"James, do you trust me?" Sebastian's voice was urgent and pleading, his blue eyes bored into James' huge brown ones. A couple of seconds of silence passed between them, Sebastian shook James' shoulders, "Do you trust me!" He repeated.

"Yes—yes, of course." James could only mumble.

"Then run." He pushed James out of the way, forcing him in the opposite direction to where he ran himself. James couldn't help himself. He was rooted to the spot, staring after the boy, barely a man, who was running off into the smoke and fire, pulling a gun from his jacket as he went. James wanted to call after him, chase after him, hell, he wanted to do anything but just stand here.

If his eyes were large before, they were much more so now. The explosion had gone off in the building Sebastian had been heading for. Smoke was pouring out think and fast, grey and opaque. Strangely beautiful in a morbid way. James' heart was beating so quickly he was mildly surprised he wasn't having a heart attack; he was also mildly surprised that he could even feel mildly surprised in this predicament.

He was broken out of his panicked reverie when a policeman in an ugly florescent jacket yelled in a thick Manchurian accent. James sprinted then. He fled, literally, for his life. He was young, foolish and naive still, with more money than sense and less power than he wanted to admit. But that was all about to change. If they had killed Sebastian they would pay. They would pay with their lives and their positions. They would pay with their families, friends, and fucking pets if they had to.

At least they would have if a bullet hadn't have lodged itself between his cervical vertebrae.

The room was dark and cold when Jim's eyes snapped open, throwing him headfirst into consciousness. He looked around only to become annoyed when his eyes wouldn't adjust fast enough. The space next to him was empty. Seb had left then. He'd probably gone home to shower and change and leave Jim behind.

With a groan and a raking hand through his hair, Jim slid out of bed, regarding the dark shapes of his bedroom furniture and trying to distinguish the sweatshirt he had thrown on his desk earlier. He paused before leaving his room, his hand going to the back of his head. There was no scar there, no bullet wound, not even a mark from another incident, but that dream always ended like that. Jim hadn't figured out why yet.

He was surprised to find that his flat was not in fact empty, but still housed a fairly chilled looking Seb, who was sprawled out on the sofa with a book, a glass port, and cafe crèmes. He had headphones on, the expensive ones he had whined about until Jim gave him a bonus so he could afford them (he liked to buy things on his own steam, taking gifts from Jim after all this time didn't feel right), his foot was tapping along to what was no doubt some of the sleazy jazz he seemed to have copious amounts of. Jim had been to his flat enough times to have inspected his record and CD collection; most of his front room was taken up by the collection and his stereo.

Jim waved his hand in front of Seb's face, dragging his attention back from whatever mysterious depths it might have been in, "You're awake." Seb snapped the book shut and pulled his headphones off rapidly.

"Yeah, now that we all have a firm grasp of the obvious..." Jim replied. He hadn't meant to snap, it was just how things came out sometimes.

"Relax, Jim." Seb knew how to handle Jim, it was fine. Jim wasn't as unpredictable as he liked to think he was.

The pair's eyes met for a moment and there was a mutual knowing that passed between them. Jim slumped down onto the sofa, falling into Seb and curling round him like a cat, "I want to be asleep, I'm tired." It was typical that just after Jim had been working so hard, had been running for days on a few hours sleep, that he couldn't sleep when he was supposed to. Seb didn't think people knew how hard Jim pushed himself, how hard he worked to get things done.

Seb had been chief of staff and knew that the people in Jim's employment thought they had all of the hard work, that Jim just made phone calls and sent out orders. It was completely untrue; Jim worked his fingers to the bone finding the right people for the job, gathering intelligence, making illicit deals, and plotting schemes that took time and effort. No one realised that.

"What's wrong?" Seb asked, his hand going to cover Jim's eyes; it was something they did together. Covered each other's eyes, blocked out the world, it was just them.

"I had a dream about Manchester." Jim went to trace the thick, sutured scar over Seb's forearm from the incident.

"It wasn't the most successful plan."

"It was good fun getting revenge though," There was a faint smile on Jim's lips, "You should have seen their faces, looking at me through the windows, all of the doors locked, no way out, flames just about ready to engulf them. It was beautiful." However chilling Jim's words were, however macabre and twisted, Seb always found poetry in the Irishman's lilting, singsong tones.

"I'll bet it was. But I was cooped up in hospital." Seb looked at the scar; it was years old now, maybe seven or eight. Within those years, and neither were sure at what point, Sebastian had become Seb, sometimes Sebby if Jim was in a good mood, and James had become Jim, and occasionally Jimmy if Seb felt like being hit in the face. In that time they had progressed from colleagues to friends, friends to the closest friends either of them had ever had, and from that to occasional lovers.

"Shame, shame. I thought I'd lost you for good, Sebby." Jim put his hand over Seb's, over the one on his eyes, "Would you get those pills, darling?"

"Which ones?" Jim had a whole stash of pills, it frustrated him that his body didn't do what he wanted it to all the time, so pills fixed that: when he needed to be calm, he took them; when he needed to be alert, he took them; when he needed to be quiet and still; and when he needed to sleep—especially when he needed to sleep.

"The blue ones."

Seb disentangled himself from Jim and went to retrieve the pills and something to wash them down with. When he returned, Jim had his headphones on and was smoking the rest of his cafe crème, "Having fun?" Seb handed over the bottle of pills and water.

"Who's..." Jim checked the iPod screen, "Plas Johnson?"

"You're kidding me?" Seb frowned, Jim had never liked the same music as Seb.

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't know." Jim's tone was poisonous.

"He's a saxophonist; you know the Pink Panther theme tune?" Jim nodded, "His work."

"What about... King Cole?"

"You've got to be kidding me now, Jim," Jim rolled his eyes, "He's King fucking Cole."

"Look at all the fucks I give, Seb," Jim necked half of the pills and smiled, "You know I don't give a fuck."

"You've just taken a fuckload of BZD's, I think you should go to bed or go to the bathroom. I like this rug." Seb shook his head, trust Jim to do something to make the night more interesting; so much for sleeping tonight.

"It's fine, I've a high tolerance now."

"You mean you're addicted to them?"

"Neuroadaptation, it's a good thing."

"I really like this rug."

"It's my fucking rug, if I want to puke my guts on it, I will."

"I will have those guts for garters if you do any such thing."

"I didn't know you wore a garter, Seb, you'll have to show me some time."

"Sure."

"Hey, Seb."

"What?"

"Coo coo cachoo."

Hello! I'm well aware I should be working on my other fic at the moment, but have some MorMor drabbles! :D

First off, I'd like to say that the Manchester Incident is, if you may remember (I know I don't, I was much too young), a terrorist attack by the IRA. I thought about it, and it sort of made sense that Jim would have been associated with the IRA at one point. So yes.

Nextly: I know the official lyrics are 'goo goo g'joob', but I've always thought it was coo coo cachoo, so I stuck with that.

Lastly, thank you for reading, I'll be posting some more soon! :D