Chapter Text
Little Shit had not been lying when he’d bragged to have been the one to send Moran jobs. Since the hanger incident his profile had been spammed shamelessly, demanding he’d make good on his dinner offer. Moran had not thought the man would assume he would be the one to set up the dinner, but whatever. He’d picked a local pub, hoping to ruffle the posh priss’ feather with his best shot at baselessly common. And if the pub was nice and tortuous enough not to allow the other to pull the marksman’s card to keep him in check, so what?
That’s how he found himself waiting for the little terror, sitting in a comfortable nook of the pub, nursing a drink. As minutes ticked by, he started wondering if the crazed thing had left him hanging, when someone drew a chair and sat down casually.
Moran’s eyes widened up slightly and he froze in his motion to knock back his drink. How the hell could that be…
“Out of all the places you could have picked,” the memorable voice sneered, “you chose this?”
He really, really did not look like the stick in the arse man he had left in a messed-up suit in a dark hangar. Moran swallowed awkwardly. It was the little terror all right, but he was clad in tight jeans and a soft leather jacket, a tank top framing his chest. He looked, normal, verging on fragile with his wrist bandaged up to alleviate the sprain. Shit.
--
Oh fuck Mary 'n all the saints, that was absolutely not fair. Slimy little asshole peeled himself out of a suit and slithered into whatever disguise this was because there was no way in hell that piece of shit naturally wore this kinda look. That was almost Sebastian's type of look, like the fucker had camouflaged himself. Hell, he was kinda matching him now, though his style was a bit gruffer. Worn leather jacket, an old band tee, torn jeans, his combat boots (with a switchblade tucked into each). His tags, of course. But Little Shite looked like he wore that kinda stuff every day, which was ridiculous.
Even worse, he looked good.
Oh, mine eyes and heart are at a mortal war/ how to divide the conquest of thy sight… The sonnet’s lines flitted through his head as he ran a slow, appreciative gaze over Little Shite. Casual clothes. Damn. Bet he’d look even better with nothing. Oops, no, bad thoughts, not in the pub. Nope nope. Down, Moran. With a cool gaze, he downed the rest of his drink and motioned to the waitress (a young blonde, she'd been eyeing him all night and had been quick on keeping his cup filled. Maybe he'd take'er home after, depending on his luck. Depending on whether the devil let him leave alone). "And whatever my friend wants, sweetheart. Throw it on my tab." She was quick on her toes and brought him another, giving him a broad smile and a shake of her head when he winked at her, the smile and the flirt as natural as breathing.
"If you wanted a better place, shoulda picked one yourself." Sebastian shrugged, scanning the room as he did. No one had come in acting sus, at least not since he'd arrived, so unless Little Shite had some really good actors for friends, they were proper alone. "I'm a bit surprised you even showed, Little Shite. Must really want more of me." The dip in his voice implied that he didn't just mean work, and if Sebastian was honest with himself... yeah, okay. So he had a thing for danger and his self-destructive behaviors made him make plenty of bad decisions.
But goddamn, this nasty little fucker would be the best bad decision ever.
--
His eyes followed the waitress too Moran noted, but there was a kind of vacuity to it. The kind of face one makes when noticing an insect acting up strangely in front of him. Oddly enough, it didn’t give out a pedantic feeling. He wasn’t looking down on her… He just looked a little lost in his own thoughts.
He swirled his whiskey slowly, obviously careful of his injured wrist (-left handed, Moran registered-). The outfit, and probably the ambiance gave him a much younger appearance than back in the hangar.
“Don’t get mistaken, I’d have you fuck me raw on this table,” he deadpanned, voice edging on regretful, “but I would hardly have bothered with a formal introduction if that’d be enough to satisfy me. I want a little more from you.” He pulled a face and downed his drink, licking his lips for the sheen of alcohol hanging there. “You really need to stop calling me that though. Point for you, it riles me up, you win.” His right hand twitched, showing that the manic energy from before was probably just running right beneath his skin, only barely contained under the calm and tranquil surface. “I’d really hate to lose my shit at you for something so stupid.” And he sounded truthful.
“But that’s my fault after all. No name, pet name, fair game.” He sassed, tuning his voice up and down in a mock musical display. “My name is Moriarty. Jim Moriarty.” His eyebrow shot up. “If you laugh, I will hang you with your own guts, Mr. Moran.”
--
Oh come on, don't just say something like that... Jesus fuck, the goddamn little fucker'll end up on the table anyway if he kept talkin' like that. "Trust me," he drawled, leaning back in the chair and running his fingers around the rim of his glass, "I'd definitely be 'nough to satisfy you. Have to pass on that though. Don't get me wrong, you're totally my type, love that mad dog thing you got goin' on. But I don't think you'd be worth the trouble." Sebastian used to have two very specific rules that would have applied to this case. Rule One: Don't stick your dick in crazy. He'd broken that after a fucking fantastic week of leave with a crazy dominatrix bitch in Surat... Rule Two: Don't fuck the assholes who own you. And then he'd banged like three different superior officers and kinda tossed that rule too.
It wasn't that he thought Little S-- Jim, he corrected in his head, would be a bad lay or anything; rather the opposite. Crazy like that came once in a blue moon and it ripped your back to shreds and broke your bones. Sebastian would kill for that, but... the man reeked of trouble. The kinda shit that'd fuck his life up more than it already was, and honestly? While the accent and the attitude was really doing it for him, the threat of having to continue to deal with that was a turn-off. He didn't think either of them would be too happy with a one night stand, and he'd be damned if he jumped into that bed twice.
Sebastian shrugged, grabbing his glass and draining half of it. "Can't help it, you're fun. Wind'em up and watch ‘em go. I'd get used to it, best and worst part about having me around is my mouth." In every sense. The whole, 'can totally control his gag reflex' and 'never thinks before speaking' kinda go hand in hand. His mouth has gotten him into more trouble than he can count, and out of just as much trouble.
If before hadn't been 'losing his shit' then he really wanted to see this guy snap. Kinda a bad thing to say though, he loved to poke buttons and this guy was a goddamn remote with everything he could jab at. Sebastian just wanted to watch those eyes glow and see him twitch more. Jesus, maybe he needed to go to therapy or something, that kind of death wish couldn't be healthy. "Moran. Or Sebastian, don't care. None of that 'Mister' bullshit though, I might have blue blood but the only time I'll take somethin' in front of my name is if you're calling me Colonel," Sebastian poked his tongue between his teeth, a teasing, charming grin. "Or Sir."
"Jim," He said, rolling the name on his tongue. He leaned towards the table, stretching a hand out. "Pleasure to meet you. Love your knife work, by the way."
--
Jim blinked owlishly in surprise, before registering the hand and taking it. The hesitation had been discrete, but enough for Moran to notice. There was a kind of difficult contrast to pin in Jim’s behavior. He reeked of sex and contact and yet simple moves like that threw him off slightly.
Then the little man kind of lost it a little. His face shifted from disbelief to amusement to nervous glee and round again. It gave a couple of loops before collecting himself enough to speak.
“You’ve no idea who I am, am I right?” He paused to look at him. “How can you have been going around the underworld and still be so clueless?” It was an honest question, without a hint of being berating. Just honest flabbergastement.
He cracked his neck to the side, a nervous move, before continuing.
“Well, this is embarrassing. It’s been ages since I had to introduce myself and it’s become hard not to make it sound like I’m boasting. I’d tell you to make your research but weeeelll.” He scrunched his nose in distaste at the perspective of any more delay.
“Long story short, I make sure trouble happens. Quality trouble.” He pinned his gaze on Moran, apparently done with the fidgeting. “When someone needs to poke the hornet nest, they call me. I spin things up to bring down the big ones. I craft high-end trouble. The kind of jobs I take, Sebastian,” he forced mischievously the pronunciation out, making it sound ridiculously pompous, “I can promise are exactly your speed.” He finished, darting a tongue against his lips unconsciously.
He leaned toward Sebastian, a kind of excitement wrapping his whole frame. It was ludicrously alike to a kid meeting a pale he really, really wanted to play with.
“So yes, I am trouble. No way denying it. But I swear,” his eyes darted to Moran’s lips, "I am worth every ounce of it tenfold.”
--
"Yeah, sorry. Kinda new to the whole, 'assassin for hire' deal, kinda fell into the job by accident." His smile is crooked and easy-going, it's clear that the man exudes an obvious 'harmlessness' and natural charisma, one that he's both manipulated and honed over the years. If you never saw him without his clothes, never saw the scrapbook of scars that littered over his body, it would be easy to label him 'big and friendly and sweet'. A tiger perfectly disguised as a sheep. "Really just been making it up as I go along. Glad to see I'm obviously doin' something right, if managed to catch the eye of such a big troublemaker." Sebastian says it with all seriousness, but when he brings his glass up to his lips there's a twinkle of playful teasing in his eyes.
Really, he hadn't come back to London to be a killer. It had happened on accident and things had spiraled from there. An illegal fighting ring, a won bet... A man approaching him afterward saying he'd pay'em a big figure to rough up a guy... And then it had spread, and next thing he knew he'd dipped back into what he was born to do. Not on purpose. Sebastian steadfastly refused to work solely for anyone, because all the plans and strategies Moran had considered since coming back to London? Absolutely none of it included any kind of permanent employment, long-term contracts, or even retainers. He had decided he was done with being at the beck and call of... anyone at all, really.
And yet, there was no denying that steady pulsing call. The world he was made for was almost unlivable London, where it wasn't just necessary or required to kill but natural. A world not without rules, but ones of war and survival, life and death, order and savagery in close proximity. He hadn't realized that he had been born for it.
And he hadn't even been consciously aware of that sense of belonging until it was gone.
Even when he had a straight-laced life in London, when everything started to shift into gear nicely (before all the illegal work), his new life was defined by a sense of... loss. Drifting from what he was used to. From what every fiber of his being was honed to do. Only for the short time between the odd contract and the hit, did a sense of purpose return to him – only for the duration of the stalk, the chase, the eventual kill.
And goddamn, did he want to see what kind of jobs and work this Jim guy could give him. The man was charismatic, in a kind of twitchy, almost-hesitant, totally confident paradox of a way. He made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and made his instincts scream at him to run away. Sebastian really, really wanted to chain him to a bed and keep'im there. "Yeah, I'm kinda gettin' the vibe that you're the kinda mess I love to tangle with. But..." Sebastian leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest. "We're not here to solely talk 'bout what I'd love to do to you." He cocked his head, "You've been watching me, sure you know I don't work for anyone. Why waste your time when you coulda just kept feeding me jobs on the down-low?"
--
"One thing I told you already. Some contracts are fiddly and I can't leak them on the platforms you've been using. It's been a nightmare enough already to make up for some of the biggest security gaps to have those jobs reach out to you without being compromised." There was an evident distaste in his tone.
"Second point..." he signaled a waiter for a drink, "you've attracted attention. From the boring side. The warrant is going to be issued any day now. Had to make my move." He shrugged.
--
“Coulda just asked for my number, darlin’,” Sebastian replies, batting his eyelashes in a playfully flirty manner. “Not my first choice of contact for work, but...” He shrugged, “Like I said, new to the work. Not like they make a ’How to be a contract killer for dummies’ or anythin’. Had to stumble my way around... Although that does bring up a good question, how does your little-” Sebastian wiggled his fingers, ”-thing work? What, you manage the decent hitmen and play the middle man?” Oh, he liked how Jim said his name, like he was tasting every vowel. Fuck.
Oh. A warrant. “They got my name then?” He paused, gnawing at his bottom lip, thinking. So that’s why daddy dearest had been spamming his personal phone. Fuckin’ figures, prolly pissed that he had to clean up another one of his son’s messes. “Real sweet of you to care, but I’m good. Only good part about bein’ a Lord’s son is the obsessive desire to keep the family name outta the muck. It’ll clear up.”
“Though that doesn't answer the question of ‘why me’, though. I mean, yeah. Best shot you’ll ever find, but you read my files. Can't be worth the trouble I bring, can it?”
--
Jim gave him a tiny, frustrated, and theatrical whine.
“Why you? Do I really have to spell it out in for you? I warn you it might get us kicked out for public indecency.” He sassed teasingly before shifting closer and dropping his voice. “You are diamond going around that shithole. Admittedly a bit of a rough one but that’s fine, I like it that way.” His eyes were fixed on him, capturing his attention in a snake-like manner. “You are a crack shot and a first-class close-ranged fighter. You’re smart. For god’s sake, you just reek of competence.” And his body language made it perfectly clear how said competence made him feel. He was so close now, the waitress probably had her hopes for tonight ruined at the sight of them.
“Daddy won’t be able to pull string this time I fear,” he hushed against the shell of his ear, “you’ve attracted the attention of some very important people.” He retracted only minutely, his voice falling back to a more professional tone than the husky dangerousness he’d been skirting. “That’s why I don’t usually go for hired guns. Makes it difficult to tie loose ends.” He paused. “That’s mostly what I do now, ‘play the middle-man’ as you put it. There is a little more than that to it. I organize things, make sure jobs go right. Cover blunders.” He gave a thoughtful pause. “Jobs aren’t necessary assassinations. People come to me and I just get done what they don’t have the guts or brain to do themselves.” He smirked. “In the end, I am just being helpful, you see.”
--
Sebastian had to swallow hard, the brush of hot air against his ear, the husky purr of that voice, dark like velvet, sharp like steel. Oh Jesus Christ he was skirting a huge fuckin’ hole and odds were he was gonna jump in. “Jesus. Sure know how to stroke a guy’s ego.” Please oh please stroke something else too.
“Yeah, okay. I might’ve pissed some big boys off, shoved my boot into their pie. But that’s...” He was losing his thoughts, this damn Jim fellow was so distracting, it should be criminal. Well, he was. Goddamn, stop looking at him like that. “I’m better running solo. Hate listening to people give me shit for orders, been doing it my whole life. So other than this obvious ‘we’re gonna fuck later’ energy we got goin’ on between us, why should I go with you? I've had plenty of offers for full work. Why pick you?” Oh, even without the tension between them (thick enough that Sebastian could barely see through it), he knew he was going to end up at this prick’s beck and call. He had that natural, dominating personality and a sharp slyness that made Sebastian think of sharks and snake and tigers; Moran didn't want to work for anyone. But he was pretty sure if he agreed to anything this guy offered, it wouldn't be working. It'd be serving some sort of sicko fuck’s higher purpose.
“Careful with the touchin’, darlin’.” He warned as Jim leaned back, confident and cool, lust and greed and want burning in those damned black eyes. The waitress wasn't even bothering to flirt with him anymore, keeping it to refilling their drinks and moving on. “I’ve been picked up for public indecency twice before. Rather not make it three times. Least not here, I like this pub.”
--
“Seems like we’ve hit a wall there. My thought is, we adjourn the negotiation. You take a taste of me,” he slithers his body closer black eyes riveted on him, “of my methods and then we get this little discussion finished. What about that, hum?” He closes the distance between them, stopping an inch from crashing their lips together only to tease the soldier’s with the ghost of a brush. “Third time’s the charm they say. Shame for the bar, it wasn't that bad.”
-- They did end up being thrown out. –
Moran had completely lost it the moment the little devil had stopped talking, proving skilled with his tongue in so much more than silver talking. In a half-crazed heated haze, they had ended up at his apartment two blocks away, Jim pliant and coy under him. He’d given the soldier control, letting him lose his mind good and hard. Until he’d wrenched it back. The moment Moran’s attention had been lulled into confidence, the demon had flipped control back to him, clawing his way onto and into Sebastian's chest. He’d make sure to tear apart what little remnant of reserve was still taking dust there. It’d been bloody and messy and everything the tension had built up to. It only ended up with them passing out.
He’d slept like a stone. It’d been ages since he'd slept like that. Not since… Something was shaking him. Instinct kicked in and blocked the (?) arm before reaching for the throat of the other in a vice-like grip.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Protested the (?) little man in a high-pitched voice, both hands raised in surrender above his head. “I hate to interrupt your beauty sleep honey but we’re about to have company sooner than expected so I reeeaally need you to show me the back door.”
--
Okay, Sebastian was going to need to make a new set of rules, because he'd broken like... at least five that he could count. And goddamn, this Jim Moriarty bloke was going to make him break a whole lot more.
Rule One: Never bring'em back to your place. You've got a room full of guns, Moran.
Rule Two: No spending the night, no sleeping together. No attachments.
Rule Three: No repeats.
Rule Four: No numbers, no dates, no contact.
Rule Five: No clients or employers.
Okay, scratch alllllll those rules. Because they were: 1, at his place. 2, had spent the night together. 3, were ABSOLUTELY going to do that again. 4, Jim had his number, and 5, he was totally working for this man. Goddamnit. He really needed to stop trying to make guidelines for his life, because it seemed like every time he had a set of rules to follow so he didn't get in trouble... he broke them immediately. Although some of them weren't solely for him, like the 'no spending the night, no sleeping together' rule. That was to prevent... well, this.
Sebastian let go of the other man's throat, giving a sheepish 'kinda-sorry-but-kinda-your-fault' grin. "Don't touch me when I'm sleepin', lucky you were close enough and I didn't go for the knife." It took way too long to shake off the night of actually decent sleep (when was the last time that happened?) and remember that 'oh, we fucked!' and then shake off the thoughts of, 'oh my god, that thing he did with the--' before realizing the words that came out of Jim's mouth. "Company? You never did say exactly who was after my head, other than you, kitten." Kitten? More like a hellcat, Sebastian was pretty sure a few of those scratches on his chest and back were going to stick around for a while.
He kinda wanted Jim to add more.
"Why, you gonna climb out the 4th story fire escape in nothin' but your pants?" Sebastian smirked, remembering the state that most of their clothes had ended up in. And he had liked those jeans. "Lemme know in advance, I wanna film if you do. Safe to say the flat's burned then. Did you set up a dog house for your tiger to sleep in, or am I gonna need to find somewhere to go after we get outta here?" He wasn't sure which one he preferred. He kinda wanted to have a 'good' morning, kinda wanted to shoot whoever knocked on his door in the face.
Which was unfortunate, because he really didn't get the chance to decide when the sharp knock came from the front door. "Hey," He said, slipping out of the bed and grabbing a pair of discarded lounge pants, sliding them on. "Have you ever been a hostage before?" Sebastian's grin was wide and charming, the tip of his tongue poking between his teeth as he grabbed the gun he kept in the drawer of his nightstand. If he had to ditch the place... well, he liked his guns. But he’d get new ones. The only one he didn't want to leave behind was the sleek, custom Colt M45A1 CQBP.
--
Moriarty threw his head backward, letting out a small whine. He had obviously expected an answer of the sort but had really, really hoped for another. He moved in sync with Sebastian, grabbing and sliding on his half ripped jeans.
"I swear if you don't move your blooming arse faster, the only thing we're going to sleep in for a long while is a dry cell."
The door took a pounding and it became clear the gentlemen on the other side of it were losing patience.
"Punch me in the face." Moriarty spat, in evident regret but determination. At Moran's raised eyebrow he added urgently. "Emergency makeup, blood and bruise, but for god's sake don't break anything."
--
Oh, he was pretty and clever, Sebastian wouldn't have thought about 'emergency makeup'. Yeah, he'd keep this guy around. "Don't have to ask me twice, treacle." Probably shouldn't flirt with the guy as he balled his fist up, but Sebastian flirted like a fish swam. He held back from giving a real blow, just enough to make it obvious, slamming his fist into the corner of Jim's mouth, purposefully missing his teeth (cut knuckles are no joke, and the guy had a killer smile... literally). A strangled curse from Jim, but the side of his lip was split and his jaw already starting to swell.
Aw hell, the man shouldn't look so damn good with blood on his face. Fuck it, life was short and he was hot... Sebastian grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him in for a rough kiss, biting at his split lip as he pulled back with a grin. Tousled bedhead looked a lot like a struggle (which it had been) and Sebastian took his thumb, smearing it across the welling bead of blood, dragging it across his jaw. "There," He said, licking the smear of blood off his thumb, "You look great, hun. Let's go kill these fucks."
Sebastian had just enough time to shove the sheep's foot knife that he kept under his pillow into Jim's hand, the other man hiding it behind his back and the front door was slammed open. He grabbed his 'hostage's' wrist (kinda glad he was on Jim's right side), pulling the man roughly against him as he stormed out of the bedroom. His voice was a low, commanding tone. "Stay the fuck back, or I'll blow the fucker's brains out." He snarled, his arm coming up to roughly wrap around Jim's throat in a chokehold. The gun was cocked and he held the cool metal of matte-black barrel against his head, feeling the steady pulse in Jim's neck. Crazy fucker trusted him, as ridiculous as it was. Maybe they were gonna be good together.
"Moran!" There were three, combat gear and MI5 patches visible. Oh, big guys. "Drop the weapon and release the hostage!" The guy in the middle said, his gun still slightly lowered. Good training, not to point a weapon at a civvy, even in a hostage situation.
Shame neither of them were civvies.
"Alright," He said, dropping the gun from the side of Jim's head, unwinding his arm from around his neck. Sebastian shrugged, almost absently, lifting his hands in a sort of 'you asked for it' manner. "But no take-backs, 'kay?" He pushed Jim forward with one hand, the man leaping into action (fuck, that was hot!), the gun already aimed at the two closest to the door. Two quick shots brought them down and he turned to watch Jim deal with his own. Goddamn! Okay, he took back his previous thought. They were not gonna be good together.
They were gonna be fuckin' great.
--
Jim gave a disgruntled huff, twisting the blade in a vicious motion before pulling it out. He’d gone for the crook of the neck, knowing the MI5 standard gear would otherwise stop the blade from sinking in the flesh. Let it be because of the hostage act or Jim’s slight frame, the guard had not registered him as a menace before it was too late, and blood was gurgling out of the severed artery.
Jim tossed the knife back to Sebastian (-handle first-) in slight irritation and discontent. Moran was sure Jim didn’t mind killing, hell if the way he looked at Sebastian was anything to go by he absolutely loved it. But he probably didn’t like being shoved headfirst into uncontrolled and unplanned action.
Realization sparked as previous interactions slotted into place. The fucker was unhinged, crazy, and verged on suicidal, be it either from the kick he got from it or by the simple stubborn refusal of de-escalation. But in their game of cat and mouse, he’d always danced around him on a rhythm of his own making. Manipulative, smart, hot fucker.
Jim went to the couch and collected a couple of items from the coffee table, and it hit Moran that Jim had obviously slept there and not in his bed like he’d originally assumed. Of course, the crazy fucker would be smart enough not to sleep next to him.
“Time to get moving, honey. Take what you need and let’s leave this place.”
Sebastian snagged his gun, the discarded leather jacket and turned to the door.
“Absolutely no fucking way,” Jim spat, “we’re not going out through the front door. There will be men posted down there.” He opened the window in one, angry motion, of someone who doesn’t like what’s coming. “And I am done having a field-day. So, where is that fire escape?”
The rhetorical question was answered as he spotted the framed ladder and swung himself out the window. Sebastian tucked the gun in the loop of his belt and followed suit with a shrug. The climb wouldn’t be a problem for him not with so many handholds available. Jim was managing himself. He’d obviously done this kind of cat burglar thing before and knew tricky holds when he saw them, but he was also very obviously out of shape, struggling and his muscles shaking a bit by the end of it.
“Where is that bike of yours parked?” He drew a weary hand about his obviously slightly pissed face. “Let’s leave and never mention I was stupid enough to almost get caught for a good fuck.” He looked absolutely exhausted and just unrepentant enough.
--
The flat was burned for sure; not that he minded too terribly. The only things he kinda regretted leaving behind were his guns... He'd just gotten a neat little custom build from a blind German guy (it'd cost him an arm and a leg, but not his) and hadn't even gotten the chance to bring it on a job! He had everything else important to him: his favorite handgun, his jacket, his tags. As sad as it was, everything else was just things. He could get new things.
Couldn't get a new Jim Moriarty, that was for damn sure. So he followed the fucker out the window, dropping down the last few feet. "How'd you know I ha-" And then he cut himself off, because of course he knew he had a bike. "This way," he said, grabbing Jim's uninjured wrist, tugging him along after him. Sebastian absolutely did not care if he tired and exhausted, running on fumes. Nope, absolutely did not care at all. And the weird, sudden, instinctive desire to pick the man up and carry him when he stumbled on the uneven pavement of the alley? Definitely not there.
(Okay, maybe he cared a tiny, minuscule amount. But not for any, like, personal reasons. The guy was/was going to be his boss, of course he had to give a tiny shit about him.)
His bike was parked around back and he was incredibly glad they'd be bringing it. It had been his pet project every time he was on leave, restoring the '90 GB500 to something usable. "Also, I'm gonna say right now that judgin' by the noises you were makin', it was a great fuck, not a good one. Totally worth the mess." Sebastian grinned, tossing his leather jacket to the smaller man. "Put that on, it'll get chilly." If he had a helmet he'd have tossed it to Jim as well, but he'd never quite followed safety laws and so he straddled the bike, waiting for the man to climb on as well.
"Hold tight," He said with a grin, feeling arms loop around his waist. Yup, he was keeping Jim around for sure. "And give me directions to wherever the hell is safe."
--
Sebastian thought Jim was making a fool of him, guiding him through narrow streets and looping around the blocks until it hit him that no, Jim wasn’t making a fool of him. Jim was very carefully, with practiced expertise, dodging as much CCTV as possible. All the time typing on his phone. He guided them to the underground parking of a shopping center where they had a row about leaving the bike behind and switching vehicles. It only ended with Jim exasperatedly swearing to god and all saints that he would have someone retrieve the bike in the hour. He then proceeded to a broom locket that he unlocked with a shrug (‘That kind of storage room key gets lost all the time.’) to reveal a stash of various clothes and utility items and products. He tossed a scarf and coat to Sebastian before cleaning as much blood as possible from the visible parts of his body.
They went up the ground level of the market, mixed in the crowd and hailed a cab. The fact they did not pay the cabby or that said cabby definitely was the blond girl from the hanger tipped Sebastian to the kind of organization Jim could throw into action in a few minutes and couple texts.
They arrived at an undescriptive apartment complex and Jim moaned about not giving a shit about anything until he cleaned up and just planted the soldier in the admittedly comfortable, in a sleek kind of way, living room.
Sebastian made himself at home, sinking into the couch. The place looked used. Not lived in. Nothing personal was adorning the grey, white and black surfaces. A laptop was askew the coffee table and a used cardboard paper cup was left on the counter.
In a couple of minutes, Jim was back, cleaned up of the blood but not of the blue bruise blooming on his upper cheek. He was clad in soft home wear trousers and a fitted tank top. He looked strangely calm, almost pacified as he walked up to Moran and bent over him, coursing his fingers on his upper chest before intertwining them in the chain of his dog tags.
"Now how shall we kill you, Moran? Hum?’ He asked idly.
--
'Middle man' his arse, Jim apparently had enough power and enough resources to have people waiting for them less than half an hour after they'd escaped his flat. Really, Sebastian might have actually gotten himself into a deeper mess than he meant to. But Jim was interesting and fun and so far, Sebastian had no clue what was happening and goddamn he loved it. As dumb as it was and even though half his instincts screamed at him to run away, the other half was biting at the lead, trying to get more and see more.
Now he was on this guy's couch, not even sure if this was a cover apartment or Jim's actual place (god, it was tasteful but bland, all monotone and modern). He didn't offer to let Sebastian shower, oh nooo. They both had gotten bloody (admittedly Jim got drenched), but apparently, Seb should just get used to it. Really, he didn't even care about that. Wearing strange clothes, sitting on the couch of a man who might fuck him or kill him or hire him. His mind was focused on more important things.
His bike!
Jim'd promised he'd send someone for it, but who can trust the words from the serpent's mouth? If someone stole it... fuck! He'd built that baby up from scratch, it was the only goddamn thing he gave a shit about in this world. Hell, it was the only thing his will (of course he had a will, he'd been 'asked' to make by the military) that he straight-up named to go someplace. The rest had been a bland, 'trash it, ship my body back to India and let me rot' kinda deal. If someone took his bike he'd flip!
Oh. Jim was back. Whoops, had gotten a bit lost in his thoughts. Kill him? What? But they'd had so much fun...! "Is my death for the wrist, the face, or for making you climb out a window?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. What was it that his mate Wings had said about him? ‘’Bastian doesn't flirt with death, he deepthroats the bitch's scythe in a parking lot'? Yeah, sounded like him. Pretty accurate right now too.
"How's this sound," Sebastian's hand came up, grabbing the wrist of the hand that started playing with his dog tags. A firm grip, running his thumb across the nerve in his wrist, pressure firm enough to be a reminder of the last time he'd held his wrist... before dislocating it. "Let's make it fun, long term. You like having fun, don't you, kitten?" He teased, tongue poking between his teeth as he tilted his head to look at Jim. "I'll start working for you, we'll dance around each other and flirt for a while, maybe a few more fucks. We'll both play hard to get and eventually you'll make me a bodyguard or something, I'll end up moving in. We'll get close and maybe you'll reveal that you can feel something other than pain and various levels of anger and irritation, I'll declare my eternal devotion. We'll become an unstoppable duo, and then five years later I'll wake up in the middle of the night with you straddling me with a knife and you'll cut my heart out and eat it. I know it's a bit specific, but you did let me pick after all."
--
Jim froze the moment Moran grabbed his wrist, apparently not enthralled by the idea of getting the still recovering joint popped again so soon. It was very close, in an absurd way, to how some little furry creatures played dead to get a better chance to escape their predator’s grasp.
“Easy there.” He seethed between clenched teeth. “Are you actually expecting answers from me or monologuing for the sake of it? Because if you are to work with me Sebastian, we’ve got to see stuff sorted out.” His brows raised in a -do I get my point across fashion-. “Namely the fact that some busy people are currently running themselves crazy to find you. We need to throw them off your scent. His eyes fell once more on his dog tags. “We could make sure they get properly convinced there is no reason to keep looking for you anymore.”
“I think nobody would be especially surprised to find a charred body with a smashed jaw rotting in the Thames. If said body happened to be tagged as former Colonel Sebastian Moran, would a lot of people cry for him?” He asked in a soft, inquisitive voice.
It was a proposition. The pressure, the drive that had colored every one of the words Jim had said to him was absent or at least covered. Jim was offering to craft him a blank slate. And it was up to him to take the last dive.
--
Ah. Not a threat then, an offer. Odd, really, he hadn't expected that. Sebastian tugged the wrist upwards, pressing a kiss to the bandaged spot. There was definitely something wrong with him, that he enjoyed seeing Jim freeze and give off that 'scared rabbit' energy. A combination of curiosity and interest and the fun that came from seeing the swirling colors of Jim's kaleidoscope personality change.
Would anyone cry for him? Years ago, Sebastian would have said yes. His father wouldn't; certainly not. If he cried, it would be at the loss of their last chance to continue their family line. His mother? Her mind had been weak after his brother died, it had snapped and crumbled after they tried for another child and she'd been stillborn. The last time he saw her, she had thought he was his father. She'd not cry for him, because she wouldn't understand. If his real family were alive, they would have cried. The family he forged in the foxholes and on desert treks and over countless years and missions.
Would anyone cry for Colonel Sebastian Moran?
Maybe the landlady who wouldn't get his rent check anymore.
"You'll need to find a double for my bike. Anyone who knows me or watched me'll know that if it's missing then something's off." He dropped Jim's wrist, pulling the chain over his head. The warm metal in his hand, the familiar weight gone. It was odd, really, how naked and bare he felt without them around his neck. After wearing them for thirteen years, they had felt as much of a part of him as his own hands. Taking them off felt like he was removing a crucial facet of his identity, like he was baring his soul.
And why? Because some crazed fucker with great eyes and a ridiculous, overwhelming sort of aura of 'I'm in control' told him to? Christ, either he was going mad or he'd already gone mad. "No one'll cry. Burn the flat, nothing there I want anyway." He dropped the tags into Jim's outstretched hand, pale fingers curling around them.
It felt like selling his soul to the devil, and in a way, he was.