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Wilson should’ve killed Lee. he should’ve put a bullet through his brain when he’s meant to, not lowered the gun and reconsidered, not realised that Lee's a valuable asset who shouldn’t be wasted. Wilson is reminded of this every time Lee does anything, when he’s smiling, when he’s carrying out orders, when he’s sitting on the office couch with his feet on a table because he’s an asshole with no respect for anyone or anything.
he fucked up by not killing him. he let Lee in. he’s embedded under Wilson's skin, like a botfly or a splinter. he hates Lee so much. he hates him — so much. he tried killing him again once. put a gun to Lee's temple. he’d not moved an inch, not flinched,
and Wilson hated that, hated the way Lee made him prone to explosions of anger that he wasn’t used to, but he was angry anyway, and in the next moments he attacked Lee, putting him flat on his back,
(and Wilson tried not to be conscious that Lee let him do that, that in a fair fight there’s no way he could take Lee, not even with one arm down, he’s all wiry strength and apathy)
and put the muzzle of the gun in Lee's mouth. Lee had smiled around it with bloody teeth. a long, charged moment, and then Lee had put his lips around it, stretched against grey metal, eyes dark and empty and amused even when he watched Wilson put his finger on the trigger.
“ — you okay, boss?”
Wilson startles out his reverie, (if it can be called that. what’s the nightmare version of a reverie?) and looks Lee over, where he’s stood smoking by the window of the room, two fingers pressed either side of the cigarette filter as he takes a long drag from it.
Wilson's brow furrows. he watches Lee tap the ash into a cup on the windowsill, notices the slight, hitching way Lee breathes sometimes. Lee told him once, they had to remove a lobe from the lung Wilson shot. he’d explained that with Wilson's hands all over the scars on his ribs.
“i’m fine,” he says, and Lee raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t believe him, which is annoying. Wilson splays his hands irritably. “why do you do that?”
“do what?” a long exhale of smoke out of his nostrils. Lee is so like a dragon, sometimes, which is essentially and appropriately his job: to be the beast at the door.
“muck around with me. you.. ripped my eye out, killed my dad, you’ve hit me, i’ve tried to kill you,” as Wilson speaks, Lee drops his cigarette into the cup and starts walking over, coming around to his side of the desk, they’ve had this conversation before and Wilson falters, can tell it’s already about to end by the way Lee is looking at him, “you’re always an arse, you’re always - belittling me — “
Lee bends down to him and says, “it’s cos i like you, skipper” and he kisses Wilson, and it’s so on the edge of sweet, tender, it makes something uncomfortable and hot coil in Wilson's stomach that only gets worse when Lee's teeth come out, scraping and nipping against Wilson's lip.
Wilson's flustered and pissed already and he pushes Lee back off him. “that’s not how it works.”
Lee's expression is placid as always. “it is for us.”
it’s not. it is, but it’s not. Lee doesn’t like Wilson.
Wilson's not sure he likes anyone, not sure he knows how to like people unless he can treat them like objects, and he definitely likes objects more than people, he’s attached to his car, his bag, his cigarettes, his tools, his collection of plastic lighters in various, bright colours, all half-empty.
he says as much. “you don’t like me. you just like messing with me.”
the look that crosses Lee's face could be something like hurt, but Lee doesn’t feel stuff like that. not in the same way as other people. he feels stuff all like it’s under a wet blanket, muted, low, unimportant. everything that should make him angry just makes him annoyed.
( Wilson knows Lee has only gotten really angry exactly once. Lee's anger was why Wilson's father died so horribly. it wasn’t necessary to shoot him so much. Wilson's never figured out how to carry that, the awareness that he was the one who pissed him off so much in the first place )
Lee shrugs, leans in. Wilson manages to dodge the kiss this time but instead Lee just says, “does it matter which?” he sighs, a pretty little sigh, "must be something with all the ways i let you fuck me."
Wilson has to look away. he can’t think straight when Lee says stuff like that. his head gets clouded so easily and in one breath to the next he doesn’t know if he’s angry or aroused, although the both get muddied up together, Wilson remembers, when he catches sight of a bruise across Lee's wrist that he put there.
Lee is effective at riling him up, that’s for certain.
Lee sighs again, as if exhausted by Wilson's complaints. that pisses Wilson off. he knows it’s the reaction that Lee wants, too, which just makes him angrier. “you know you can have me any way you want, right, Wilson?”
“shut up,” Wilson says, and he pushes his chair back, standing up. he’s so much shorter than Lee, so it doesn’t right the imbalance between them, but it makes him feel better, knowing he can put distance between them. he hates Lee's propensity for making him feel like a trapped animal.
“we could do it on the desk again,” Lee suggests, accompanies that by leaning against it, crosses his legs at the ankle, one yellow trouser leg riding up to show off his bright purple socks. “you could touch all the scars you gave me. know you like doing that. you get off on it, thinking about what you did to me.”
“i don’t.” Wilson doesn’t. he’s so sure of it. he just gets off — — he likes the silver-pink skin and the way Lee breathes differently when Wilson touches them. doesn’t he? that’s it.
“it’s okay,” Lee says, eyebrows up, eyes wide, the very picture of false innocence. “sometimes i get hard thinking about all the scars i’ve given you.”
Wilson could choke on sentences like that. they stick in his throat. he takes his hat off, wrings the edge of it in his hands, but all that does is remind him of the times he’s really lost control, the time that he put his hands around Lee's neck.
Wilson doesn’t know if Lee really gets off on stuff like that. the violence. or even the sex. he’s weirdly nonsexual, somehow, like he doesn’t really care at all — sometimes he gets Wilson off but never bothers with himself, like somehow it’s enough just to do that, like maybe the whole thing is just a game to see what he can make Wilson do, that any time he comes is just a bonus.
Wilson is tired of not being in control here. he inhales, feels the thump thump of his heart against his ribcage, but he’s — he’s calmer than he usually is, and he says, “any way i want?”
Lee looks the tiniest bit interested at that, lips curving into a smile. “any way at all.”
“right.” Wilson nods. nods again, as if to really convince himself. “turn around. put your hands on the desk.” Lee does as he’s bid, turning, put his palms flat on the desk. he bends over a little. Wilson steps over to him, take his hip in one hand and pushes the other at Lee's back; forcing him to bend over, chest parallel to the desk.
Wilson hesitates. Lee's compliance always fucks him up. some days Lee fights him on things just to screw with him. some days he’s too compliant, begging, and Wilson hates that even more. no matter what Lee does though, it gets to Wilson, gets him hard.
like now. he closes the last gap between them, hands curling around Lee's hips, pressing his crotch up against Lee's ass; he feels ridiculous when he rolls his hips against him, but he’s been half hard for a while now, and it feels good, so he does it again, a poor imitation of how he’d actually fuck Lee.
“you don’t have to finger me,” Lee says, breaking the silence he’d clearly been using to just wait and see what Wilson would do. “i figure it just takes time away from you, y’know, having to do that. i’m already nice and open for you, skips. did that to myself earlier. all for you."
the thought of Lee fingering himself open and thinking about Wilson affects him in a way he doesn’t want to think about. his fingers tighten on Lee's hips. “shut up. shut up.” Wilson mulls over his options. “what if i wanted to come inside you?”
Lee hums, wriggles his ass back against Wilson. “whatever you want, Wilson. promise. you wanna come inside me? fill me up?”
“shut up,”
“wanna see your come dripping down my legs? bet you’d like that.”
Wilson doesn’t even dignify that with a retort. he reaches around, undoing Lee's belt and zipper and then tugging his trousers and underwear down, unceremonious, unkind, pushing his shirt up at the back so he can see the bottom half of the scars from the bullet’s exit out of his back.
he kicks a foot between Lee's legs, forcing them further apart. Wilson's still trying so hard to be in control, even as he undoes his own trousers, taking his cock in hand and pushing bare inside Lee with a low, satisfied groan. he really did stretch himself, and it doesn’t bear thinking about, imagining Lee doing that, and he pushes his hips hard against him, until he’s all the way inside.
Lee groans, arches his ass back against Wilson. “s’it, boss,” he moans, like he’s drunk on how it feels, having Wilson inside him. “that’s right.”
it sounds like encouragement, but it feels more like Wilson's played right into Lee's hands, but he’s already here, and he can’t stop now, he’s so incapable of stopping when it comes to Lee, starts fucking him in earnest, unable to stopper up his short, breathless groans, holding onto Lee's hips for the leverage he needs.
he hates Lee. he hates that Lee took his eye and killed his father and he hates the way Lee offers up his body and how Wilson takes it every time. he hates how good it feels, fucking Lee hard against the desk like this, and he bends against him, moving his hands to push one against the back of Lee's neck, holding his face down against the desk.
Wilson's going to come inside him. he was — he was going to try not to, that crossed his mind, after the things Lee said, but he wants those things, yeah, he wants to mark Lee's insides.
“fuck me harder,” Lee whimpers, his voice changed, clearly being put on to up Wilson's blood. it works. of course it fucking works. it’s like with Lee, anything is permissible. nothing is off the table, not even the things Wilson thinks are gross.
he comes thinking about that, with a sharp slam of his hips and a long, stuttering moan, pressing his fingers harder against Lee's skin. in between breaths he thinks oh god, he really just did that, he came inside Lee, and that’s — that’s fucked up, isn’t it, that’s disgusting, and Wilson twitches his hips in the ghost of a thrust, another cry strangled out of him.
he pulls out and — he refuses to look. Wilson can’t watch that. he pushes a hand against the small of Lee's back, says, “stay there” and takes steps away from the desk entirely, shame crawling across his skin already as he pulls his clothes back together.
“clean yourself up,” Wilson says, and he can’t bring himself to look over his shoulder, afraid of what he might see, like he might really see his come running down Lee's thighs, or something worse, like Lee getting himself off, even though he doesn’t know — he doesn’t think Lee's ever done that, but he doesn’t know.
Wilson scrubs his hand across his forehead. he doesn’t recognise the person Lee makes him into. behind him, he hears Lee, speaking with his regular pitch and intonation again.
“aye aye, skipper."