He tips his head back and bares his teeth to the ceiling, whispering in German and Russian and English, each sentence a mixture, a mixture. A mixture, quite like the blood and the spit and the sweat below his hands.

No parse of thoughts, all a disjointed mess of confusion, Cyrillic and Latin and Germanic. Scientific and philosophical and mathematical.

"Ahhh" He murmurs as Sebastian steps into the room, giving a short giggle, a flash of a smile, so white so white. "Was beduetet ?s practically feral at this point, bared teeth and wild brown eyes, head leaned back against the wall hes under his entire body. The crimson mixes well with the pale skin, a stark contrast, and lord, but Sebastian hates to think of something like that.

And god, at moments like this, the sniper thinks there Jim. It means treasure. And that glass in your hand is no such balled up.

Jim glances up at him for a second, two, eyes so full of absent insanity, of psychosis, before he murmurs, Lack thereof And for someone so obviously out of reality, far far away, he truly is astute of the most obvious of facts, at the fact that Sebastian wears no shirt. So, at least its hand, running his other hand down the mans jaw, settles himself on his knees in front of Jim, grabs his wrists. He continues, knowing the man so loves his littler word plays and continuation thereof. s a waste.Count cubic roots.s a good sign- mindlessly counting upwards as Sebastian cleans him up, leaving the room only to get bandages and cleaning solutions.

Sebastian continues the duty of wrapping Jim up- coddling him, his mind supplies- and only pauses when Jim stops his counting to mutter, s all fucked. Every bit. Little Jimmy babied by the Tiger before he shhes the man again, encouraging more counting.

The higher he counts, the steadier the heartbeat, as it is, until Jim is nearly asleep where he sits, wrists bandaged and blood cleaned away. The sniper carries him from the cool bathroom to his bed, grunting only when the man haphazardly slaps him in the face in near-drunken indignation.

"Nein" Sebastian corrects coolly, as he bundles the half-catatonic Jim in three separate blankets, shucking off his own boots and denim to lay beside him, sharing body heat. He smiles slowly as Jims lips curving up lazily in return, snuggling in closer to the shorter man, snuffling into his dark hair. "Sleep, love."

And in an act to defy all gods, Jim obeys, half-lidded eyes closing the rest of the way, breath evening out under the care and protection of his tiger, of his Seb. In some facade of domesticity, of calmness of normality.