In between bullets and knife wounds and blood and the general madness that is Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran figures out he's fallen in love with his boss. It shouldn't work- getting off on making sure not to dirty the Westwood suits and the almost daily murders he was hired for.
But it works and the harsh, sweaty nights in the same bed with the room full of heavy breathing and whatever weird fetish they're pandering to on any particular night is proof.
Jim Moriarty is not a sane man by any means, but it's fine because Sebastian isn't entirely sane either and they fit together under the white cotton sheets which blend with the moonlight until the both of them look like ghosts. And Sebastian Moran- disgraced sinner of an ex-colonel and second most dangerous man in London- is in love with Jim Moriarty and he accidentally tells him when he's fucking the tiny man into the mattress. Sex always makes his tongue loose and that used to be the thrill, the risk of saying something stupid that would finally mean Jim had him killed.
Only it's morphed; from hot dirty fucking and horny from the exhilaration that is Jim Moriarty's world to more often slow than fast and ordinary feelings bubbling up like waves.
At least when he hears it- because of course Jim would have heard it- he pretends not to and lets Sebastian carry on what he's doing. Because dying before an orgasm would be terrible. What's surprising is that after in the glow that is far too for normal people for either of them to admit to, Jim doesn't say anything. The elder goes tense when his boss shifts, but he's only turning over and the sniper wonders is this is part of it.
But as a pale wrist snakes over his hand, he decides he doesn't care.
Morning is started with bony knees digging into his chest and immediately his eyes are open, hand reaching for one of the many guns hidden on or near the bed, but it's only Jim with a very sharp, immaculate pocket knife and Sebastian relaxes. The Irishman moves so he's straddling him, knife in hand and Sebastian frowns at the stick thin wrists... he'll have to make him eat today. Jim strokes a finger across his cheek except he has never seen that particular look in his eyes before.
"You said you loved me, Sebby," oh, so they're doing this now. Right.
"I do," being blunt isn't always the best route to go down with Jim, but he's damned if he knows a better one right now.
The weird look stays and Jim goes to practically lying on top of him, pocket knife wavering dangerously near his ear. "Give me your hand," Jim demands and Sebastian offers himself up immediately, like the good little soldier he never was in the army.
Tongue sticking out, he carves something into the sniper's index finger; licks the blood away like a cat and Sebastian almost flinches away.
"There we are," his boss sing-songs and he looks down and starts. Jim has marked a tiny key onto his flesh and his brow furrows in confusion.
"Jim," he starts. "What..."
"Hold on, Sebastian," but he's not really annoyed. He turns the still-bloody knife onto his wrist and Sebastian moves to take it away. The nights when Jim was even more crazy and self-destructive than usual are never far from his mind but his boss waves him away with an, "It's alright, Sebby."
And, meticulously, gently, Jim carves a padlock on his wrist and Sebastian licks the crimson welling up and then Jim presses his wrist and his finger together and smiles as their blood mingles.
Sebastian thinks it's probably the closest Jim will ever get to saying it back.