note; I'm not sure what this is supposed to be. I'm pushing myself to write one fic every day, and this is just one of those drabbles that turned into something quite odd. Maybe just a bit out of character, so I'm going to call it total crack. Please enjoy. Don't kill me. Reviews always make my day.
summary; Sebastian Moran is a hitman, he's dangerous, and he's about to learn that gender is as fluid as sexuality. Total crack.
There are rare, strange moments when the veil of insanity slips from Jim Moriarty's tiara and the intelligent, calculating man beneath appears no more a danger than your average bank teller. These moments are incredibly rare, far more precious than diamonds from the blood mines of Liberia. Far more fleeting than the tail of Haily's Comet. Far more valuable than the last white tiger in existence. When Jim Moriarty's insanity melts away, those are the moments that Sebastian remembers why he signed on to the job in the first place. He remembers that young face, the bright sparkle dancing in those vibrant eyes, the way that smile cracked across perfectly shaped lips. The thoughts that he should be saving for his own time, not right now.
Not that shopping isn't his own time.
He's less noticeable than Jim, he's less suspect. A big tall guy with stringy arms and a lanky walk, he's less likely to be noticed. Especially when Jim's got his picture out in the paper. Things are spiraling out of control. Jim is ticking the moments on his fingers (and the walls, you wouldn't imagine how impossible it is to scrub sharpie off wallpaper). Sebastian Moran is the calm center of his boss' world. As such, he was sent to dutifully retrieve groceries from the corner market.
Their flat is a block away, and he makes it back without incident. Not many people are going to give incident to a man taller than most people on the street, wearing those dark sunglasses, straw-blonde hair cropped short but not too short because Jim liked it just so. Sebastian was an imposing figure to people who didn't know him. He was more of an imposing figure to the people who did. Those who were not afraid of him were dead.
When he pushes open the door to their shared flat (it had been Jim's idea, and Sebastian wanted nothing to do with it but he couldn't say no to his boss), an empty front room greets him. Odd. He slips in and closes the door behind him, carrying the paper bag of groceries and miscellaneous supplies on his hip. He flicks his sunglasses off, tossing them onto the couch and walks into the kitchen, dropping the bag on the table.
"Boss?" he calls.
There's no answer. And really, what did he expect? Moriarty did things on his own time. He'd never before answered to Sebastian's calls. Huffing, the hitman stuffs milk and eggs into the fridge, otherwise bare of food but incredibly full of disgusting inedibles he would rather not know about. Jellied human eyes, a big toe Jim claimed to have 'found,' a ring finger with a large diamond wedding ring still attached... Sebastian didn't like looking in the fridge. He can kill a man at fifty paces with his Beretta, but the fridge makes him uneasy. When is he going to be the next experiment getting jellied in a plastic tub?
Once everything is put away (save for the few odds and ends Moriarty had requested, those he left in the bag), Sebastian flops down on the couch, narrowly missing his sunglasses, and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. What seems like an eternity goes by before he begins to get curious. The silence in the flat is itching at the back of his neck, and he wonders just where Moriarty went that he hasn't returned yet. Unless, perhaps, the psychotic little man was sleeping. It would be no surprise to Sebastian. On more than one occasion, he's found Moriarty sleeping through the day only to be up two or three in a row.
Getting off the couch, he stalks to the bedroom door, not bothering to knock. The silence of the flat in the last long while doesn't make him cautious. Perhaps it should. When he tries to push the door open, he finds it stuck. Wiggling it and knocking against it with his hip, he finally breaks through. When he straightens, he is face to face with Moriarty. Except, well, it isn't exactly the Moriarty he's known.
Jim stands still, holding the gilded scepter across his chest awkwardly. Perching neatly on his head of dark hair is a crown, sparkling with what Sebastian took to be faux jewels, at first. On second look, he realizes that no, they are indeed real, and so is the thinly spun gold. A cloak of brilliant purple is draping over Moriarty's shoulders, and beneath the cloak is a handmade white Victorian dress, corset and all.
The silence is palpable, but Sebastian cant find a word to say or the will to back out of the room. Moriarty looks down at himself, then up to his hitman, shock written loud and clear across his face. After tense moments, he finds his voice.
"What are you doing?" he hisses. "Did no one ever teach you how to knock? Or that a locked door means to stay out?"
"I..."
"No more excuses, Sebastian," Moriarty interrupts. "Did you at least get what I asked for?"
"Yes... boss..."
"Good."
Moriarty tosses the scepter aside, and it clatters to the floor loudly. Before Sebastian knows quite what is happening, Moriarty stalks past him and slams the door shut. When Sebastian turns around, he feels heavy and lumbering, and with good reason. Moriarty's hand snaps out and grabs the tie around his neck, yanking him down to Jim-level. He's so short. Sebastian suppresses a strangled yelp, his eyes meeting Moriarty's.
"You never saw this," Jim says dangerously.
All the insanity rushes back in an instant.
Jim's fingers twist the fabric of Sebastian's tie tighter, eyes glaring daggers into the man. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes, boss," Sebastian answers quickly.
"Not good enough," Jim groans. "Once more, with feeling," he stresses, shoving Sebastian back and turning away, one hand on his brow, caressing his temples.
The bigger man stumbles, catching himself before he collapses into a pile on the small bed. "Boss?"
"Look at me! I'm ridiculous!" Jim cries, flopping his arms and lifting his knees. "I'm ridiculous, right? Act like it!"
Sebastian doesn't answer, isn't sure how to answer without receiving a fist in his face.
Stalking back to the silent hitman, Jim grabs the tie in both hands, yanking Sebastian off balance and slamming him to the floor. His knee goes to Seb's chest, the Victorian dress ruffling out around them. Some of it passes over Sebastian's face, and he looks up to see Moriarty is wearing nothing beneath the vintage dress. "Did you see anything?"
"I saw your erection," Sebastian says flippantly.
Jim's hand cracks across his face. "Next time, I'll aim for your nose. I'm not afraid to disfigure you. You're just a hitman. You don't matter in the long run. I could... I could make you into shoes. Use your pelt as a lampshade. Make your femurs into spoons." Jim's hissing threats end with his psychotic glare, those expressive eyes.
Sebastian is quick, perhaps quicker even than Jim Moriarty, and he takes advantage of the situation in the blink of an eye. Jim gasps as the tables turn and Sebastian pins him to the floor, the golden jeweled crown rolling across the floor. Sebastian keeps hold of both wrists, eyes glinting as he looks down. "Those would be big spoons."
"I'll use them for the Moran Stew I'll be cooking," Jim growls in return.
"You'll have to kill me first," Sebastian quips, planting a rough kiss on Jim's lips.
Jim bites Seb before he can pull back to safety. "I will, eventually. I still have use of you."