They are in the hospital again, Sebastian wearing one of those ridiculous gowns and staring at him like he's about to explode.

This seems to be a recurring theme for them.

All couples have a special place.

Theirs just happens to be a too-beige room near the ICU.

The nurse, Jill, her nametag says, has popped by twice now, looking at Seb with puppy eyes, smacking her too-big lips, but Seb, whether it's because he knows better or just actually doesn't care, ignores her, responding only with a terse nod when she asks if he needs anything for his shoulder, love.

Love

She's not allowed to call him that.

She's not allowed to call him anything.

The bitch.

Jim crosses his legs, leans a bit back in the cheap wooden chair reserved for loved ones or money grubbing relations, eyes feebly pressed to his phone, trying to avoid the way Sebastian is looking at him now, eyes weary, body showing hints of sleepy resignation.

Because this isn't the first time they've been shot at.

It won't be the last.

Seb clears his throat. Not very subtle of you, pet, Jim thinks but he hides his amusement, his eyes lifting subtly to meet hardened blue ones before returning to the screen of his mobile.

But apparently this is what Seb wanted, not an audience, just an indication of something.

"I'd take a bullet for you, you know that?" He asks, voice steady, like he's spent the past hour planning it, this magnum opus of a statement.

Jim doesn't even lift his eyes from the phone. It's not worth it. "That's rather the point of having someone shoot people for you."

"Stop trying to be witty and charming for one goddamn minute," Sebastian nearly growls, "I'm serious."

"You get shot all the time," Jim replies, because well, it's the truth. It's nothing abnormal, it's bullets and blood and doctors giving warnings that will never be heeded.

"Shut the fuck up and listen to me, you piece of shit,'' and Seb is standing up now, gown fluttering a little due to the overly-ventilated room but still menacing, still his tiger. "I would do anything for you. The least you can do is listen to me."

''I don't have to do anything. That would be the least I can do, pet."

Sebastian grabs him by the front of his shirt, his face so close their lips are nearly touching. "Jim, " he starts, voice almost a plea, fight gone from his face, "I kind of love you. Don't make me kill you right now."

His eyes are shining so brightly and Jim can feel him breathing heavy, the steady rhythm of his body, the smell of gunpowder and tobacco and all Jim really wants to do is puke, to get every sentimental feeling as far away from him as possible.

Because they can't do this right now. They weren't ever supposed to do this.

That was kind of the point.

So all he says is simply, "I don't think you can kind of love someone." Which is true. You either love or hate. The world is absolutes. There is boring and riveting and blood and bone and nothing else. He doesn't need to be Seb's mid-life crisis. He hasn't earned it. Hasn't earned the tears, only the scars.

"The other half of the time I want to strangle you," he admits, hand tightening on the silk of his shirt, eyes burning, and Jim just smirks, because that's what they've always done.

Sebastian threatens and he plays.

"Look, you don't have to say it back,'' and now Seb is letting go of his shirt, hands falling numbly to his sides. "The love bit, not the strangling. You tell me you want to kill me all the time."

But he doesn't say it with any harshness, it's matter of fact, but he's still waiting. Sebastian is still waiting for an answer, looking at him with hardened eyes as he slips on the faded jeans he was wearing when he got hit.

So Jim smiles back at him, all teeth and flash. "See why Sherlock has his doctor. Nice to have a pet happy to see you."

Any hope left on Seb's face fades away in an instant. ''I'm not a goddamn housecat, Jim,'' He nearly roars, loud enough so that maybe Jill, the little snoop will hear it.

''Stop being such a cunt for one goddamn minute," and apparently righteous anger requires Sebastian to press him against a wall because that's exactly where Jim ends up. "I. Love. You." He says, and it is what it is.

He doesn't try and dress it up and it's more of a threat than anything that's ever happened to Jim. It can break him and it's just wrong, even when Seb moves to press closer against him, his body nearly shaking.

And whether it's force of habit or some empathetic quirk he's never cared to exploit, Jim finds his hands rubbing up and down Seb's back, fingers travelling under the gown to press over tanned skin, feeling each ridge, each battle scar. Sebastian lets out a shudder, rests his forehead against the wall.

They stay like that for what seems like ages but is more likely only minutes, being silent. Being together.

Jim never says it back.