Disclaimer: Nip/Tuck is property of FX and all realted enterprises. The characters are not mine, I just play with them and put them back no worse for the wear.
A/N: For Marisa, who wanted a piece of Sean/Christian goodness. You rock.
Sean is a four letter word. Like "fuck". Or "shit". Or anything else that Christian had said to you a few hours ago for that matter, because then it seemed like four letter words were all that he knew. You knew otherwise, because he's sweet-talked many a client into an extra facelift and many a woman into his bed, but you were surprised at how little he had to say to you. Oh, God, it was wrong. He had just fucked up your entire life by sleeping with your wife seventeen years ago, and it was so fitting that his should be fucked up just as well. But as your mind turned numb and black, he reached out for you and held you and didn't let go, and you didn't let go either because he seemed to be all that you had and and you couldn't let that die.
You don't drink much, but for some reason you went to that little bar downtown with dusty lighting and the alluring neon calling your name in the shape of a blue "Happy Hour". It wasn't much, just a few sips of a gin and tonic in your hand while the man three seats down lit his fourth or fifth cigarette (you wouldn't have noticed, had he not reminded you of how Christian held himself), but you were trembling a little, your wedding ring clinking against the glass in a sharp ping. You didn't notice when the bartender smiled at you, his old face crinkling around his mouth in a sad sort of grin that people make when they tell a joke to lighten up a bad mood. He leaned over the bar, resting his head in his hand and his elbow on the smooth marble, and asked you why your glass was shaking so much, like a scared puppy or a nervous child.
You smiled the same smile that he was, a tragic smile topped with your eyes lowering and your finger circling the top of your cup (like Christian's fingers followed the outline of your lips only hours before), and told him the truth. You weren't sure who you were anymore. You were a surgeon who could wield a scalpel with a steady hand but not a drink without shaking. You were a man who kissed his wife goodbye and then kissed the father of the boy he thought was his son because, Jesus, your world was crumbling at your feet and there wasn't much else you could do. The truth was, you were just waiting for this loneliness to end because, you see, mister, this gin and tonic will only comfort you for just a little while.
That little man with a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand listened as you told him how you wanted with everything you had to hate Christian for all that he did to you. He fucked your wife (maybe like he fucked you, but you weren't about to ask Julia) and fathered your son, he has nearly demolished your business with his manwhore antics more times than you can count, and he apologized to you in mumbled words as his mouth was at your ear and his hands were at your belt. And, you didn't understand why and it fucked with your head because you didn't, you forgave him. You forgave him for everything. That was odd, though, because "sorry" was just one letter too much.
You weren't sure how you got there, but that was his door and you were standing in front of it like it was your own. You knocked once, and the door opened slowly as if someone had been standing there waiting for you to arrive. Maybe they had. He stood there in a dress shirt and pants, slightly disheveled and eyes a little red. You knew he could smell the alcohol on your breath and the smoke on your clothes, because, God knows, he's been there. One word escaped his lips, slipping out in a brief staccato and forcing itself on you.
"Sean."
Four letters, and you were in his arms again.