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Sebastian was a soldier; he was a skilled marksman; he was the right-hand man and lover to the most dangerous criminal mastermind in the UK. Sebastian was also fairly certain he was hallucinating. Seeing a deceased loved one was normal, he knew that, but he wasn’t so sure that having whole conversations with their disembodied voice was the same.
At first it was nightmares, which started the same day that Jim died. Sebastian was used to nightmares - a warzone and an abusive father had seen to that - but these ones were different. He would be sat, looking through the scope of his rifle and the image would magnify, showing Jim pulling out the gun. Then Sebastian would be running, straight out of the window, through the air, trying desperately to get to Jim, watching in horror as he raised the gun, running faster but not getting closer, not until Jim was lying dead on the concrete. Only then could Sebastian reach him. He would wake up almost immediately with his heart racing and sweat dripping down his face. He could never sleep after he woke. Jim used to just pull him down and lay on top of him, which essentially meant ‘go back to sleep or I’ll knock you unconscious’.
Two months after Jim died, Sebastian started having problems with a gang who seemed to have decided that Jim was dead-dead, not fake-dead. Sebastian wished he could make the same decision. He had time to contemplate, though, because he’d been stood in this fucking warehouse for nearly an hour before the prick finally got to the point.
“Anyway, enough chat,” he said, clapping his hands together. It hadn’t been a ‘chat’ it had been a test of how long Sebastian could go before just killing the kid. At least he knew now why Jim just got him to shoot people, less hassle. “I want you to let me take my… business where it leads, and you to stop having my men beaten and stabbed whenever the fancy strikes.” Sebastian couldn’t help but laugh - the kid looked so serious, as if he thought he had a chance here.
“Listen, mate, I don’t know who you think you are, but you clearly don’t know how this ‘business’ works. You should walk away whilst you still can.”
“You’re in no position to be making demands. See, from what I hear, since your boss kicked it, his whole network’s been falling apart and I just thought that we could reach an agreement that would benefit us both.” Sebastian snickered and turned to walk away when he heard the sound of guns being pulled.
“Really, son? You thought that would work?” Sebastian said as he heard two, three, four bodies hit the floor. “Pearl of wisdom that boss of mine gave me - ‘never underestimate the value of a good sniper.’”
As he walked from the warehouse towards the waiting car, he saw Jim leaning against the hood. Sebastian knew it wasn’t real, though; knew that his boss was dead-dead not fake-dead because of the uncharacteristically proud grin on his face. The real Jim, the one that wasn’t a figment of his imagination would have asked him why he bothered talking in the first place.
Jim started talking to him on the six-month mark of his death. Sebastian had woken from a nightmare, the same one as always, and shuffled into the kitchen to fix his breakfast of a cigarette, two fingers of whiskey, and a stale slice of bread. He used to go outside to smoke - Jim would’ve shoved his fag down his throat if he didn’t.
“I still will if you’re not careful, Bastian.” The voice was crisp and clear, almost too real and somehow not real enough for Sebastian to be able to pin point where it had come from.
“I swear to fuck, Jim, if you’re not actually dead I’m going to fucking kill you.” Sebastian whispered, hating how weak he sounded, hating how his voice cracked, but he wouldn’t cry. He waited, expecting Jim to round the corner into the kitchen and make good on his threat or take the piss because of how pathetic he was, but no such luck. He flicked the butt into the sink and downed his drink in one.
It became normal, Sebastian talking to a person that didn’t really exist anymore. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew that he should probably seek professional help.
On the one-year anniversary of his death, Sebastian pulled out a shoe box from under the bed. It used to have some overly expensive black shoes in that Sebastian had never cared for - they looked the same as all of Jim’s other shoes - but he had still placed them carefully out of harm’s way, Jim would turn him into a replacement pair if he ruined them. In the box he had put three things: the first was the pen knife Jim always carried, the one he had used to carve his initials into Sebastian’s chest; the second was his dog tags, Jim had made him wear the every time he was on a job, he never said why but Sebastian suspected he cared about him, just a little, and wanted to be able to find him, no matter what happened. The third thing in the box was Jim’s gun, the one Sebastian had taken from his body after trying desperately to get Jim to fucking move, to breathe, to do fucking something.
It must’ve been a sad scene - Sebastian, kneeling on the floor of his dead lover’s room, cradling the gun he had killed himself with. Jim would probably laugh if he was here, but he wasn’t, and dead-Jim was surprisingly quiet.
Sebastian poured a bourbon, for lunch, of course, and put it on the glass-topped coffee table before slumping onto the sofa. He had always found cleaning his rifle therapeutic, but he hadn’t had much use for it recently, so cleaning Jim’s gun was the next best thing. He was just about to reassemble it when Jim strolled in.
“You might want to clean the table whilst you’re there, Tiger, you know how I hate it when you leave ring marks.”
“Clean them off yourself, prick.” He glanced up briefly as Jim ran his finger across the glass before heading into the kitchen. Sebastian put the reassembled gun onto the still dirty glass. Jim didn’t return.
It became part of his routine. All the time he was home for lunch, he would clean the gun whilst he had his bourbon, a fag and a sorry excuse of a sandwich. Before coming to work for Jim, Sebastian drank a lot, but Jim soon put a stop to that. He had put a stop to a lot of things, really, he stopped him drinking, stopped him smoking so much, he had help with the nightmares. Sebastian couldn’t pin point exactly what it was or when it happened but he had come to realise he loved Jim. He realised a little while before Jim died, obviously he never told him, he wasn’t entirely suicidal.
He slammed the gun down on the table. The cushion next to him sank down.
“You know, Seb, anyone else might think you’re planning to shoot yourself with that.”
“Is that so? Why don’t you do something about it then?”
Jim laid back and threw an arm over the back of the sofa, a smug grin on his face, “Feisty aren’t you, Tiger? I see you still haven’t cleaned the table like I asked.” He shook his head and tutted and no sound had ever grated so violently on Sebastian, who grabbed the gun, firing three rounds at Jim’s head, except he wasn’t there so now he just had a shattered mirror and a broken vase to explain when Jim got back.
It was only when he laid down in their bed that he realised Jim wasn’t coming back. He would have by now.
It was another year of this shit, of Jim showing up uninvited, making stupid snarky comments all of the fucking time, driving Sebastian absolutely insane before he finally snapped.
Sebastian had long given up on the idea that Jim was going to come back to him. He ignored dead-Jim when he told him not to smoke in the house, not to drink his meals, not to stay awake until he passed out. He still cleaned Jim’s gun every day, still made sure it was loaded.
“I always knew you loved me.” Jim sung from his place leaning on the back of the sofa.
Sebastian screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his hand across the scarred side of his forehead. Jim used to scratch his fingers down them.
“You know what, Jim? I fucking hate you.” Sebastian spat, slamming his fists onto the table. “I hate you so fucking much - why can’t you leave me alone, huh? Get out of the kitchen, get out of the flat - get out of my fucking head. All you’ve done since I met you has made me fucking miserable, even when you were fucking dead. I can’t do this anymore. Get out of my head before I fucking make you.”
Of course, when he looked up Jim was gone. No evidence of him having been there.
And then Sebastian just crumbled. He collapsed onto the floor and for the first time since this all happened, he cried, huge sobs shaking through his whole body and still his first thought was Jim, what would Jim think if he saw him, what would Jim do?
Hours later he found himself propped up against the sofa, glaring at that gun, that stupid fucking gun that had started everything, in his arms he cradled a bottle of whiskey. It was nearly empty, so when he threw it at the wall, the resulting explosion was less than satisfactory. Heard footsteps approaching from the front door and picked up the gun, pretending his aim would be vaguely decent.
“My, my Tiger, you look thin. I’ll have to get a decent meal in you before you get to work.”
“I don’t work for you anymore. You’re dead, remember? I remember. You’ve reminded me every day since it happened.” He groped around for the second bottle of whiskey - it’s good to be prepared in case your dead boss doesn’t fuck off. “I told you to get out of my fucking head.”
Sebastian rose unsteadily, still clutching the gun and the bottle as if they were the only things holding him to this plane of existence. He watched as Jim shrugged his coat off, hanging it in its usual spot.
“Now, Bastian, don’t be daft. Obviously, I wasn’t really dead - I thought you were smarter than that?”
“Obviously? Obviously!? I might have been ‘daft’ enough to believe that eighteen months ago - maybe even a year ago - but now? No. I told you to get out of my head.” Sebastian raised the gun and aimed in the general vicinity of Jim’s head, but the bullet shattered a photo instead. Glass landed in Jim’s hair as well as on the floor. Strange.
“Jesus fuck, Sebastian! Put that bloody thing down before I really do die.” He started to walk forwards, not expecting another shot, this time dangerously close, only missing by a hair’s breadth.
“No, no you are dead. You’re dead, I was there, I watched, I watched you blow your brains all over that roof; I’ve watched every single fucking night since you did.” Sebastian dropped the bottle and Jim tried not to comment on how it would stain the carpet.
“Sebastian, I thought you would be okay. I didn’t think this would happen, just put the gun down.” Jim raised his hands as if trying to calm a cornered animal, and, really, isn’t that what was happening? His Tiger was frightened, he was dangerous, and it was Jim’s fault.
“I’m not putting it down. I’ll put another bullet in you if you don’t leave.” Sebastian’s fingers tugged roughly at his greasy hair. “You never thought that watching you kill yourself would affect me? You’re a cunt, Jim, did I ever tell you that? A selfish cunt. I don’t know what I ever saw in you. why did I work for you? I should’ve quit, I should have. When you got obsessed with that fucking detective I should have left and none of this would have happened.” Jim could only stand and stare as Sebastian began pacing, still muttering under his breath.
Then he just stopped. His eyes locked onto Jim’s and something seemed to click.
“I told you that if you didn’t get out of my head, I told you,” Sebastian’s voice was deadly calm, the complete opposite of him pressing the barrel of the gun firmly to his temple and the manic look in his eye, “I told you I would get you out myself.”
“Sebastian, put the gun down and we can talk about this.” Jim’s hands were shaking - he never shook but just the sight of Sebastian, the broken look in his eye… Maybe this is what Sebastian had been feeling.
“You know how I know you’re dead? When you were alive you were different. You-” Sebastian chuckled wetly - “do you remember when I got shot in the shoulder and you laughed and told me you’d shoot the other one if I missed my shot. Now you’re… you’re acting like you care. It’s weird. I don’t want you to be nice to me.”
Years of watching and predicting, years with Sebastian meant that he saw the twitch if his finger, saw him adjust his hold slightly and he knew this was it. Jim lunged forwards, using all of the strength he could muster to force Sebastian’s hand up and away from his head. They fell to the floor, Jim landing heavily on Sebastian’s chest, Sebastian’s completely still chest.
Jim scrambled up, sitting astride Sebastian’s stomach and franticly checking to see if he had been too late. “I swear to god Sebastian, if you get what little brain you have on my carpet, I will make you lick it up.”
“Boss…” Jim let out a sigh, his hands setting on Sebastian’s, which were gripping Jim’s hips as if he thought he would float away or simply vanish into thin air.
“Yes, I’m really here. Get up before you bleed on my carpet.” The bullet had only grazed him before landing firmly in the wall next to the telly, but it was still bleeding a fair bit.
Sebastian didn’t move, just smiled dopily up at Jim, his living, breathing, not-hallucination Jim. “I still think you’re a cunt.”