Author's Note: What you, my friend, are about to read is the product of the workings of two brilliant minds: Analie (/u/2134489/Lectorem/ on FF) and myself. That's right, this began as an RP and has been expanded since into what I hope will become a wonderful story.
Analyzed and stuck together by me, beta-ed and rewritten by Ana and finally re-beta-ed by me. Confusing, I know. Shut up, it works.
MORMOR
Sebastian took a deep breath, hoping to steady himself – without much success – before looking down at the phone screen. This was the place, according to the obscure text message he had gotten from one of their contacts. Unthinkingly, perhaps, the sniper had headed out immediately, not pausing to consider if it was a well-laid trap or not. That hardly mattered anymore: he'd been waiting for this exact text for ages. Sebastian promised himself all those months ago he would either find him or die trying. It wasn't as if he had much to live for otherwise.
The building looked bloody awful. The paint on the walls of the four-story building was peeling, and half of the windows looked like they did nothing to keep out the late-autumn chill. Insulation stuck out at odd angles from under the questionably safe roof hanging over Sebastian's head. The doors looked like they had been scratched with human fingernails and animal claws, decade-old signs barely hanging onto them. It was impossible to read what they said through the dirt and years of graffiti plastered over them. It looked almost like something out of a very badly-written gothic novel.
Sebastian closed his eyes to collect himself, inhaling deeply, before he pushed the ancient door handle down. It creaked under his touch – a bolt came loose and it swung sideways. Stifling down his anxiety, Sebastian Moran stepped into the cold hallways of Baskerville Mental Facility.
MORMOR
Richard's eyes snapped open. He lay on his cot, breathing heavily, trying not torelive the horrid nightmare that haunted him every damn night for the past… Month? Year? Century? With a small groan, he let his eyelids slide shut, as there was really nothing to look at anyway. Chipped tiles, mould on the once-taupe ceilings, a heavy metal door that had safety padding hanging limply from its panel. It was all too familiar now, even though he was quite sure he hadn't been in here for a long time. He didn't know exactly.
He didn't know much of anything anymore.
They didn't let him out of his holding cell, not after he'd dared hit his attending doctor (who could have been in charge of the Spanish Inquisition, considering his methods of punishment) when out on a walk around the dingy courtyard. Richard saw very few people here. Those people that he did, he never tried to associate with. They were all insane.
Richard knew he wasn't as crazy as they were.
Some of the other prisoners (because no matter what the wardens were called, no matter what the old building was labeled as, that was what they really were) walked around the corridors, jaws hanging slack, eyes wide open and their pupils the size of coat buttons. Those people never spoke. Some of the prisoners – as Richard liked to think of them – almost never left their cells. They were screamers, banging relentlessly on the walls at all hours. They would usually have to be sedated. All of them had bags under their eyes which had gone from yellowish to lilac to violet to almost black. They never talked. Sometimes, though, Richard could hear their anguished cries at night, as the doctors came in to visit them in their cells. The nights here were the worst.
MORMOR
Sebastian felt sick as he slipped the envelope into the doctor's ratty lab coat pocket. The man didn't deserve a penny. He deserved to follow in the footsteps of the rest of those who dared keep Jim from him. A slow death. Howling like the dogs they were. This doctor was one of them, the ones who kept Jim locked up. So long. Too long.
As the greedy man smirked at him in what he probably thought was a friendly way, Sebastian had to dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands in order to suppress the urge to snap his neck. At long last, they reached the end of the corridor where, with not so much as a name plaque, was the door of Richard Brook's room.
The watery-eyed, rodent-like doctor pulled out a rusty key and turned it twice in the keyhole before giving it half a turn back. A lock with a trick, Sebastian mused. Not that it would have stopped the Jim he knew, had he wanted to escape. (Had he anything to escape for).
Sebastian gave the man a sharp look and he recoiled, stepping away and letting the taller man swing the door open. What he saw nearly forced him to grab onto the padded wall for support.
"Jim…" He breathed, barely aware of the cracks in his underused voice.
The cot stirred with the movement of the small form which had been lying on it, staring up at the ceiling. Fucking hell, Sebastian thought. It was obvious now why the facility didn't have mirrors anywhere, except for a small looking glass in the head doctor's office.
The man on the cot was a shadow; sickly thin, with match-like pale arms sticking out from his white T-shirt that boasted the hospital's logo and knobby knees, visible through the thin cotton pants he had been provided with. His hair was unkempt, looking almost as if someone had attempted to crop it short but failed to complete their task because he had put up a fight. His face was covered in tiny scratches and yellowing bruises. The worst, though, were his eyes. Dark as night and hollow, so unbearably, unnaturally hollow. They didn't look like Jim's. They were familiar in another way: they seemed almost like a dead man's, staring up at the world, unnoticing, uncaring.
Richard surveyed the outsider, clad in dark jeans and a black shirt with a leather jacket. Blond. Tall, almost nearing six foot three. Blue eyes. A strange rush of something prickled in his brain. He didn't know who the man was, but it seemed unnatural to call him a stranger. It was a veiled sort of familiarity; the way one would half-recognize somebody they had seen on the train a few days ago, or somebody they'd been standing behind in line shopping for groceries.
"Jim?" Richard asked cautiously, voice hoarse from disuse.
"Oh," Sebastian whispered, shocking himself by pressing the back of his hand to his mouth and biting down hard to prevent from turning and chasing after the doctor, just for someone to release this… sudden rush of whatever it was. He wasn't ready for this, he realized. He had come here to find James Moriarty, the prick of a mastermind and the most brilliant man to ever walk the planet. Sebastian hadn't been prepared to meet such a pitiful, starving, broken man sitting on a dirty cot. He wanted to simultaneously kill something and collapse into a heap. "What've they done to you?"
Oh, he's horrified, Richard thought amusedly. He could see it in the man's eyes more prominently than anywhere else, despite his obviously disturbed body language. How flattering. How refreshing. Richard gave him an empty smile.
"Should I categorize the list chronologically or alphabetically?"
That did it. In an instant, Sebastian was across the room and before either of them was able to register it, he had Jim's pale face in his hands, his sharp sniper's eyes examining the drawn, bruised flesh. The damage was more severe then it looked, at least physically. The same couldn't be said for Jim's mind. His brilliant, fantastic, terrible mind.
"Tell me," Sebastian said quietly, almost dangerously, not letting go of Jim's face.
Richard drew his back, moving away from the blonde man and his calloused hands instinctively. He glared, his dull, bottomless eyes darkening. If the man wasn't a doctor, then Richard had no reason to be careful with his words.
"I don't know who you are or why you're so concerned, so you can either explain or shove it and leave me to rot," he said sharply, anger flooding his veins. How peculiar. He hadn't felt much for a long while. Glowering, he added: "And my name is Richard, not Jim. Touch me again. I dare you."
All of a sudden, Sebastian knew how John Watson must have felt when his heart had been slammed into the pavement beside Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Jim didn't remember. Not even his body did. No flesh memory. Nothing. Sebastian had known something would be different, he had been aware of the fact things wouldn't be the same when and if he ever found Jim. He hadn't known, couldn't have known, that everything would have changed.
"I would never leave you to rot." Then, like Jim had done to him so many years ago, on a similar autumn day, Sebastian stretched out his hand: "Here. My name is Sebastian Moran. I work for you."
Never leave me to rot, right. Then where have you been, if you care so very fucking much? The thought and the brief feeling of betrayal escaped from the tight little box Richard had locked away those pesky emotions in. Why? It wasn't as if he knew the man well enough to be betrayed. Richard looked at... Sebastian distrustfully, and dropped his gaze down to the hand.
Be carful, he reminded himself. This could be one of the doctors' tests. Just a test. Not real.
For some reason though, he didn't really believe that. Somehow, stupidly enough, he knew that he had been acquainted with the man in front of him. Why the fuck not. Anything would be better than being stuck in this empty hellhole. And if he remembered correctly (probably not; he didn't seem to be very good at remembering), it was almost his turn to be the lab rat.
He lifted a cold hand to grip Sebastian's slackly. And then, cautiously, slowly:
"You work for me. As what?"
Sebastian looked at their joined hands for a brief moment, swallowing (and it was like the first time, only not, because it was Jim who was broken and sick and uncaring, and not him) before raising his eyes to level his gaze with Jim's. Black locked with blue and for a second he could almost pretend it was just like old times. Only the formerly gorgeous brown eyes were cold and dead, and his own were more desperate. He could see the disbelief, the horrible mistrust in Jim's features and it... felt destructive. It figured that just after meeting him again, for the first time in almost a year, Jim would be hurting him more already.
"I'm your bodyguard and sniper," he said decidedly, thinking not to mention any other aspect to their relationship. "Your wingman."
Jim licked his lips, a bit of interest sparking in his mind.
"My sniper. Am I a criminal, then?" He didn't bother to ask if he worked for the government. He knew he didn't. It wasn't right, someone would have come for him already and there was no way he would be a politician. It didn't fit right.
Sebastian gave him a small smile, the corners of his mouth jerking up spasmodically:
"The criminal, in fact. James Moriarty, the greatest criminal mind to walk the Earth."
Jim raised his eyebrows and felt a bit of faint amusement for the first time literally since he could remember. His first emotion outside of anger; how nice.
"Thank you, I suppose. My name is James, then." He hummed thoughtfully to himself, familiarly. "I don't like it."
Sebastian broke into a grin, watching the man's gaunt face transform into something a bit more... alive. It wasn't like before; the bones were to prominent, the eyes still empty. Two black holes. But it was a start, at least.
"Well, you always did prefer Jim. James was too formal for your poncey arse."
"Watch it. I am your boss," Jim scolded, and there was another momentary flash of familiarity at his sniper's grin, which exuded warmth for only him. He felt disturbed with his little outburst. The words felt familiar in his mouth, natural, as if he had said them many times before, like a hello or goodbye. Maybe he had. Maybe Sebastian hadn't been a very obedient pet.
Sebastian's heart skipped a beat. There it was, that malicious intonation, that little crease in his laugh line when he smirked. It was still Richard Brook. But not quite. Not for much longer, if he had any say, if he was strong enough to return the sickly man before him back into his Jim.
"Either way, I'm still currently a 'patient' in a 'mental hospital'. What are we going to do about that?" Jim asked instead of investigating the distracting twinges of emotion that were inching at his mind. First, before anything else happened, they needed to leave. He needed to leave. The walls were oppressive. He needed to breathe fresh air. He needed to see the sky again.
"I could just shoot about everyone in this place, Boss," Sebastian said, voice cracking at the title he hadn't used ever since the other man had fallen off the face of the Earth. He could actually do something now; make progress, move forward. The first step to saving Jim Moriarty like he had done so many times before.
Richard–, no, Jim, felt a disturbing, but not unexpected shock of relief.
"Well then, go out and do it," he ordered without thought. He wanted to watch all of those bastards burn. Burn. Burn. That was a nice word, wasn't it? It fit. He could tell it fit; it was a good word. Natural.
Sebastian grinned at that bossy, careless tone and stood up from where he had been kneeling, pulling Jim up together with him.
"Let's go, then." He looked around the miserable hospital room... no, cell, and he winced at the thought of himself faffing about their luxurious three-story suite for eight months, thinking himself the victim.
"Is there anything you need to take from here?" He asked, severely doubting it. The shorter man gave him an incredulous look. Sebastian let a smile ghost over his lips as he grasped Jim's elbow and tugged him to the door: "Come on then."
Jim jerked away. Of course. Never one to be led around, even now, after all this. That was good, still the same.
The door creaked open and they both slipped out, running down the corridor. They took a left turn and came face to face with one of the doctors – the one from before, whom Sebastian had wanted so much to kill. His lucky day, it seemed. The sniper slid his beloved T/C Contender out of his sleeve and turned to Jim:
"You sure, Boss? Might not want to see this after all you've been through."
Jim licked his lips, not moving his gaze from the 'Doctor' in front of him. Dr. Peterson, he recalled. A particularly cruel bastard. He would be glad to see the man's corpse.
"I'm a psychopathic mass murderer, aren't I? I think I'll have to get used to it," he said, voice empty, perhaps, with a hint of a dangerous purr. "Might even like it."
Sebastian hummed in approval as Jim expressed his thoughts. He was learning fast. The doctor stood dead in his tracks, watching the exchange with wide eyes. The patients never escaped. They were never disobedient, his staff made sure of that. Then again, they never had help from outside.
"You!" He shouted across the hallway, voice shaking. "Put that down!"
Letting the memories wash over him - the multiple times they had been caught in the exact same situation - Sebastian suppressed the trigger and watched passionlessly as the man let out a terrified whimper and fell to the ground, a dark round hole between his eyebrows. It was still satisfying, as ever.
"You alright?" Sebastian asked Jim, who stood rooted to the spot. Countless scenes flashed in front of him. A short brunette woman gurgling as blood ran from her mouth. A chubby blonde being stabbed in the chest with a butterfly knife. A man being shot directly in the middle of his forehead. A child with glasses, a plain girl, an albino, an old man, a tall man with a scar, a man, man, woman, teenager – all being killed: cleanly with a bullet to the head or messily with a knife and there was always blood, always the same faint smirk from the tall figure somewhere he couldn't pin down.
He didn't notice himself collapsing, completely enveloped by the recollections appearing before him.
"Boss?" Sebastian's breath caught in his throat as he rushed to move behind Jim so that the shorter man would fall against his chest. This wasn't a good idea, he should have known it wasn't, fucking hell–,
"Jim? Are you alright? God, Jim-,"
Jim's eyes were vacant, his entire body limp. It was a few moments later when he finally jerked violently, blinked and raised a hand to his aching head:
"Fuck." Sebastian covered Jim's hand with his own and twisted him over in to look him in the eye:
"What is it?" Jim closed his eyes.
"Bunch of people dying," he gritted out. "Memories. Maybe." His head was pounding, brain pulsing against his suddenly too-tight skull.
Sebastian nodded, keeping a firm hold on Jim:
"Definitely memories. Maybe we should get out of here quietly. Save the killing for later. What do you say?" Ever the soldier, asking for orders, even though he knew what was best. How sweet, Rich-, Jim thought sourly.
Jim wanted to see more, but didn't protest.
"Alright," he responded simply, not wanting to say too much. Every word was a hammer cracking against the back of his skull. "Let's go."
Sebastian's mouth twitched in a half-smirk and, before Jim could protest, the sniper hoisted him up into his arms and ran down the corridor. Marveling at how light the smaller man seemed in his hold, he asked: "Did you eat here at all?"
Jim scowled, but didn't try to push the taller man away. So much contact – any non-hostile contact at all, really –seemed odd, made him a bit jumpy.
"Occasionally. It's disgusting, so I ate what I need to live." For some reason, he finished internally. He shrugged, remembering the terrible food and simultaneously how hungry he was. He ignored it. "Tasted like fucking glue."
Sebastian smiled, truly, for the first time in a very long while. "I'm taking you home and then we'll get you some proper food."
He continued running soundlessly down the deserted corridor, his senses extra-alert, seeking out any disturbances.
"I don't know if you remember this, but when we met, you were the one to teach me everything about the better life. You taught me to like sushi and Belgian chocolate."
"Not together, I hope," Jim mumbled in disgust, wrapping his arms around the taller man's neck in order to keep from falling. Touch still seemed unnatural, even with someone he had supposedly known and trusted. "They both sound better than the gruel here, at least. But I can't remember how they taste."
Sebastian felt a twinge of sadness at the man's words. Tightening his arms around Jim, he shook his head, almost bashfully:
"You always said they were almost better than sex. Almost. Before-," Shit. No, no, he wasn't supposed to go into that side. Hopefully Jim didn't connect anything there.
But Jim just smiled a bit, the muscles of his face feeling strange at the movement. And why would I tell you that, Sebastian? Is there something you're not saying?
"Are we almost there?"
Sebastian nodded:
"Yes, as far as I can remember, it's right around the-," He didn't get to finish the sentence – three people in white medical coats and wielding guns rounded the corner. Jim's eyes widened marginally, and he instinctively pressed back into the taller man. He recognized them – they doubled as security around here. And they almost definitely hated him, after he'd attacked that man in the courtyard.
Sebastian felt Jim go rigid in his arms and ground his teeth, watching the men's movements. Incompetent idiots, meant to take down by force, not precision. With a pleasant smile he had learnt from the Master himself, he took out the gun and shot three bullets. Three men, right between the eyes. As the men dropped dead, he looked down at Jim, who seemed so inexplicably small cradled to his chest:
"You alright to go on?"
Jim licked his lips once more, and nodded. It seemed that all of the memories had already flooded out, leaving his head feeling empty, like it was missing something. Now it had tasted blood, and it wanted more. The rest of the memories, what had happened before.
"Yes. Now hurry up, will you?"
"Okay, Boss," Sebastian replied and finally, finally ran out of the main hospital entrance, along the wall, so as not to get caught on camera, and to the ridiculously expensive Cadillac that was parked, rather illegally, on the hospital premises.
Jim snapped his eyes shut at the sudden change in lighting. He hadn't been outside for quite a while. He breathed deeply, tasting the sting of the autumn air. When he opened them again, his gaze was drawn to the obviously expensive car. I don't think I'm going to dislike my new–, or rather, old, lifestyle.
Sebastian grinned slightly at Jim's pleasure, a spark of it showing in his eyes – just a bit, but it was enough, – and clicked the car door open, settling Jim into the passenger seat before quickly running around the boot to sit down in the driver's place. He looked pointedly at the undone seatbelt. Jim raised an eyebrow, and the sniper rolled his eyes, leaning over to fix it.
"You always did disregard safety."
"I'm apparently the most dangerous criminal in London, it's in the job description." Jim let Sebastian strap him in and waited until he started the car to ask: "So, where is this flat?"
Sebastian revved the car up and sped down the lane and onto the highway, completely ignoring the seed limit. He felt a bit of pleasure at Jim's response – at least his character hadn't changed much, despite it all.
"Not really a flat." He spared a glance at the other man: "With these cases, you have to remember me yourself, I can't push you. Think. Think."
Jim glared. He hated not being able to remember this whole life he used to have – it made him feel helpless, empty. Broken in a way he couldn't fix, and all the weaker for it. But whenever he tried to recollect anything at all, his head started to ache and after the bombardment of memories just a few minutes ago, it still pounded like a war drum.
"If I could remember, do you think I'd be asking you?" He snapped.
"Okay," Sebastian said patiently, putting his right hand on Jim's in a comforting manner. "Close your eyes. That's it."
He stroked the hand with his thumb. "Now try to picture it. Your perfect home. You always get what you want, so your home is definitely the home that you've always dreamt of. Tell me."
"Stop being so condescending." Jim scowled, pulling his hand away. Talking to him like one would to a child. Rubbing his hand as if he needed to be comforted – he couldn't remember where he lived, that didn't mean he was a hapless, clueless idiot. How condescending.
Sebastian took his hand away, hurt a bit at the rebuke. Jim had always been the tactile one in their relationship and this changing shocked the sniper into a new reality - Jim wasn't himself without his memories. Sebastian's hand shook on the steering wheel.
"All right, I won't."
Jim glanced at him sideways, feeling a twinge of regret at Sebastian's reaction. Regret, how strange. Interesting, really, this new thing; he had deserved it, so why did Jim feel sorry? He refrained from apologizing though, as he could already tell that that just wasn't how he worked. After all, it was the sniper's own fault. "Yes. Give me a hint, at least."
The sniper exhaled, working his jaw slowly. This was going to be difficult, he knew. Jim was not easy to deal with in any situation, memories or not. "Fine. Can you tell me which way I'm driving?"
Jim peered out of the window, the answer coming to him easily. "South."
Sebastian smiled a little, crookedly, and continued: "Now, if you had a choice between living in the woods, the city, or by the sea, which would you pick?"
Jim didn't have to think there, either. "The city."
"Good. Now. Which city would be your playground?"
"London." Jim answered immediately, smirking to himself. How he knew what that, was he didn't know – but there was the same feeling he'd had with Sebastian, only now, it seemed like an old friend he'd known a long time ago, and he'd heard her name.
"And where in city? Where does all life happen in London?"
Jim thought for a moment, his fingers beginning to tap rhythmically on his thigh. Sebastian's smile became more prominent. "You used to do that. The tapping thing."
Jim looked down at his hand and forced himself to stop.
"I don't know the answer to your question," he forced himself to admit after a long moment.
"See, I don't believe that now. Because sitting right next to me is the most brilliant man in the world."
Jim couldn't help but smirk at that, his tongue between his lips. His ego, clearly, was still in tact, at least "Alright then. The center of all life in London... the City," he finished after a while.
Sebastian slumped down in his seat, chuckling: "You know how difficult it is to buy real estate there, what with all the offices and banks? Well, you managed. But what exactly is it, hmm? Not a house and not a flat?"
Jim raised his eyebrows:
"A library? I don't bloody know. Give me another clue."
"You like to watch people go about their lives. Now. From where can you do that?"
"Ah. A skyscraper...?"
"More specifically… Where in the skyscraper?"
The absent-minded tapping began again. "A penthouse."
"The Starlight Cross building." Sebastian observed the other man for a moment: "It's fine if you don't want to tell me... But what did they do to you?"
The tapping stopped, and Jim looked away once more. It's a while before he spoke, stiffly, coldly as he had the first time he'd spoken to the sniper: "Judging from what I've gathered, this might not be the opportune time to tell you, still being so close to the building. Besides; it really isn't your business."
Sebastian shook his head at the observation:
"I can handle it." Biting his tongue thoughtfully, he turned to Jim and finally said what had been on his mind: "If I could handle several months without you, I think I'll overcome this."
…That, at least, didn't sound very much like what a simple employee would say.
"Oh no, I have no doubt that you can handle it, I just would rather wait until we're further away from the hospital. So you can't go back and kill everyone," Jim explained, not responding to the rest of what Sebastian said.
Sebastian looked away, ashamed. It was idiotic, really. He couldn't even look the man in the bloody eye. Jim ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth: apparently he had a bit of an oral fixation, Jim had noticed it a few – weeks? Months? – prior.
"I take it our relationship was more then platonic."
It wasn't a question.
Sebastian ground his teeth, before sighing shakily, looking a bit nervous for the first time as he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and held up two simple platinum bands: "Set the date for April."
Jim froze, breath catching in his throat. From non-platonic to engaged in seconds. Engaged, he thought incredulously. I'm to be married to someone I haven't even known for a day. No, someone that I can't remember knowing for more than a day. I was presumably in love with that someone. That can't fit. But it did.
"Oh," he said blankly. "I see."
Sebastian closed his hand around the bands, throat clenching painfully. He swallowed.
"It's off, of course. I don't know why I kept them, really." He laughed hollowly, hand dropping to his side uselessly.
Jim felt a sharp tugging in his chest at that familiar but unfamiliar sound, and the guilt came rushing in for the first time. Ugly, painful and gripping. Guilt for not remembering. For not being Jim Moriarty - not really. He wasn't that same man anymore. For leaving the man beside him, who must have loved him, with this empty shell. He couldn't even remember meeting the man, for god's sake. Jim looked away, biting his tongue.
"Uhm," Sebastian cleared his throat, blinking away the faint stinging in the back of his eyes – crying was not a very good idea while driving. Not with Jim around either, he reminded himself. He pocketed the rings with one definitive motion and turned to look at Jim, who sat stock-still, his lip squeezed tightly between his teeth.
"Hey," he said, unsure of how to treat Jim now. "We'll… take this a step at a time, alright? We will get your memory back, then your empire. I can wait. Okay?"
No. Not okay, Jim wanted to say, clenching his jaw. The only person who wanted to help him – the only one he trusted, even now, after having just met him – and that was clear now, that he did trust Sebastian, despite himself – well, he had done this him. But of course, he was the most dangerous man in London. He didn't work like that. So he pushed it away, and nodded. "Fine."
Sebastian inhaled steadily: "You know, this is quite ironic. When we first met, you were the one who knew every single thing about me. Do you remember?"
Jim ran a hand through his hair, and shook his head stiffly.
"No. Give me a reminder. Might jog my memory," he requested a bit hopelessly. Sebastian coughed, the tightness in his chest hurting more. Fucking emotions. Never had been able to control them around Jim.
"I was a soldier. In Afghanistan."
The criminal felt… nothing. Not the same feeling of vague familiarity as he had done before but still, he nodded.
"Go on."
"I... I was on a mission and it all went to hell. One moment I'm lying low with my machine gun and the next, we all go up into the air." Sebastian laughed softly, bitterly. "I remember waking up in the infirmary and you were there, wearing an expensive suit... Can you tell me the brand name?"
"Westwood," Jim supplied automatically, if not a bit absent-mindedly. His headache was beginning to increase, which, ironically, might have been a good thing.
"Go on," Jim repeated. Sebastian smiled.
"Anyway, you were smirking down at me, saying something about a job but I was pretty drugged up on painkillers, so the only reason why I listened was because I love… Loved your accent."
Jim raised an eyebrow:
"You don't anymore? I'm a bit hurt," he said mock-teasingly – but, for a purpose. He wanted to know how the sniper felt now.
Sebastian turned away, muttering: "I do. Didn't think it was appropriate, given the circumstances. Anyway, you were talking and I fell asleep. The next time I came to it was to your voice, once again. You joked about me getting flustered over you Irish lilt like a little lady. Then you proceeded to tell me every minor detail of my life."
Jim furrowed his eyebrows slightly, something seemingly random coming to mind: "I remember something about alcohol."
Sebastian sighed. Of course he would remember that.
"Before I enlisted, I had a problem with liquor. Dropped out of school. You told me you could teach me to control my craving. You did."
"And have you been controlling it for these past few months?"
"Yes, sir," Sebastian said dejectedly. "Only had a glass in your honor when you died. I mean... Disappeared."
Jim stayed silent, asides from a murmured, automatic 'good boy', not wanting to hear any more of Sebastian's disappointment. Sebastian tensed, his fingers going white around the steering wheel.
"You used to say that." He shook his head: "Look at me being all selfish. I don't know how hard this must be for you."
"I still say it, apparently." Jim snapped. "It's fine."
Sebastian spared the man a glance out of the corner of his eye: "We lived together from the very start. Not because we were... you know, involved, but because I had nowhere to go and you needed someone at your beck and call."
"So you were at my beck and call?" A raised eyebrow.
"I still am," Sebastian laughed hollowly. "Always."
At that, an apparently familiar word, a searing pain flashed through Jim's brain, and he instinctively pressed a hand to his head. "Fuck."
"Jim-?" Sebastian turned to look at the man, worried. He steered the car off the highway, putting it into neutral by the side of the road. "Are you okay?"
Jim bit his tongue, staying silent for a few moments. "I'm fine. Must be the-," he stops before saying 'treatments'. He didn't need Sebastian curious about that, not now or ever. "Just keep driving. How long until we arrive?"
"The what?" Sebastian asked, gripping Jim's shoulder tightly. He shook the man slightly: "The what, Jim?"
Jim pulled away, scowling now.
"I said nothing, now drive," he ordered coldly, a bit of his old self flashing through, perhaps, or maybe it was his current personality.
Sebastian twisted the transmission into drive and continued down the highway quietly, tensely, not saying another word. What had happened to Jim there? Why wouldn't the stubborn bloody man just fucking tell him?
Jim leaned his forehead against the cool window, resolving to stay quiet for the rest of the drive.