Work Text:
Every Sunday night, without fail, Sebastian Moran self-medicates at an unknown club no self-respecting human being would be caught dead at. That why he's mildly surprised by the fact that when someone sits next to him (no-one's sat next to him since he stabbed the last guy in the hand), it's a person wearing a suit that probably costs more than Sebastian's ever seen. He looks more like the sort of businessman his father was than the sort of people he normally sees in the club (drunkards, drug dealers, and Sebastian himself, whenever he gathers enough courage to find his own reflection in the huge mirror above the bar).
He's not even the slightest bit curious about the newcomer, so he continues to pay more attention to the glass of scotch in front of him (the scotch is to help him forget, he supposes) than anything else, because there isn't anything else left for him. It's probably his sixth or seventh drink and the normally hazy club has become downright blurry. Even so, sobriety hits him like half a sack of bricks when the man next to him leans ever so close, a hand on his thigh. Sebastian doesn't react but his right hand grips tighter at the edge of the bar and he feels the need to get up and walk away.
"Relax," he hears (in a slight Irish accent, low and persuasive). "It's this I'm after."
It takes him a moment to realize a second hand is inside his jacket, heavy on the butt of his gun. Another glance out of the corner of his eye only shows him that the man really doesn't fit in with the crowd in there, and the nails digging into the seams of Sebastian's jeans (not to mention being addressed directly) tells him he's there for him in particular. A job, then.
"Who do you want dead?" he asks and signals the bartender to pour him more whisky.
The man removes his hand from Sebastian's gun (but not his leg, he notes) and places a card on the counter. Sebastian sips at his drink and ignores the pale rectangle in front of him.
"All the details you need are on the card."
He focuses a bit, so he can read. There's no name on it, just a place (The Dorchester) and a date (next Tuesday, 'Twelveish').
"Is that it?" He'd expected more information; he tries not to grind his teeth too hard. "Look, I don't have the time to play ga-"
"Don't lie to me, Colonel," the man interrupts and his lilting tone has turned sharp. "You have plenty of time, and I intend to use it...and make it worth your effort," the man says as his fingers slowly glide an inch up his thigh. "Your fee is on the back of the card."
Unfazed, Sebastian flips the card and only raises an eyebrow.
"That's a lot of money."
"It's probably more than you deserve right now, based on your sloppy last job, which I can't quite bring myself to tolerate," the man chides. "But I'll need you for a lot of murders. Make sure to be sober, because you're not just some drunkard with a gun and a desire to kill people," he says with a patient tone that manages to scold Sebastian (and each word stings). "You're Sebastian Moran, discarded by superiors and employers and family time and again. There is nothing in this world for you but a bottle of Ballantine's...or so you think. I am going to prove you wrong and make everything better for you." He shifts as though he's about to go and then thinks better of it.
"And wear a suit. I'll have a room reserved for the after-party."
With that, the man (along with his persistent hand) disappears. Sebastian stares down into his glass, briefly wondering about what he might be getting himself into this time. Then with one hand, he touches the gun he always carries with him (the familiar weight grounds him). With the other, he gets the barman's attention.
"Do you still have the bottle I brought in?"
The barman grins at that. "Special occasion, is it?"
You could say that, Sebastian thinks while the blue bottle is brought out from the back of the bar and set down in front of him. He watches as the barman puts ice in a glass then separately mixes a certain amount of the clear alcohol with a certain amount of water (Not enough alcohol, he already knows, and I could make better but this'll do for now). The resulting drink is milky. The moment Sebastian picks it up, he feels better. Weakness leaves him by degrees as he lifts the glass to his lips and once he tastes it, he's a different person.
He looks at himself in the mirror opposite him and smirks. He's not a random drunkard with a gun and a desire to kill people and time. He's Sebastian Moran, discarded by his superiors and employers and family time and again, and someone is willing to pay him a lot of money for a lot of murders. Some might say that's not really 'making things better' but it's definitely a start, and the taste of liquorice pleasantly burns its way down his throat.
He pockets the card in front of him and when the barman asks if he wants another one, he says he does. He then has two more, because he used to drink scotch to forget, but it's the arak that helps him remember: he recalls sand and jungle and heat and fire and pain and most of all the smell of death and the taste of blood.
He remembers being the best at what he does - taking aim and firing without wasting a single bullet - and that's the last time Sebastian Moran drinks for a very long time.