There are times when Sebastian wonders if "love" is the right word for what he shares with Jim.
Other words fight for supremacy.
"Boss," Sebastian calls him. It is gruff, a form of casual respect that is only allowed to be delivered from him. There is that branch of their relationship, because yes, technically, Sebastian works for Jim Moriarty. He supposes there is no "technically" about it even, because text messages at two in the morning that contain instructions for an immediate sniper job are something only an employer could issue. But it's not just that either, because even hired bodyguards are not so intrinsically employed.
Sebastian is the protector.
("Boss! On the ground!" He roars, the only time he ever commands Jim Moriarty and the only moments in which Jim Moriarty listens. The bullets slap concrete and Jim laughs and laughs. There was a time when Jim's laughter would've distracted him from his aim, but the time is long past; unfortunately, so is the shooter. The trajectory is unmistakable and they will go – or, rather, Sebastian will go – there immediately to sweep about the place to find what he can.
The shooter will rest in the ocean within days. There will be no marks of knives or burns, because Sebastian kills neatly, one bullet through the head. It pays to be a straight shot when you are the one cleaning up behind.)
He is the cook.
(He gets irritated over all of the apples. Jim has been in one of his intense moods, the moods that can make Sebastian a conduit for suppressed energy, and watching him pace the room reminds him of the tigers in India. Jim is not a tall man, but he is bursting and coiled with energy. It is dangerous energy. When Jim throws an apple down and leaves, Sebastian does not question him.
He bakes a pie with the apples that were deemed unsatisfactory. The smell permeates the flat. When Jim returns, there is blood on his shirt. He enjoys the pie.)
He is the one who cleans.
("Isn't it wonderful, Sebastian?" The words are filled with fervor, but the man stands with the air of someone who is relieved. Sometimes Sebastian wonders what would happen if Jim Moriarty didn't have an outlet for his brilliance. There is a reason there is only one consulting criminal in the world. Mostly it is because Jim is the only one clever enough to do it. The only one who sees the world as it is, who sees the entirety of the board, the way each chess piece will fall. But it is also because he has survived long enough to do it.
The world is not kind to men like Jim, and so he responds likewise.
Bloodstains decorate discarded suit jackets. Discarded suit jackets decorate the backs of chairs.)
He is the hunter.
(They lie in bed with the moon casting long shadows through the window. Sebastian doesn't like it to be open, but Jim loves the rawness of the moonlight, and so he lets it be. Sebastian is smoking, the ash burning dim in the darkness, and Jim is in one of his playful moods. Spidery fingers run along the scars that decorate the sniper's chest, knife wounds and bullet scars. The faint laughter is unsurprising; he doesn't even stir. "Tiger stripes, Seb." Jim informs him. "You're like a stripy tiger!"
Sebastian quirks his eyebrows and doesn't reply. He does an awful lot of not replying.
"I bet you're just grrrrr-eat!" The joke amuses Jim endlessly; he cackles the laugh of a madman.)
These are all just words. He protects, he cooks, he cleans, he hunts. He shoots, he kills, he saves Jim from himself. And he is always Jim's. Sebastian can think of no way that he does not belong to Jim Moriarty.
He sold his soul to the devil long ago.