This story is cowritted with bethasaurusrex tumblr. She beautifully writes Sebastian while I write as Jim.
[Slight problem, boss. –SM]
[What have you done now, Moran? – JM]
[ Nothing too...earth shattering. I appear to have developed a weakness, so to speak. –SM]
[ You know how I feel about weaknesses, Sebastian. What is it? You'd better hope I can beat it out of you, or you're in trouble. – JM]
[ That's what I'm hoping for. I seem to be harbouring an attachment to someone. It should be stopped. This isn't good for me. –SM]
[Oh, that's simple enough. I'll kill them for you, that tends to force people into getting over it. Who is the accursed? – JM]
[ Come on, Jim. You're smarter than this. –SM]
[ Fair enough, I'm just stalling. You know I don't want to hear it, Moran. – JM]
[ And it's Sir, to you. – JM]
[ I need closure. I need to know just what's going on here. If you don't...whatever this is, then fine. I don't care. If there's something you're not telling me, then god damnit, I want to know. Don't make this hard for me. –SM]
[ Sir. –SM]
[ Of course there are things I'm not telling you. You didn't think you were my equal, did you? You work for me, and I am your boss. That is all this is. You know that as well as I. – JM]
[ Perhaps. But I'm the only one apart from them that's seen you. The real you. Does that count for nothing? –SM]
[ ...oh god. You're not...Not him. Not that jumped up detective. –SM]
[ Please don't say that. –SM]
[ What the hell are you implying, Sebastian? – SM]
[ Fuck it, I refuse to have this conversation via text, of all things. Come home. – JM]
[ Fine. On my way. If I can find a fucking cab. –SM]
[ Do you want me to send a car? – JM]
[ Of all things, I don't need your pity, /sir/. –SM]
[ You were the one whining. – JM]
Sebastian wrenches the keys out of his pocket, jamming them into the lock. It takes three tries for the crack shot to open the door, but he finally manages, laughing bitterly at the irony of it all. He makes his way into the sitting room, stopping when he catches sight of one James Moriarty, sat calmly on the couch with his back turned. 'So'. The word is more than just an announcement of his presence; it's a confession, an apology, a plea, all rolled into one
"Sit down, Sebastian," Jim murmurs without turning, voice superficially calm, and low, but with that dangerous edge of his. He is right on the verge of snapping, that much is obvious. It would not take much to push him over the edge; a few wrong words from the sniper would be enough to trigger him.
He knows it's a bad idea, that one should never provoke Jim, but his temper gets the better of him. He stalks round the room until he is in front of the smaller man, and sits on the low coffee table in front of him. He makes a show of sitting down, trying to prove just how much of a man he is. He knows it's not working, but he has to try. He's Sebastian Moran. He's not afraid. And so he looks Jim straight in the eyes, and refuses to break his gaze.
Jim raises his eyebrows, affecting a pretty perfect expression of boredom. That one he has, with his lips a little pursed and his brows lifted just slightly but his eyes semi-closed, dead of all and any motivation. That expression that makes him look like he could genuinely die of apathy at any given second.
He has that one down to a T.
"Talk to me, Sebastian." He says, tone still flat, steepling his fingers under his chin.
"Do I really need to? You know everything, you damned clever bastard," the sniper growled. "Everything. So just let me down here and now. Do it so it really hurts, so I can fucking feel it. Because you know what, Jim? I'm not going to wander around the streets of London pining after you like a love struck schoolgirl. So just get it over with, and let me be, and I'll find a new boss in about a month." Sebastian wonders when he started yelling, when his hands balled into fists. All he can focus on is Jim.
One eyebrow arches higher than the other. But Jim doesn't flinch, not even when Sebastian is all but screaming in his face. He just blinks slowly, rolls his neck so it cracks. Calm, a master of composure, even when the rest of the world is slipping. Especially when the rest of the world is slipping. "What would you have me do, hmn?" His tone is still the same, perhaps with just a hint of an edge. "You seem to have made up your mind already."
He's in danger now, he can tell. He could be in so much trouble just with one wrong word, and yet he doesn't care. Perhaps that's what he wants, to see a side of that man that he doesn't admire. "You know I can't have you do anything," he all but spits at Moriarty, "you're the boss. You make the rules. Why should I think anything would ever be different?"
"I don't know," he purrs, fully aware that it was a rhetorical question. "Why should you? What good did you think would come from telling me about this 'infatuation' of yours?" Jim's lip curls; finally, a demonstration of some actual emotion other than plain boredom. "Don't you think it would have been easier on you if you'd just taken yourself elsewhere when you realised, as you seem to have done perfectly well, that you couldn't possibly continue to work for me like this?" His voice is starting to rise now, twisting into a snarl. But still he doesn't move.
"Oh, but that's not true now, is it." Sebastian drops his head into his hands, runs his fingers over his puckered scars, before facing him again. "You'd have found me, Jim. If I'd left. You'd have found me and you'd have taken me back. And I'd have come back, because nothing would ever have been said and there'd still be a chance." He threw his arms out wide, exposing his torso. "Just slap a fucking collar on me, why don't you? I'd always come back. You could beat me and abuse me and fucking ruin me, but I'd always come back." He smiles, or grimaces, as it might be. "So do it. Ruin me. Let's see just how far you can push me."
Jim is still for several long moments, or perhaps several long hours, it's hard to tell. He just lets the silence that follows Sebastian's words ring throughout the room, ringing in their ears. Finally, when the tension surrounding them is actually practically palpable, he stands, slowly, raising himself to his full height, so that he is standing over Sebastian. Taller than him, for once. Sebastian's face at his waist-height. Then he slides his fingers through the sniper's wonderfully scruffy hair, pushing his head back, properly looming over him. He leans down, making his spine arch like some sort of insect. He brings their faces close together, inches apart from bumping noses. That sick smug grin twists his mouth. "You're quite the masochist, aren't you, Sebastian?" he growls.
He would come back with some cuttingly witty retort, push Jim away, sneer in his face...but god, he can't. Look at him. A trained killer, wound up and ready to spring like a tiger in a cage...and here he was, being held...not, not even held down...controlled by a little man in an expensive suit. His eyes flicked shut briefly as Moriarty's breath curled around his face. He'd been drinking. Not much, but it was there, that faint trace of alcohol. He tried to relax his body language, look up lazily, sanguinely, but it would never work. He's a fighter, not an actor. He couldn't win this even if he tried.
Jim leans closer, tilting his head so they don't smash noses but keeping his dark dangerous eyes fixed on Sebastian's feline ones, and it's clear then from his eyes that this is it, he's snapped. It's quite a subtle change this time, not like those days where he just suddenly flies off the hook and starts killing things. No, just a little shift, from cool calm clearness to something slightly clouded over, and it's obvious that he is someone quite different now. Someone who would have absolutely no qualms about snapping the sniper straight in half. "Do you enjoy getting burnt, Sebastian?" he snarls, eyes flicking across Sebastian's face, studying it at such close quarters. "Is that why you insist on playing with fire?"
Sebastian swallows noisily. Shit. He's let himself go too far. He's seen him like this before. Eyes narrowed slightly, lip curled in contempt. Any minute now, those fingers would tighten in his hair, and Jim would have him completely under control. If he hadn't been so wary of Jim right now, he would have chuckled. He's a goner now. There's nothing he can do. But he wants it quick, clean, as painless as can be. He doesn't want to be toyed with. He sets his jaw, eyes flashing, before he hooks his hands over the back of Jim's neck. Pulling him even closer to him, Sebastian smirks, drinking in the image of Jim's whole face, before rasping, "Perhaps it's not the burns, but the pyromania I enjoy, sir."
For Jim Moriarty that is about as close as it gets to dirty talk - less-than-subtle threats hidden under pretentious violent metaphors and twisted dripping tones, enunciated in a range of low growls that practically scrape the floor to high pitched whines that really don't even sound human. He makes one of those little growls as Sebastian lays hands on him; he's supposed to be the one in charge, and even something as little as that seems to him like the sniper is pushing his boundaries, fighting back just a bit. So of course he has to assert his dominance, and he has a brilliant idea of how to do just that. "Then enjoy this," he all but hisses, and then after what feels like forever he leans down and closes his teeth hard on Sebastian's bottom lip. It isn't a kiss. It's biting.