Friend krakaheimr and I have been rotating various characters in their Chicago Spirit setting (which itself got its start in the SCP Foundation shared universe but they’ve kidnapped it and built up their own spinoff version, with the permission of the original creators and respect of the Creative Commons license). Richard Chappell is part of that setting, being the head of the Spirit gang. Zion Carpenter is mine–poor Ira’s really horrid human being of a father.
But I guess that makes him and Chappell perfect for each other.
***
Zion is out like a light.
Chappell stands over him with his cup of coffee, watching as he does…well nothing, really. He’s just sleeping, all long limbs and long lines tangled up in Chappell’s bedsheets.
Sleeping, like he’s got nothing to fear in the world.
Sarkite sorcerer or not, Chappell could kill him right now. Bullet in his head, knife to his heart or throat…he’d be dead before he woke up enough to save his own life.
Truth be told, he thinks about it sometimes.
This little…this fucker. This slimy son of a bitch who sailed into a younger Chappell’s life, seduced him like he was some kind of fucking ingenue and then sailed out again. The goddamn nerve. The…
There are times when the memories crop up without his permission. Zion–he must’ve been younger…well of fucking course he was younger, but he looked just the same. Acted the same, almost, just maybe he’s a little more polished now.
He’ll remember without meaning to, Zion leaning over his shoulder while they reviewed schematics. The way that sharp chin had hooked over his shoulder, the clean male scent of his cologne, a hand resting intimately on his waist while he’d talked about security patrols and timings like they weren’t breathing each other’s air.
Or the way the bastard’s green eyes had flared like emeralds catching the light when Chappell had snarled at him for overstepping. The excitement he hadn’t even tried to hide as Chappell set him back in his place right in front of the rest of the team.
Oh, that pissed him off so bad, Zion’s egotism. So elegant with those fucking high society social graces that you had to be on your toes or you wouldn’t even notice how he’s eeling in to take charge.
It’d pissed him off just as much as he’d gravitated toward that competence, the self-possession, the way nothing ever seemed to intimidate him or make him lose control.
Night taught Chappell to be honest with himself, even if he lies to everyone else, and so he can admit, way down in his secret heart of hearts where he’d kill anyone else for trespassing, that maybe, back then, the approval of a man like that, his willingness to accept Chappell as his leader, had imprinted on him a bit. He was no spring chicken, even then…but some men–Julius, for instance–their willingness to follow is itself a badge of honor.
So what the fuck is wrong with him now?
He’s 30 years older and past that kind of impressionable bullshit. He doesn’t need anybody else to affirm his strength or leadership, especially not a twisted lying overbred mad scumbag like Zion, so why does he look down at this asshole, naked and vulnerably asleep in his bed, and still feel some way about that?
Zion pulls his manipulative little power moves and Chappell thinks about putting an icepick into his face because somehow, he makes it charming and Chappell hasn’t encountered anything that dangerous in years.
He should. He really probably should, right now when it’ll kill him in his sleep. But if he waits…he’ll be able to see the shock and fury and arousal in Zion’s eyes. He’ll be able to drag him to his knees with that grip and leave it in there while he fucks his mouth, and watch this scheming sorcerous whore decide to submit to Chappell’s chosen place for him for a while longer.