Work Text:
Sebastian could only stare at the tyrant that sat, cross-legged, wings folded across his back and laptop on his lap, on the floor of their shared apartment. The winged sniper has just woken up late in the afternoon and had stepped out of their room to find the consulting criminal taking up the middle of the lounge room. It was odd, as usually Jim preferred to do his work in his very private study where he was one hundred percent sure to work undisturbed. Only fools and morons would dare disturb him during these times. Moran supposed he was a bit of both though he would never admit that out loud. He had not thought he would be seeing his boss today at all to be honest.
The almost silent steps he took were wasted effort as Jim lifted a wing. An Order. Sebastian stopped mid step and stood to attention; his own wings folded neatly behind him. Jim continued to type away carelessly at the keys on his laptop, leaving Sebastian to wait quietly for another order. So far he was doing well. No speaking. Number one rule for when Jim was working. One word had gotten him a most painful torture that involved a pair of gardening trimmers and his left wing. The wing in question twitched in memory and Sebastian found he had unconsciously twisted his face into a wince. He could still fly but the healing had been ridiculously long and arduous.
Jim didn’t appear to be paying him any more attention even if his wing was still raised, the order still standing and leaving Sebastian still following it. He was good like that. After what seemed like an eternity of quiet filled with the quick tapping of Jim’s fingers on the keys, the wing was finally lowered. Sebastian felt a breath leave him as he was basically given the ‘at ease’ order. He still did not speak though. He continued to watch Jim’s back intently, eyeing up the consulting criminals’ magnificent wings. His hands were itching to reach out and stroke them but one did not touch the most delicate item in the world no matter how strong the temptation. As subtly as he was capable of, Sebastian slid forward, inch by inch, to be closer to the object of his adoration. He eventually made it close enough that he could have reached out to run his fingers down the deceptively damaged looking wings.
Jim had either not noticed his eternal struggle or chose to ignore it, though he was betting the latter as nothing got past Jim, even when he looked a million miles away and typing on his computer. Sebastian’s eyes however, were intent with focus on the appendages that protruded from Jim’s back. His wings, a dark grey plumage speckled with black, heaved with each intake of air from the consulting criminal. Small lines and patches of what appeared to be embers littered his wings. Always burning but never destroying the feathers, the embers simply produced a thin layer of smoke. When Jim was in a particularly bad mood however, they flared and burnt all around them with merciless pleasure.
It had taken years but Sebastian had eventually grown used to the smoke they produced to the point where he now craved it like an addict. The smoke produced was thin and often veiled the man if he remained in one place for longer than ten minutes but for those Jim despised, the smoke was thick, it burned into your lungs and choked you until you were unable to breath any more. This was how Sebastian had initially felt about the smoke but now the smoke was Jim’s scent, murky and virulent, and he could not live a day without it. Even now as he stood barely centimeters away from the smoldering feathers while Jim tap-tap-tapped away at his computer the impulse was strong. Sebastian inhaled deeply and revealed in the smoke entering into his lungs, his body. Sebastian’s own wings shuddered in delight, the feathers a brown plumage tinged with orange with black and white tips (somewhat similar colours to a tiger’s pelt which had got him his nickname) stood on end before settling once more.
"Are you quite done, ‘Bastian?" Jim asked softly without turning to look at him. Sebastian sighed, a small puff of grey smoke exhaled out like he had just taken a drag of a cigarette. This was far more toxic.
A direct question was allowed an answer. "I’m done." He muttered, leaning reluctantly back and away from his boss’s glorious wings for some more pure air.
Jim chuckled low in this throat and pulled his wings closer to his body. “If you inhale too much it will kill you pet.” Sebastian smiled. He had long since come to terms with the fact that if he died; it would be because of his unbreakable addiction to Moriarty and nothing else.
"It’s ok if it’s you."