matt says, doing the same.
Mohinder chews his lip as he looks over at Matt. The wet clothes are slick against Matt’s skin, clinging to his body even as he moves.
‘Thank you.’
Matt meets Mohinder’s eyes and he smiles slightly. Then his eyes slide slowly over Mohinder’s body. Mohinder licks his lips and feels himself redden.
‘You’re going to catch pneumonia standing around in wet clothes,’ Matt says, giving the horse a final pat.
‘It doesn’t actually work that way,’ Mohinder says quietly, stepping away from his horse.
‘No?’
‘Not really,’ Mohinder says with a shrug.
‘Why don’t you get out of those while I get a fire going?’ Matt suggests.
Mohinder shivers slightly. ‘Stand here naked all by myself?’
Matt unbuttons his shirt and peels it off. He hangs it over a branch and does the same with his trousers, working them over his boots, but leaving his boxers on.
‘I’ll take them off when I’ve built the fire,’ he says, forestalling Mohinder. He bends down and starts building a fire.
Mohinder moves a little closer and peels off his wet clothes. Matt’s back is broad as he imagined with an intricate tattoo that runs up his spine and over his shoulders. It is a series of alternating straight and curved lines, some thick blocks, and some incredibly delicate lines, with the areas of bare skin striking against the black ink.
The fire blazes into life and Matt stands up. He peels off his boxers and hangs them over another branch.
‘You feeling shy?’ Matt asks, looking over his shoulder.
Mohinder walks over and stands next to him, warming his hands over the fire. Matt’s presence next to him is like a weight in the world; an irresistible gravitational pull that is impossible to escape.
Mohinder shivers when he feels Matt’s fingertips touch the back of his hand.
‘What happened here?’ he asks.
Mohinder holds up his arm. ‘It’s stupid. My father was a dreadful one for household maintenance. When I was a little kid the door handle fell off the living room door. There was a gap under the door so I put my hand under the door to pull it open, which was fine until someone pushed it from the other side. I scraped the back my hand on a nail in the floor.’
‘You’ve had this since you were a kid?’ Matt asks, examining the stretched scar. ‘Must’ve been nasty.’
‘Not as bad as that,’ Mohinder says, touching a slash of scar at the top of Matt’s arm. ‘What happened?’
‘I got stabbed. It happens.’
Mohinder licks his lips. ‘What about the tattoo on your back?’
‘You like tattoos?’ Matt asks with a smile.
‘I’ve never seen one like that,’ Mohinder says quickly. ‘It looks… ethnic?’
Matt brushes a lock of Mohinder’s hair out of his eyes. ‘It’s African. I was there for a few years. I spent a lot of time with one of the tribes there. Enough time to become an honorary member and that’s when I was given the tattoo.’
‘It’s amazing,’ Mohinder says.
Matt puts his hand on Mohinder’s hip and moves in closer. ‘I have a small one here,’ he says, moving his other arm to show Mohinder a small tattoo on his forearm.
Mohinder runs his fingers over the tattoo. ‘Only small one you’ve got,’ he says, blushing furiously. ‘Sorry, I don’t do this much.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Matt says gently, and kisses him.
Mohinder slides his arms around Matt’s waist.
Matt gently pulls them both down to the ground. Hands slide over skin and both men move and shift as they find ways to lie together comfortably.
The fires crackles gently as the flames climb higher. Ashes rise on the warm air, the delicate fibres caressed by the soft currents. The light of the flames embrace the firm, straight branches, lovingly lick the brown skin, and burn ever brighter.
Mohinder wakes in the last of the sickly, dying moonlight. The fire has died down enough for him to feel a chill. He dresses again in his now dry clothes and fetches some young, green branches to feed the fire.
‘You’re awake!’
Matt shrugs easily. ‘Looks like it. I sleep lightly. Got to in this job. Are you hungry?’
‘Starving,’ Mohinder realises. ‘We haven’t eaten in hours.’
‘Park your little ass there.’
Mohinder curls up on the floor with his arms around his knees. He has to or else he’s sure he’ll spin off into the atmosphere. He doesn’t do this. He barely knows Matt and he isn’t sure he likes the man in any way other than the purely physical.
The sense memory of Matt’s broad chest and strong hands comes back to him. The warmth of his lips against his mouth, his throat, chest, stomach, thighs, and cock still smoulders. Mohinder was raised to think of sex outside of committed relationships as dirty, crude, and disposable but in the flickering firelight with Matt it felt like a benediction, a holy rite, a prayer made flesh.
‘Here you go, Professor,’ Matt says, offering him a tin plate filled with fried beans. ‘Those’ll keep you going until morning.’
Professor! After everything… after what he’s said…after how they’ve…
Matt is intent on his food and barely looks at him. He doesn’t say anything else until he finishes off his meal.
‘Night, Curly,’ he says, yawning and then curling up on the floor.
In the morning, Matt finds Mohinder in a terrible mood. Glaring and glowering, stamping about as he gathers up his belongings and feeds the horses.
‘Most people are in a better mood when they’ve been sexed up,’ Matt says lightly, and almost shrinks from Mohinder’s snarl.
‘Is that so! Conducted extensive research have you?’
‘You didn’t pop my cherry if that’s what you mean,’ he says.
‘That was blatantly obvious,’ Mohinder sneers.
Matt shakes his head at the baffling mood swing. Okay so the guy is always on the irritable side but he’d figured a lot of that was defensive; that there was some shyness and social ineptness there. Last night he’d been sweet, a little clumsy in his flirting, but warm and affectionate. Matt’s used to casual sex, to the lies people tell, and the brush offs in the morning. He’s got a thick skin mostly and doesn’t take them seriously. Leastways he mostly doesn’t let them bother him. But Mohinder’s behaviour is sliding right through his defences and cutting at his guts.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Matt asks.
‘Do you seduce all your clients?’
‘You’re not my client,’ Matt points out. ‘That’s Arthur Petrelli and I sure as hell wouldn’t bang him.’
Mohinder draws himself up to his full height. ‘But you worked as a bodyguard for his son. Did you “bang” him?’
‘What’s this, retrospective jealousy? You going to boil my bunny next?’
‘Well forgive me for wanting to know if I’m simply one in a very long line of conquests!’
Matt rolls his eyes. ‘Conquests? You weren’t exactly fighting me off, Curly, and neither was Peter Petrelli or nobody else.’
‘Good Gods, you’re disgusting!’ Mohinder snarls. He turns and stamps away into the brush.
Matt rolls his eyes and finishes packing up the horses.
Then Mohinder yells in panic.
On to part 6
