I'm With the Pilot

Title: Hell Is This
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Word count: 2,600
Notes: So, 1297 and I were talking... [insert ensuing violence and destruction here]. And the result was an awesome impromptu comment!fic meme about fanfic clichés. I filled her prompt for an AU with Chris as an assassin and Zach as his target, in which things get a little complicated (by hot sex). Plus, I added some poetry for that A+ pretentious factor. (Happy National Poetry Month!) Cleaned up and slightly longer than the original.
Summary: Sure, Chris was good at his job, but the truth remained that some marks were easier than others.


"What kind of guy is named Zachary Quinto, anyway?"

"A dead guy," Karl commented, glancing up from his notes. "After you're through with him, that is. Now get your feet off my desk."

Chris pouted, drawing his legs down from the edge of Karl's desk. He'd been so comfortable, too. "Well, duh." He tilted his head, flicking through the surveillance photos that Karl had given him. Why anyone would want to fuck up a face like that was a damn shame. C'est la vie. "What's his deal again?"

Karl groaned. "If you would read a goddamn report for once in your life, Pine, I might drop dead of shock."

"Well, there you go. I don't want you to die, big man."

On the other side of the room, John laughed, polishing his shoes. "He's too busy reading Bukowski, Karl. Give him a break."

"For your information, it's currently Jack Spicer."

"I don't give a jack shit, Pine." Karl huffed and shoved a file folder across the desk. "Your plane ticket and instructions are inside. Don't fuck it up. I want this guy in a city morgue in forty-eight hours."

"Yeah, yeah. When do I ever let you down?"

John lifted his head and cringed. "Don't answer that, Karl. I've got a dentist's appointment in three hours and I don't want to be late."

"He should only break all your teeth," Chris muttered. He looked over the documents and scoffed when he saw his plane ticket. "Window seat? You know I like the aisle."

Karl went back to his work and smiled smugly. "I also got you the kosher meal."

Chris rolled his eyes and collected his things, reaching up and catching the stack of bills that John chucked to him, without a single glance. He tested the weight in his hand—at least a grand less than usual—before shoving it into his inside jacket pocket.

"This place is going to hell," he quipped as he strode out of the room.

*

He was a little drunk by the time he got off the plane, having downed more champagne than might have been necessary. Sitting by the window made him nervous and paranoid and he needed some way to take the edge off. His phone rang as he chucked his small carry-on bag into the backseat of a taxi; he gave the name of the hotel to the driver and answered on the third ring.

"What now?"

"Are you drunk yet?" Karl asked.

"Don't tell me you planned this."

"Of course I did. I know you always drink when you get a window seat and I wanted you to be tipsy. This Quinto guy is smart and he'll suspect something's up if you're not loose enough."

Chris lifted his brow in amusement, licking his lips as he looked out the window. "And by 'loose,' you mean..."

"Let him sully your innocence if you have to."

He smirked and reached into his pocket for one of the photos, taking in the strong profile, dark eyes and prominent nose; the angular jaw with just the right about of stubble, juxtaposed with the crisp collar of a finely tailored suit. Chris shrugged.

"I can handle that," he said.

*

It seemed almost too easy, finding Zachary Quinto sitting in the hotel bar, nursing a Manhattan. The file did say he had a bit of a drinking problem, not to mention two distinct weaknesses: one for fancy cocktails and one for beautiful men. Chris decided to take his current presence in the bar as a compliment from Karl. Not that John could seduce anyone, with his sarcasm meter set on the highest level at all times; he was better for quick kills and high finance jobs. Chris was the interpersonal type.

Too bad that when Chris got close enough to see that Quinto was sitting and reading a book of poetry, he totally floundered.

"Um. That looks good," Chris said, motioning to the cocktail. He smiled to the pretty bartender. "I'll have one of those. Start a tab, please."

Quinto lifted his head a fraction but didn't turn to look at Chris, just nodded a small acknowledgment and went back to his book. He sipped his drink and said, "Nancy makes a mean one."

"Good to know." Chris pursed his lips, smiling faintly to the bartender—Nancy, he presumed—and then glanced at Quinto's nearly empty glass. "You want another? S'on me."

The other man looked up at Chris, then, and Chris had to do everything he could to make sure he didn't appear as floored as he felt by the almond-shaped eyes that were even more gorgeous in person. Hell, photos didn't do this guy justice at all; he was a fucking Adonis. And then, to make things worse, he smiled, slow and easy, like the jungle cat that'd just spotted his next meal. Chris put on his own lazy smirk and leaned his hip against the bar, feeling the heat of his gun pressed against his lower back. He nodded to Nancy to go ahead and make the second drink.

"Mind if I ask what you're reading?" Chris asked, going for the easy conversation hook. Quinto tilted his head and looked a little embarrassed.

"Not anything most people have heard of—not to be a snob about it," he added, shrugging. "The collected poems of Jack Spicer."

Chris felt his stomach drop out of a secret compartment in his gut. "You're kidding," he said. Quinto lifted his brow.

"You know him?"

"Yeah." Chris peered down at the open page and laughed faintly when he saw what Quinto was reading. "That's one of my favorites, actually."

"Mine too," the man replied, a secretive sort of smile on his face. He looked down at the page and began to read. "Hell is this: / The lack of anything but the eternal to look at..."

Chris nodded and recited from memory. "The expansiveness of salt / The lack of any bed but one's / Music to sleep in."

Quinto stared at him for a moment, then, as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle. Then he relaxed into that easy smile again, picking up the fresh Manhattan and sipping. He looked almost...shy.

"Sit, yeah? It's not every day that I'm lucky enough to meet another Spicer fan in a bar," he said.

Chris smiled and squinted, scratching the back of his head. "No, I bet it's not."

*

He was grateful to possess the presence of mind to shove his gun into a drawer on the way into Quinto's room. Really, Chris should have taken them to his own room, but it was kind of hard to think with those warm hands crawling all over him, and shit, he was goddamn lucky that Quinto had managed to touch him just about everywhere except where the gun was tucked into his pants. Also fortunate was the fact that Quinto was too busy trying to suck the lips off Chris' face to notice the quick open and shut motion of the hotel dresser drawer—fortunate for multiple reasons.

"Fuck, your mouth," Quinto groaned, pressing closer to Chris and rolling his hips. Chris shuddered at the heat radiating from his body.

"Fuck my mouth?" he answered, tugging lightly on Zach's—no, Quinto's, he was just a mark—dark hair. He had fucking beautiful hair. "You want to?"

"Don't mess with my comma placement," Quinto said, grinning. Chris laughed before he could stop himself, tipsy off multiple cocktails and the heady scent of Zach. (Okay, yeah, he was officially Zach, now. Fuck.) "Shit, though, yeah."

Chris nodded and dropped to his knees, smoothing his hands along Zach's well-sculpted thighs before getting them on his fly, undoing it quickly and mouthing at the hard cock inside his briefs. He pushed Zach's underwear down when he sighed and lipped at the glistening head before taking it into his mouth and sucking rhythmically. Chris had had a lot of a practice with this sort of thing and it didn't take long to figure out exactly what Zach liked. He stopped bobbing his head long enough to give Zach the go-ahead to push into him, and shit, it'd been a long time since he'd gotten this aroused by the mere act of sucking a mark's dick. Just the smell of Zach was driving him crazy, making him moan around the length in his mouth and pass his free hand over his crotch repeatedly for relief.

"God, look at you," Zach murmured, drawing back.

"What?" Chris asked hoarsely, licking his swollen lips.

"Nothing, just..." Zach paused, pulling Chris to his feet and nipping his jaw. "Think I could look at you forever."

Chris swallowed as their eyes met, then clutched Zach's wrist, guiding his hand down past his waistband; he groaned when Zach molded his fingers to Chris' heat.

"Fuck me," Chris sighed. In a moment's time, he was pushed down on the bed, his trousers and underwear yanked off his legs and tossed away. He worked on his jacket and dress shirt as Zach procured lube and a condom from somewhere, coating his fingers and biting teasingly at Chris' inner thigh. Chris' hips jumped when Zach stretched him, his legs spreading on their own. Zach leaned up to push the thin fabric of Chris' wife beater up and over his chest, biting again, this time at his nipple, causing Chris to grunt. "Now, Zach—I can't fucking wait for forever."

"Yeah, neither can I," Zach murmured. He hooked Chris' legs over his shoulders and bowed his head as he slid inside.

*

He was even prettier when he slept, which was just obnoxious.

Chris carefully shifted out of bed and pulled on his pants, then went to retrieve his gun, fitting his silencer over the barrel. He could do this, no sweat. Zach was no different from any other mark he'd ever put out of his misery before; just because he was gorgeous and funny and liked the same poetry that Chris did, it didn't mean he was special.

Really, as soon as his photos had fallen into Chris' hands, the only proper adjective to describe Zachary Quinto was dead, just as Karl had said. That was why they were here. And pretty as the guy was, Chris had a job to do. As long as Quinto didn't open those puppy-dog eyes at any point, killing him would be cake.

He raised his gun, pointing it between Zach's eyes. Which, of course, was followed by the exact moment that he opened them. Shit.

"Um," Zach uttered. And for a few long moments, they just stood there, staring at each other, the weapon held high and menacing between them.

Then Zach laughed. Laughed.

"I should have known," he murmured, sitting up. "Why would a guy like you approach me, after all? I bet you don't even know who Jack Spicer is." He reached over to the nightstand for a cigarette, lighting it. "Plus, I've been on the run for a while now. Surprised it took this long."

Chris swallowed. "I know who Jack Spicer is. Shut up."

"Yeah, okay." Zach laughed again, but it was faint this time, melancholy. He took a deep drag from his cigarette. "Well, as nice as it is to stare at you holding out that gun in a practically see-through tank top, what are you waiting for?"

"Some marks are easier than others," Chris answered quietly.

"Look," Zach said, sighing. "I did my share of damage. I'm tired of running. So either shoot me, if that's what you need to do, or let me go, if you don't."

Chris bit the inside of his cheek, thinking of Karl's words, then Spicer's. If he killed Zach, then that was that—a happy boss but no more sparkling, seductive, totally blindsiding Zach Quinto. But if he let him go, both of their lives were in jeopardy. He wasn't so stupid to think he could just walk away from a job and it would all be gravy. Chris shook his head, the gears in his head going faster than he could control them. Think, Pine, think.

"It's no good," he finally said. "I need a body."

"Okay." Zach nodded, sucking once more on the filter of his Parliament, his eyes alight with understanding and a strange look of peace. "You've got one."

Chris licked his lips and raised his arm as he cocked his gun, fingertip caressing the trigger.

The lit cigarette fell to the mattress.

*

The L.A. sunshine felt good on Chris' face. He walked out of his office building, fresh from handing in his letter of resignation, feeling like a new man. Sure, it'd been difficult to turn away from Karl's sad frowns and grunts and looks of displeasure, and his hand was killing him from filling out endless confidentiality forms, but a weight had been lifted. He'd miss Karl, though, and even John, who looked as though he couldn't decide if he was upset or pleased as punch when Chris told him the news—until he asked if he could have the coat rack in Chris' office.

He felt different, rejuvenated—no longer looking at the eternal, the abyss; the hollowed-out eyes of dead men.

Chris balanced the box of his possessions in his arms, jostling it around a bit as he hauled the heavy thing to the trunk of his car. How he'd managed to amass so much shit in just two years, he'd never know. He sighed as he walked around the car and got into the driver's seat, putting on his seat belt.

"So. How do you feel?"

Chris turned his head and quirked a brow at the man sitting beside him.

"I feel like you look ridiculous with blond hair, Zachary."

"Shut up. I'm totally pulling it off. And that's not my name anymore." Zach huffed and touched his platinum-colored hair delicately, then held up a Ziploc bag with a sandwich inside. "You don't even deserve this sandwich I made you. First you shoot me in the stomach and then you insult my hair."

"Ooh, sandwich." Chris grabbed the bag from him and tucked it between his thighs, turning over the engine. The food would have to wait; he wanted to get out of there before anyone spotted them. He pulled out of the lot quickly, looking back at the building one last time in the rear view. "It's not as bad as I thought it'd be, but I miss the dark hair."

"Yeah, me too. I'll change it back eventually."

Chris nodded, letting out a relieved breath once they were in the flow of traffic. "So, what name did you end up picking out anyway?"

"Jack," Zach replied softly. Chris threw him a crooked grin and Zach returned it. "Jack Pinto."

"Pinto?" Chris repeated, laughing loudly. "What kind of guy is named Jack Pinto?"

"It's a combination of our names! You know, Pine and then... It's romantic! I was being—ugh." He waved a hand dismissively, turning toward the window. "Never mind; you don't know."

Chris nodded and furrowed his brow. "No, yeah. I get it now. That is romantic."

"Eat your sandwich," Zach sighed. Chris obliged happily, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and opening the bag with the other, bringing the sandwich up for a big bite.

"Let's go get a cocktail," he said, with his mouth full. He reached down to turn on the radio, blasting it. "On you, 'cause I'm unemployed."

Zach looked at him, brown eyes large and full of amusement, and nodded his assent.