writing: the sharpest lives - xabi alonso/david beckham
ok so a while ago shadae (
analysezceci) requested this for the au meme:
(a) a pairing // xabi/becks
(b) a colour, place, time of the day and season // black, a dark, grimy apartment in London, midnight, winter
(c) a cracked up AU situation of your choice // Becks is a kidnapper. Xabi is the kid of a high-profile, rich Spanish diplomat in England on business.
(d) a ten word prompt involving the AU // it's portrayed realistically enough in movies but (they're just movies, right?) what people don't know is that men in their field of work can feel too
warnings/notes
ok so i finished it; and i really don't like it at all. like i said this was written for the lovely shadae (however i altered the prompt a little - xabi isn't exactly on business, his dad isn't a diplomat XD and this went WAY off-track (OMG I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS HORRIBLE HORRIBLE FIC I IMPOSE ON YOU) etc etc you'll see) but i don't think its properly xabi/becks as in an OTP way so i will most probably write a sequel if she wants me too, to fufill her xabi/becks needs properly - however i will not blame anyone for going 'OMG PLEASE NEVER EVER WRITE AGAIN I BEG OF YOU' after they read this.
anyway. fic stuff:
+ this involves death (though not outright just speak of it), assassination, violence and a general dark overtone so yeh, if that isn't your thing then i beg you don't read it. i don't mind people critiscing the fic itself and my awful mashing of the english language but please i've warned you so don't go all high and mighty on me about writing about such awful things. just saying.
+ in this xabi only has one brother. by the time i realised i hadn't mentioned the other one i couldn't be bothered to change it. also i took creative license on naming his mother. oh yeah and xabi's father is rafael benitez. though they both have different surnames (LOL) yeh XD
+ there are mentions of various footballers from real madrid cf, liverpool fc, spain and chelsea fc (however there are no actual players names from chelsea just a mention of them as a collective). these peoples parts are brief, small and perhaps insignificant to you but i felt them important for the story. if i write a sequel most of the back characters will most probably become more prominent.
+ this is au; footballers are not footballers. they are in fact assassins (or hitmen. whatever you prefer) heh
+ and finally; i nicked the title from my chemical romance. i felt it fitted pretty well; the sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead etc..
fic: the sharpest lives | xabi alonso/david beckham | R | (about) 5,000 words
the sharpest lives
“Xabi just go upstairs and relax.”
Sergio straightens his jacket and glances quickly outside at the other man retrieving luggage from the car, adjusts his sunglasses. Xabi rolls his eyes and takes a quick look outside at the pouring rain and already descended darkness.
“Sergio. It’s December. And almost 9pm. You don’t have to go incognito now.”
“Go upstairs now Xabi please.”
“Not tired.”
“Well then give me your coat and go get a drink. Just please; stop hanging round here you’re making me anxious.”
Xabi sighs almost dramatically, drops his bag onto the carpet with a soft thud, before letting his hands wander to his coat pockets and striding into the bar.
Xabi just smirks sarcastically as he watches the other two struggle with his bags, clicking his fingers at the barman standing a few feet away.
“Vodka. Double please?”
The barman smiles at him, charming, his eyes sparkling as he quickly looks away as though they hold a secret.
Xabi likes that; mysterious. Always thought of himself as rather mysterious, most of the women (or the men for that matter) he meets, don’t even find out his surname before he is gone in the morning, bed still warm and scent still lingering on the pillows.
Its not long before he actually comes over and speaks, introduces himself.
“Fabio.” He lets his hand fall casually into Xabi’s, a warm tight grip and there’s that smile again.
There is a lilt to his English, curves around his tongue like its his own but Xabi can tell that it’s not; can practically see behind the man’s eyes, the words being scanned through his brain from whichever language he does call his own.
“Xabier.”
(No surname. Again.)
Fabio reaches for a glass under the counter filled with golden coloured liquid, it clinks elegantly against the counter when he sets it down.
“For you sir.”
Xabi accepts, nods as he does so, never had been one to turn down a free drink and Fabio smiles cynically as he in turn reaches for another glass.
*
“My head. It ahh. Feels strange.” Xabi blinks blearily at the glass, examining it (there are two floating in front of him though he can only feel one in his hand.)
He gulps and feels himself shudder suddenly. Fabio is gone now he realizes, and the waitress at the other end of the bar seems a little too pre occupied with another gentleman.
He manages to navigate his way off the seat, across the room and into the hall. Before he realizes he has no key to his room. And Fernando and Sergio are nowhere to be seen.
“Bastards.” He mutters a little too loudly as the receptionist raises her eyebrows at him.
“Err. Can you tell me which room I am in?”
She shakes her head and he can practically read her mind. Another fucking drunk.
The sixth floor seems a long way up in the lift, his stomach rolls dangerously as he feels cramped in the confined space, mirrors all around him. Feels like he’s trying to run from himself.
When he finally reaches his room he tries the door handle.
Locked.
Bangs it hard shouting all the time and quite frankly he couldn’t give a toss about the other guests.
“Sergio. Fernando. Get the fuck out here now!”
He listens, car here the bizarre sound of a bed creaking a little farther into the room.
He thumps it a few more times, both fists battering furiously now.
“Fuck sake,” he gives up and mutters, “horny bastards” as he stalks away.
Decides he seriously needs to get inside before he throws up, might try and charm the receptionist into giving him a new key.
The hall is deadly silent as Xabi makes his way down it which is strange considering it’s not even late yet. His walks slows as he presses his hand against the door, eyes moving shiftily around before he laughs and tells himself to be stupid. He turns the corner and is met with the lift, presses the button.
But before he even can even make it inside he feels an arm round his neck and a palm covering his mouth out of nowhere.
He gasps and struggles against the other man, feels like his chest is going to explode as his throat is constricted more and more.
“Not a sound.”
A rough, rasping voice against his ear, a mumble but just then everything fades to black and he collapses into the body behind him.
*
Its dark in the small room. A man sits in the corner flicking his newspaper absentmindedly, and rolling a few bullets playfully in the palm of his hand. The light catches in his hair, golden blonde and almost casting a glow over the room.
Xabi’s eyes are blurry when he first open them and there’s a dull throbbing sensation in the back of his head. He groans, the dim light in the room doing nothing to calm his headache. And the damp, musty smell makes his stomach lurch violently again. When he leans forward to quell the sensation he finds, he can’t.
Looks down to see thick, heavy knots tying his ankles to the chair, the same with his wrists.
He groans and that finally gets the attention of the other man, who appears to be smiling now.
“Well well. Sleeping beauty awakens.”
Xabi squints at him. Curses the awful light in the room and throws his head back in exhaustion.
“Those fucking drugs are a bitch eh? You should be glad Fabio didn’t hang round and try to fuck you as well. Could have been worse boy.”
The name rings vaguely familiar in Xabi’s partly functioning brain for a few seconds before he remembers the barman and his smile again.
He remembers the drink too and curses loudly into the air, the other man realizes his thoughts as he himself is looking rather smug.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach not too accept gifts from strangers?”
Xabi breathes deeply through his nostrils, shuts his eyes and whispers to himself to calm down and just. Fuck, what the hell is he doing here?
Panic sets in then, replaces the anger and annoyance rather hastily as Xabi envisions himself being killed. Being beaten to death, shot, stabbed (and shit is that a gun on his belt.)
“I can’t believe this worked out so well Xabi.”
Xabi looks up then, eyes wide and frownlines in his forehead.
“Y-you know my, my name?” His voice sounds foreign, and old when he speaks properly, like it’s not his own.
“Ahh for a long time boy. I know your name, I also know that you are at college yes, you want to be a doctor? Your father he is proud of you, you know? You’re the sensible child, not like Mikel because really how was football going to get him anywhere. Cecilia she loved you and your brother equally though; always knew both of you would do her proud. It’s a shame the last few years of her life, she didn’t spend more time with you boys though.”
“Who the fuck are you?!”
Xabi can’t stop it now, the frustration and anger coming in waves. How the hell does he know all this?
“David Beckham. And I know everything yes Xabi incase your wondering.” He smiles patronizingly and Xabi really wishes he would stop calling him boy.
“I know that you live in lovely house in Barcelona, it is rather stunning. Nice view overlooking the sea though that dog of yours; never shuts it mouth. I know what your father does for living,” Beckham stops there smirks and lets his head drop to the ground as though sharing a private joke with himself, “and I know every single one of his workmates.”
“Fuck off.”
David shrugs and continues to pace the room before settling himself on the stool directly facing Xabi at the other end of the room, a stand off.
“Xabi. The people around you, are not who you think they are.”
He refuses to look at him now, or take him seriously because now its like something out of one of those ridiculous thriller films.
“Ramos. Your ‘security guard’? He works with me. Inside his jacket there is a gun there, 24/7. One of the best undercover agents we have, and hasn’t he just proved it. How many years he been following you around like a puppy Xabi, four. Five?”
“And Torres?” Xabi’s throat is dry now as his mind searches frantically to anything he could have told them.
“Ah no. He’s just some pretty blonde boy, who actually is a security guard. Christ he’s easy to persuade though, you heard him and Sergio at it?”
“Your spy is shagging my security guard now as part of the plan?”
“Of course. Couldn’t have him attempting to foil me.”
The room is quiet again, and the gentle clink of the bullets rolling against each other on his skin reverberate throughout it every few seconds.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, that is up to you. Though you are very stupid if you choose to ignore me.”
“It’s a pile of shit…”
Beckham’s fists slam on the table in front of Xabi, startling him.
“Pile of shit eh? You don’t know how deep you are in all this. Its serious business Xabi; life or death. And if people don’t take it seriously its usually the latter for them.”
Xabi is quiet as he stares into the face of the other man, feels like he can barely speak at all now, his tongue nothing but a heavy lump in his mouth. But he doesn’t need to speak as Beckham starts again.
“Xabi tell me. What does your father actually do at this work of his?” Beckham leans over the table, the light casting dramatic shadows over his face that makes him look almost intimidating.
“You know what he does.”
“No. I’m asking here. What do you think he does?”
Xabi pauses and looks at him strangely, wonders what the fuck this guy is on before focusing back on the table.
“Investments. He has an investment company.”
“You ever been to it? The actually ‘company’ itself I mean. You been inside?”
Xabi shakes his head, shifts in the chair and feels his wrists sting under the still tightly bound ropes.
“You don’t have a clue boy.” David’s tone is denigrating and almost smug, like he is informing a young child that Santa never existed and that the tooth fairy is all a tale.
“Have you met these, ‘workers’ of your fathers before?”
Xabi nods, almost whispers “ some of them ” his throat his dry and he doesn’t like where any of this is heading.
“You honestly think those men sit in offices, at desks all day on computers or working photocopiers or making phone calls like some pathetic little receptionists. That they bring your dad coffee, and spend their time running errands for him.”
David pauses and pushes off the table before pacing around the room and around the desk, an eagle stalking its prey, “you need a reality check Xabi.”
“You see the tall one, bald, well built. Reina; he can kill a man with a few swings of his fist. Bellamy? The fastest most annoying little shit you’ll ever meet … or won’t meet. He gets away before anyone can even catch a glimpse of him.”
Xabi still hasn’t worked it out though his head is spinning and he suddenly feels nauseous.
“These men are assassins Xabi. Some of the best in the world. Their leader; fucking Gerrard, there’s an army back in Madrid baying for his head on a plate,” he’s stopped now, behind Xabi leaning over his shoulder; voice rasping like sandpaper in his ear, “you’ve been lied to since the day you were put on this earth Xabi. And it weren’t for me; you would have died with nothing but deceit in your head.”
It feels like there a weight of lead in his stomach now, like his heart has stopped and his head is practically a whirlpool of thoughts now, the throbbing sensation is ten times worse now.
“My father. He is, he is the boss of all this?” He sounds like a kid, a toddler. His voice quakes though he won’t cry, can’t cry.
“Yep. One of the best in the business. There’s so much more I could tell you Xabi, stories that would make your blood run cold. I won’t though.”
They stay in silence for what could be hours, days, weeks. It doesn’t matter anymore. Because he’s been living a lie; his existence is one big fucking lie. Xabi kicks at the chair, screams then, fuck if his hands were free there’d be an imprint of his knuckles on the wall.
And Beckham sits there in the corner, focuses on the few spare bits of newspaper discarded across the desk. Runs his fingers over the cool, glistening metal of the gun.
He calms down eventually, stops, his wrists red from the friction of pulling at the rope, his bottom lip imprinted with teeth marks and his teeth stained with his own blood. And all he can ask;
“Who are you?”
He realizes he hasn’t even asked it yet not properly; never thought the need to ask it to anyone, that people were just people and there was no inexplicable back story, no sheet of lies that covered their bodies and their lives. His father was just a rich man who worked up north in his investment business; who no-one knew and no-one had any need to know.
He didn’t realize there could be people after him; after his family. Family. He thinks of his mother’s death, wonders if all this has anything to do with it.
“Who the hell are you?”
David stands up and circles the table again, runs his fingers across Xabi’s shoulder blades and stops dead behind him, both palms pressed onto his upper-arms.
“I told you my name.”
“That means nothing anymore.”
He can practically hear Beckham smirking now.
“Beckham. Manchester. I work for the Bernabeu in Madrid; we do the same as your father at Anfield. We’ve been after him for years.”
Xabi nods; that’s understandable. There had to be someone back home who knew about this; the entirety of Spain wasn’t oblivious to the fact that his father was a murderer; a killer.
“I’m out of contract there now,” his voice is softer now, like he genuinely cares about what he is saying, “just working there till everything is ready for the move in June. Heading to America with my family; new life, new start. They’re too young, too precious for all this shit. My wife doesn’t need this, nor do my sons.”
Xabi isn’t sure if he’s actually listening anymore, head bowed over the table and he’s so tired. Emotionally worn out. His brain vaguely registers the words being spoken and he nods to be polite; (as if his manners actually mean anything now.)
“You have family Xabi?”
Xabi looks up in disbelief and it actually looks like he cares (tells himself that this man is an assassin that he’s trained to be able to act.)
“No.”
“Wife?”
“No”
“Girlfriend? Boyf..”
“I have nothing.” Xabi finishes without flinching.
“I have money and I have a nice house. I have a girl who comes to my house a few times a week for sex and she sometimes chooses to call herself my girlfriend. I have a housekeeper and I have a dog. I have nothing, nobody.”
Beckham looks weak now, doesn’t know what to say. He hears the stories of his kind of business of the things that can happen to the people who dare to delve in it; discovers that this man in front of him is living proof of those horror stories.
“My brother is gone. My mother also. My father.” He pauses. “I do not even know him anymore. I never really did.”
Beckham pulls a chair up to the table, sits down on it and across from the dishelleved, pathetic looking person in front of him.
“Do you know what happened my family?”
David gulps; oh he knows. He knows. Can replay the entire event in his head. Theres a barricade built into his brain; each and every killing goes behind it. Locked away and they are not mentioned again. After he and his partner return from one his boss asks one question.
“Done?”
And if it is they will nod and it will be shut away and never spoken of again, the details imprinted on white paper in his boss’ storage room that no one ever sees.
If it is not; they become another mark on their boss’ soul and another one of those pages, another used bullet of his and another vanishing person who is never heard of again.
But here Xabi sits in front of him, and he’s never seen a man so broken before in all his life. Even those he’s killed, on their knees in front of him, tears running down their cheeks and their sobs, their pleading begging sobs filling the air, can’t make him feel like this.
“I’m sorry.” Is all Beckham can say.
(He curses himself inside. Tells himself this is your fucking job get over it. Has learnt you can’t have feelins after a killing, that after a while the feel of the money in your pocket or the large figure in your bank account out weighs it all.
[ He’ll think of these feelings and ways almost ten years later - will realize the monster he was. ] )
“You killed them?”
He is amazed the boy has not broke down into fits of tears yet, doesn’t know how he’s still hanging on (though that’s what he is, hanging on for dear life.)
Beckham shakes his head.
“It wasn’t me.”
“But you know who did?”
Silence.
“I need to know.”
He does, he needs it more than anything because for everything else in his life Xabi has closure. Apart from this. He used to think he didn’t need it; he said goodbye to his mother and his brother and that was it. And he never let love in again, it were as though someone froze his heart that night in the morgue. And Xabi changed; don’t let anyone close enough to hurt you.
There and then though, it was like the ice was melting away. Slowly, yes but still disappearing nonetheless.
David takes a deep breath, inhales slowly before he begins.
“It was another plan to capture Rafael. You know what they say; the way to hurt a man most is by hurting those who mean the most to him.
We went to the house…”
“We?” Xabi grits his teeth, “you said you didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t, but I was there. Care to let me finish?”
And Xabi goes back to looking blank.
“We went to your house. And went inside. But we could only find his wife and a son.” Beckham looks up to see Xabi nodding mournfully to himself eyes blank and wide.
“We never intended on killing; just a threat. A bluff if you will to scare him. But. We didn’t get there in time. Someone beat us too it.”
Xabi’s bottom lip is quivering now, as though he’s trying to replay it as a sort of horror film in his mind.
“I heard the gun shots from the car. We know who they are but..”
Beckham stops then. Finishes if you will. Xabi’s breathing has quickened and David feels like reaching over and untying his wrists; to take his hand in his own and squeeze it. For some form or reassurance that not all is bad in the world; which he apparently thinks it is now.
“How can you live like that? Just taking lives. Snatching brothers and fathers and mothers and sisters and god knows what else from families. Loved ones. How?”
“You learn to live with it after a while.”
Xabi shakes his head in disbelief.
“Yeh. You do. You never stop to think about the other people who have to live with it? About the children growing up without parents, the men and women who have no brother or sister to lean on.”
Beckham slaps his fist off the table, grits his teeth and hisses at the other man.
“I can’t Xabi. If I did do you honestly think I could live with myself, if I thought about that stuff I wouldn’t have lasted a week in that place.”
He stands up abruptly, chair clanging off the floor as he does so.
“Who else does this? There must hundreds of you scattered everywhere.”
Beckham shakes his head.
“Theres the Bernabeu in Madrid, Capello is head there. Nothing goes wrong under him; we haven’t fucked up a single killing in 4 years.
Anfield, your father runs that up north.
And the newest set up, haven’t been around as long as the other two.”
David gulps, leans on the windowsill and looks out at the cold city night.
“They’re run by Mourinho and Abramovich. They’ve been negotiating with the Bernabeu for months now, working in coalition.”
He winks then; “I’m not supposed to know that but.” He presses a finger to his lips and Xabi turns away in disgust.
“Dirty bastards they are. Gruesome, needless killings most of them. They’re the ones who...”
“Killed my family?”
Beckham nods. Pauses; can’t work out why he’s telling this man so much, revealing so much of his soul. He hasn’t done that for anyone except maybe his wife. Ever
“You learn to trust no one in this business Xabi. Everyone has a devil inside them, just waiting to be set free.”
“Why are you telling me all this? Someone would think maybe you trust me?”
David doesn’t answer, presses his forehead instead against the cool glass, to soothe his headache.
“Why did they send you here to do this mission? Why are they sending you on any mission if you are out of contract?”
Beckham smirks as he turns to sit on the sill.
“Obviously my boss; he trusts me.” Laughs at himself a little. “ I have been in this business a long time, he says he needs my experience. The only ones more important than me are; doing other things tonight. Bigger things.” He glances warily at Xabi who doesn’t see the look he’s been thrown.
“I really need to have a talk with my father after this.” Xabi states the obvious.
(Beckham finds it strange that this man is still talking about the future. Not many in the hands on an assassin would dare.
His stomach twists every so slightly when he hears him mention his father though. Finds it strange that a boy as smart as this has yet to ask the vital question, the million dollar one.
“What do you want with me?”
Probably thinks this is just what the killing of his mother and brothers was; a ploy to get Rafael to surrender.
No. No it isn’t. The attitude at the Bernabeu is not forgiving; if they won’t join you. Then dispose of them. )
Almost eerily his phone rings then, stark and loud in the cold silence of the room. Beckham breathes heavily and takes it from his pocket. Hears the rasping voice of Casillas through the speaker.
“Done.” Before he hears nothing but the drone of the beep telling of the end of the call. The end of a life.
He nods to himself, realizes his work is done. Over.
He lifts the knife on the table and Xabi backs up into the chair like a reflex.
“Wh-what the fuck are you doing?”
He struggles against the ties now, but all Beckham does surprises him. He leans down on his haunches and cuts the ropes from his ankles, slowly and soundly so they do not injure him.
Xabi gasps from relief as he feels the burning sensation left behind, the freedom.
He feels his right hand snap free then his left before Beckham pulls him up. He doesn’t give him time to react though, turns them around and pushes David against the wall. He’s stronger than he looks, though David doesn’t put up a fight, not really.
“You bastard. You think you can do all this and get away with,” pushes him into the concrete for added effect.
“I’ll have my dad and all those thugs in Merseyside on you before you can say a word.”
“No. You won’t.”
Xabi pauses, swallows and realizes his throat feels like dry and rough like paper.
“What?” he croaks.
“He’s dead Xabi.”
Xabi’s jaw falls open slightly, and his grip in the other mans shirt goes slack but Beckham doesn’t move from where he is held against the wall.
“That’s why you’ve been here. That’s why I’ve been keeping you here, a distraction. Two of Mourinho and Capello’s assassins moved in tonight. He’s gone.”
Xabi keeps David pressed there, presses his head into the older man’s shoulder and Beckham half expects to feel damp there. To feel the tears from his eyes splash on his shirt, to feel it against his skin.
He doesn’t though. He hears the ragged breathing, expects to be let go then. To turn around and see Xabi collapsed in heap on the floor. Underestimates this boy.
The hand tightens in his shirt again.
“You fucking murdering bastard.” A hiss against his neck. “You. Will pay for this.”
He feels hands at the waist of his trousers, tugging them down and smirks to himself.
“Horny twat,” a mutter under his breath.
“I didn’t say you could speak.”
“Come on then. If you want it so much; just need to have me. You want me to beg for it?”
Xabi pushes him harder into the wall so that his head practically bounces off it.
He almost doesn’t realize what’s happening, the spinning sensation in his head blurring everything. He winces, tries to grip the wall before he realizes what caused the pain; Xabi penetrating him.
“Fucker.” Another hiss against his neck as he fucks him hard against the wall and David doesn’t flinch during it. Doesn’t make a sound. Listens to the worn out, loud breathing from behind him and he finds himself feeling sorry him, feeling sorry for this pathetic attempt at releasing anger and frustration and bitterness.
“Is this really what will make you feel better?” he asks smugly, half grinning as he feels Xabi come inside him with a low moan.
He doesn’t answer at first, clenches his fist tighter into the clothing as he tries to quell the shuddering in his body, the blush rising to his cheeks and he’s embarrassed now as Beckham chuckles at the sharp sound a zip being tugged.
“Not even slightly.” And then Beckham hears something that makes his blood run cold. A cold sweat break out on his back and his brow and Xabi must be able to hear his heart thumping in his chest now.
The click of a gun, he feels the cold metal pressed against his neck, just below his hairline.
“This might.”
“Xabi. I didn’t kill him. Please.” And he can’t believe he actually is begging now, because this has never happened before. It drifts through his mind vaguely that Xabi is doing now what every wife, and husband, and son who’s lives he’s destroyed over the past years. Very rarely does someone at the Bernabeu get the tables turned on them. And when they do…, “ I didn’t take your family from you.”
Xabi presses into him, mouth right beside his ear.
“You are going to help me.”
Beckham frowns, pants out heavily in his deluded state.
“What?”
“We are getting a train. North. And you; are going to help me. Help me take out those bastards that did this.”
“Xabi I. I can’t. My boss he could…”
“Do absolutely nothing; you’re not under contract.”
Beckham curses under his breath, clearly needs to think before he speaks from now on.
“ I have the men up North; they listened to my father they will listen to me. And so will you if you want to make it to America with your family.” Xabi pauses, enjoys how the situation has reversed itself. Has never has this type of power over anyone before, despite the circumstances he enjoys it a little more than he ought to. “If you don’t. These bullets can quite easily take up residence in your neck.”
He pulls David away from the wall, watches him stumble to the ground before standing back up. He brushes himself off and grabs his hat from the table before heading for the door.
“Where are you going?”
Beckham winks and unlocks the door.
“Well. Better get started before you blow my fucking brains out.”
Xabi shoots him a stern look before cutting in front of him and down the stairs, manages to find his way to the door without the other man’s assistance.
He emerges onto the street, its blustery and the rain is nothing but a grey drizzle. Xabi frowns and looks around him, shoves his hands into his pockets. David pulls up beside him, smirking.
“We’re not in London are we?”
Beckham makes his way on up the street, an indication for Xabi to follow.
“No.” He stops and turns to look at him, a proper sneer gracing his features now, “ Liverpool, Merseyside.”