So I got this prompt in my ask-box, and I thought it was kind of awesome and I kind of fell in love with the whole idea, so I decided to turn it into a multi-chaptered fic :) I hope you all like it :) You should probably know that everything I know about weapons and stuff like that, I get from the internet. I suck, I know XD Also, the rating is "T", but that might go up in later chapters.
The prompt/summary: Superstar Julian Larson being targeted by Assassin/Spy!Logan, but Logan can't kill him 'cause he fell in love with him.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing except the plot—although it's such a classical one, I doubt I even own that :P However, all recognizable characters belong to CP Coulter and her amazing fic Dalton. I also do not own Glee. Obviously.
(Logan's 'preface' has already happened—I don't know why it's called preface, just go with it XD Julian's has yet to happen, though.)
Enjoy people :)
John Logan Wright III
Green eyes peered over the sniper rifle, squinting as they tried to get a good aim on the famous actress in the house. It was a building with many windows, and as Logan crouched down—uncomfortable between the bushes and in the ice-cold wind—he smirked, his sharp gaze following her carefully, the gunsight exactly right.
He shifted a bit, groaning when he felt his sore muscles strain in protest.
This was an easy job. Almost too easy, but who cared anyway? He certainly didn't. Hell—he'd even taken his meds this morning and he had still a clear sight on the target.
He shifted again, laying the rifle on the ground, wanting to wait until it was darker—when he was absolutely sure he would be invisible.
Smirking, he allowed some arrogance to shimmer through in the hazy mess of emotions and thoughts the pills caused. Raking a hand through his hair, he leaned back against the trunk of a tree.
He was an excellent sniper.
Every job, mission, operation—he finished them all efficiently, always walking away without looking back, without regrets, without leaving any traces.
He didn't enjoy it. But he was good at what he did. And he got enough money with it to live his life.
His eyes narrowed as the sun finally slid under the horizon, and the metal of his weapon felt cold and hard as he picked it up without making a sound.
He put it against his shoulder, calculating gaze searching for the actress. A shadow filtered through the light curtains, and for a moment Logan thought that he saw the woman dancing—slowly, elegantly, almost erotically.
Shaking his head, he brought his slightly clouded mind back to his job. One green eye closed as he aimed, his finger curled around the trigger, raising the rifle to the exact right level—
—and he pulled the trigger.
The glass shattered spectacularly, and the actress sunk to the ground almost gracefully, the light curtains coloring a shocking red.
But the tall blond wasn't even there to see the mess he'd made—he disappeared noiselessly, rifle casually slung over his back as he stalked through the bushes.
Smirk long gone, eyes cold and emotionless—he straightened his back, exhaling steadily.
Up to the next job.
The last things you see before you die—the last images flashing before your closed eyelids... they should be a movie of your life, right? The phrase 'sees his life flashing by like a movie' was so old and so often used, it seemed to be a standard. It seemed to be the universal belief.
But it's funny...
Because he didn't see the movie flicker in front of him, he didn't see the memories—of love, of pain, of friendship, of hopes and dreams and getting them crushed again—he didn't see those. You would think he'd see them—considering how much experience he had with movies and cameras and scripts...
But this wasn't in the script.
This wasn't in the script at all.
Brown eyes fluttered open, pain exploding everywhere—burning, scorching, white-hot, piercing, stabbing pain.
And as his hand moved shakily to his chest, his fingers touching something sticky and wet—he knew he was dying. The pain was everything he could feel, everything he could taste... creating a hazy curtain of only the hurt—making everything else vague and almost dreamlike.
He heard screams, felt hands touch him tenderly yet urgently, saw shadows crowd around him—and he felt it when breathing got harder, how his heart fluttered languidly, how his thoughts seemed to blur around the edges...
He knew he was dying.
And it was funny... but also sad in a way. Because the only thing that crossed his vision, the only images that came to him—were the dreams. It were the dire wishes, his heart's greatest desires... dreams and fantasies he was sure he would never live to see again.
He choked, feeling warm blood trickle from the corners of his mouth.
He'd fallen into the ocean and waves were tugging on his clothes, on his hands, pulling him under slowly and gently—the lulling whispers of the clashing waves deceiving him into an air of warmth and safety.
His eyes lost their sparkle, rolling back... finally closing.
Chapter 1: Pilot
The room was thrown into absolute darkness, hiding the posture of a tall man, his blond hair falling slightly over his piercing eyes, clad completely in black, hands carefully clutching a sniper rifle.
The man heard a chuckle and he wheeled around, squinting as the only light bulb in the room switched on—chasing away the dark in the middle, but making the corners seem even blacker.
There was a table under the light—the light that flickered annoyingly, like it was possessed… but then again… maybe it was—and on that table sat a young man, grinning widely as he turned his haunting eyes to the blond.
"Wright. Good to see you again."
But Logan merely cocked an eyebrow, staying completely silent, his fingers curling around his weapon possessively.
"I assume you just returned from your last job…?" the man inquired with a slight twitch of his mouth corners.
Logan nodded, eyes narrowing, pressing his lips together. He didn't enjoy it—like the person here in front of him. He didn't like doing this. He just... had no choice.
"Well—good," the man continued, obviously more than a bit irritated at the non-answers of his subordinate. He reached into his pocket, holding up what seemed like a photograph, before slamming it onto the table with such a loud bang, Logan almost jumped.
"I have another job for you," the man sneered, his lanky body leaning forward, fingers sprawled out over the photograph as he shoved it to the tall blond. He waited for a short moment for Logan to come to him—when the blond didn't move, he growled impatiently. "You have to look at it in order to carry out the job, Wright."
Green eyes sent a menacing glare to him and the man cowered slightly in his seat, before straightening his back again—in a vain attempt to get control over the situation.
They both knew better though—that Logan was, in fact, the one with the most power, the most skilled one, the one who held the control here.
Logan casually twirled his sniper rifle in his fingers, before hanging it onto his back, his right hand immediately reaching towards the small Glock pistol on his belt. He stalked to the table and snatched the photograph from underneath the man's fingers, holding it up to his face, taking a close look...
...and his heart jumped.
Brown eyes stared up at him from the piece of wrinkled paper, a catty smirk painted on pink lips, dark hair sticking out in every direction. He knew that man—boy, really—the same age as he was. They were all just boys...
His thumb stroked over the paper, green eyes twinkling furiously.
It was Julian Larson.
"You want me to assassinate one of the most famous stars in Hollywood?"
"You want me dead?"
"I want you to do whatever it takes," the dark eyes of the man narrowed down to slits. "I don't care if you die."
With a last glance at the picture—and wondering what the hell was with all these actors that needed to be killed—Logan pocketed it, snorting derisively. "Touching. What did he ever do anyway? Is he mafia? I don't see him running around with a weapon. Why the primadonna?"
"It's personal," the man growled lowly.
Suddenly talkative, wanting to know what was behind this all—because one thing was sure, Logan Wright did not kill without a valid reason—Logan stared at his boss. "What the hell did he ever do to you? Hell—what did that girl ever do to you?" he narrowed his eyes as he thought of something. "Isn't that girl in the same series as Larson? What's it called? Something... something-something..."
"Something Damaged. Just do the job, Wright. Don't ask questions."
"Fine. I was just wondering what the hell he did to deserve being shot."
The man grimaced, eyes looking away absently, fingers curling into tight fists. His voice was a whisper—so soft, Logan almost missed his following words.
Logan raised his eyebrows, his eyes rolling from the ceiling to the door. "Well—okay... If that's all."
The man closed his eyes, shaking his head a bit. "He's probably going to hire more bodyguards, so you won't be able to get to him in his house."
"Hm. That's everything?"
"No," he narrowed his dark eyes, leaning over the table. "If you mess this job up—you'll be done, Wright. You understand?"
Frowning, Logan backed away carefully, mock-saluting his boss before leaving the gloomy room.
"Your wish is my demand, Clavell."
He didn't receive an answer—just an impatient snarl—and the tall blond turned around, disappearing from the house like he'd never even been there.
"But Julian, you—"
"No. God. This is ridiculous."
"Ridiculous? You call the death of Marcie Lillian ridiculous?"
Julian's eyes fluttered shut, before they opened and narrowed in fury. "Why would you say that?" he hissed.
Carmen crossed her arms. "Because she's dead and you don't seem to care!"
The young actor exploded—all the anger, the grief, the utter confusion coming out at once. "I do care! I do! It's just that all you seem to care about is my safety—and that's just not my priority right now! Marcie is dead, Carmen! She's dead, and I just, I can't—" he pinched the bridge of his nose, turning away from the older woman. "I just can't deal with this now. And I think it is ridiculous to hire more bodyguards. I swear to god—if I have any more bodyguards, I will drown in them. I have enough. I don't need more."
Carmen's tone softened, but her opinion kept strong. "I disagree—and so do your parents."
"My parents? Why the hell are my parents involved in this?"
The agent rolled her eyes. "You're their only son, Julian. I'm sure you can understand their concern. One of your cast-mates was murdered in cold blood!"
Julian scoffed, turning away from her, his eyes raking over the script of his newest movie—trying his damn hardest not to let the hurt get to him. That horrible, burning hurt and grief. "They don't care anyway. And they shouldn't," he gazed out of the window, picking up the script and ruffling the pages absently. "I'm perfectly fine."
"Can you please go now?" he held up the script without looking at her. "I have a lot to do today."
He heard Carmen sigh when she surrendered—like she usually did. "Don't forget the invitation for tonight."
"And... the funeral tomorrow. Don't forget about that..."
How could he ever forget about that? "Carmen—"
"I'm sorry, Julian, but—"
Biting his lip, he shook his head, sepia eyes closing. "Just—please—leave me alone."
It was already dark when Julian got out of the limousine, getting received with cheers and excited cries of waiting fans and paparazzi. He walked the red carpet with a beaming, plastic smile, happily waving at people, giving out autographs patiently—until he finally disappeared in the big, luxurious building the party was given in.
The event was loud—loud music, loud colors, loud people—and the young, successful actor was busy talking with co-workers, writers, directors and interviewers. His Cheshire smirk was on his lips all the time, his eyes bright and warm, his attitude welcoming, diva-ish as always—absolutely flawless. Nobody suspected the disastrous hurt he was hiding.
The young actor was well aware of the fact that he was being watched—paparazzi was swarming the place, along with the sharp gazes of directors and writers who were looking for actors to fulfill their roles—but Julian was oblivious to the sharp stare that followed his every move, every smile, every word—
—a gaze that was as cold as ice—emotionless, empty and calculating as it carefully studied him.
High in the building—hidden between the girders and the shadows they created, completely clad in black—sat Logan Wright, his skillful fingers readying the sniper rifle as his gaze raked over the chattering mass.
The blond was peering down his weapon, trying to get a good aim at the actor. However, it turned out to be quite difficult to get passed all the freaking bodyguards.
"Have you fucking hired every bodyguard in Hollywood or something? Jesus," he hissed, adjusting his weapon—but not getting a clearer sight. He muttered a stream of profanities, leaning back on his heels as he rubbed his temple in frustration.
"Okay, okay, okay—I've got this," he breathed, blazing green eyes closing, trying not to think of what was waiting for him if he screwed this up.
He opened his eyes again and as he leaned forward, his stare immediately fell on two people talking not too far away from Julian Larson. His eyebrows almost disappeared in his hairline as he shifted forward, his feet almost slipping off the smooth girders.
Was that...? But he knew almost for sure that the man talking to Julian's agent—Carmen?—was, in fact, Derek Seigerson. And they seemed to be getting along pretty well. Would Derek recognize him from their time at Dalton? Maybe... He could try. He was definitely in some contact with Larson—judging by the way he was interacting with the agent.
Logan sat back and smirked.
Maybe this was going to be easier than he thought.
Thank you for reading :) Your thoughts would be super-nice to hear. I kinda suck at multi-chaptered things, so I need a bit of motivation :P