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Another stupid job, another fucking reckless call Jim makes because he can’t get it through his head that he’s only human.
Sebastian falls face first into the pillows. Damn Jim, damn this fucking job, damn every single person who works for them - individually and all together. He’s so tired he can feel the ache of it in his legs, muscles tore up and screaming. He can’t remember the last time he slept.
The sheets smell of lavender and vanilla detergent, which is probably a good thing, because Sebastian smells of rank sweat and blood. He toes his shoes off without getting up and pushes himself slowly forward, reaching the pillows with what feels like monumental effort. It’s impossible to know what time it is; somewhere between two am and morning when the sky’s so dark it seems like a solid black thing. The digital clock by his bedside table glows faintly, red light spreading over the sheets and making the blood on Sebastian’s hands look black. He rolls over onto his back and undoes his trousers, kicking them half-heartedly to the floor. His shirt follows, falling in a crumpled heap.
The last time he was this tired, he’d been in Kandahar - fallen asleep on the lee-side of a sand dune with a rifle in his hand, in the middle of a firefight no less.
God, Seb thinks, and can’t come up with anything to follow that with. He twists at the blankets with his feet, managing somehow to get them up to his hands, and hauls them up over him. It’s so soft and warm he thinks he might cry. He shuts his eyes, rustles his way to some sort of comfortable in the pillows.
Just a few hours sleep, he manages blearily. His head seems to sink down through the pillows for ages, like he’s falling into a deep, comfortable void. Just a few hours.
He’s woken up what feels like three seconds later by a weight on the edge of the bed. Sebastian’s a light sleeper by necessity, and the gentle dip of the mattress wrenches him out of REM sleep immediately. He comes awake in the darkness with his heart pounding and his hand already reaching under the pillows for a knife, adrenaline dumping through his system so quickly that grogginess doesn’t even have a chance.
At the end of the bed, Jim Moriarty giggles; an eerie sound, in the pitch black, so quiet it almost doesn’t register against the pound of blood in Sebastian’s temples. Seb goes still, squinting. He can barely make Jim out; a dark shape against the darkness, black-on-black.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he rumbles, sounding like he’s got sandpaper coating his throat.
“Shhh,” Jim replies. He crawls up the bed with a rustle of fabric and a creak of the mattress, and slides under the covers beneath Seb. It’s impossible to see his face; Sebastian has only the bleariest impressions of him. The smell of spice-and-metal, the mattress denting towards Jim’s body, the heat of his skin by Sebastian’s side.
Reluctantly, Sebastian lets go of the knife under the pillows, and rolls over to face Jim. He should probably be worried; anything Jim does that isn’t immediately explicable is cause for concern. But he’s just too tired. He feels a raw sort of frustration, but swallows it down before it can make him say something stupid. Like get the fuck out, or I’m going to fucking kill you. Jim’s all for a joke, but he does own the house. And the bed. And Sebastian.
As his eyes adjust to the dark Seb can make out the rumpled mass of Jim’s hair, black against the white pillows. He can see the pale skin of Jim’s nose, catching a line of moonlight; the bony curve of his shoulder, outlined by the red glow of the clock. No telling what time it is. Jim doesn’t offer anything; Sebastian can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed, but at a guess he’d say Jim is staring. Seb can feel the prickle of Jim’s gaze over his skin, heavy and irritating like a wool sweater.
“What time is it?” he tries, finally.
Jim doesn’t respond, but he pushes forward in the bed until his hands find Sebastian’s chest. He runs his palms over Sebastian’s skin, fingers skimming over the scars. His fingers are cold, as always; like icicles, like the frosty touch of death.
“You’re warm,” Jim murmurs. Sebastian frowns, even though it’s too dark for Jim to read him. Sebastian considers asking him what the fuck, but Jim’s cold feet twine in through Sebastian’s legs and something important in Sebastian’s brain stalls. If he thought Jim’s fingers were icicles -
He yelps like a dog with a stepped-on tail, and struggles without even thinking about it; squirming away. “You’re cold!”
Jim giggles again, and presses closer. Sebastian stops moving reluctantly, holds himself still as Jim burrows in tight to his chest. Jim’s nose presses against his collar-bone, each breath puffing out hot against Sebastian’s skin. Jim hums, thoughtfully. His cold fingers trace down Sebastian’s ribcage, follow the ribs back to his spine. He worms his way between Sebastian’s arm and his side, wrapping himself around until he’s got a grip with his fingers dug into Sebastian’s back, and it’s like - it’s almost like -
Sebastian blinks. Jim’s cuddling.
It seems like such a human, rational thing to do that for a moment he can’t process it.
“My bed was cold,” Jim mumbles, ducking his head against Sebastian’s breastbone. He turns, settling in to the mattress with his body pressed tight to Sebastian’s and his ear over Sebastian’s heart. It makes each beat seem louder, knowing Jim can hear it; like Sebastian is aware of Jim’s perceptions as well as his own. “You’re so warm…” Jim’s voice is dreamy, soft with sleep.
Sebastian hesitates. His fingers twitch where they’re resting on his thigh. Any other time, he wouldn’t dare; but it’s late, and he’s tired, and Jim is reassuringly small and human and alive under the blankets in the dark.
Slowly, carefully, giving Jim all the time he needs to object, Sebastian reaches out and hugs Jim tight to his chest. He can feel his heart thud nervously against the inside of his lungs, driving his breath up into his throat. Any moment he expects the other shoe to drop; expects Jim, mercurial and cruel, to jam a dagger into his spine.
But the dagger never comes. Sebastian pulls Jim in and Jim, sleepy and self-satisfied, just makes a happy thrum deep in his throat like a cat. He wiggles himself closer to Sebastian, worming his way into Sebastian’s heat until they’re pressed chest to chest, hip to hip, Jim’s thigh thrust between Sebastian’s legs and Jim’s ice-cold feet tucked between Sebastian’s calves.
He’s warming, slowly. Sebastian bends his head until his lips rest on Jim’s hair and inhales, smelling Jim warm and clean, smelling the sheets and them together, and the spice-and-musk scent of Jim’s skin.
He can feel the brush of Jim’s eyelashes against his chest as Jim shuts his eyes. “Go back to sleep,” Jim murmurs, his voice gone deep and thick. His accent’s more obvious, when he’s tired, and Sebastian files the information away somewhere secret and precious where no one will see it but him.
Jim’s breathing slows, smoothes out soft and regular as he falls asleep. Sebastian feels a twist of affectionate amusement in his chest; it suits Jim, somehow, that he can fall asleep instantly when he wants to. Maybe because Jim doesn’t ever seem to sleep. His ribcage rises and falls in Sebastian’s arms, the bones of his spine sharp against Sebastian’s palms. He seems smaller, somehow, when he’s asleep. More delicate and more precious, like all his hard angles and thin pale skin make are made of spun glass.
The room’s still dark to see anything, but Sebastian doesn’t mind. He cradles Jim in his arms and counts each exhale, fragile and beautiful and perfect, and tries desperately not to fall asleep.
He doesn’t want to miss this.