Title: Life, Still To Happen
Characters: Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty.
Pairing: MorMor
Words: 1 220.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Character death, suicide. But not in a sad way, I promise.
Summary: They don't plan to grow old together. Well, they don't plan to grow old, full stop. But they years come and go and they don't die.
They don't plan to grow old together. Well, they don't plan to grow old, full stop. The life expectancy for a brilliant madman and his tiger-slaying sniper could never be very high. But the years come and go and they don't die. (Though there are a number of close calls, like the time when an unarmed Sebastian is cornered by seven very angry members of the Russian mob, or when Jim commits a spontaneous and particularly ill-conceived fake suicide, or every single fucking time they go to Mumbai.) (After the fourth time Jim seriously considers having the place nuked, but in the end settles for simply driving it to economic ruin. "Let's see how many visitors they get now!")
They travel all across the globe; they stay for one, two, three years in some places, for just the night in others. Jim is a consulting criminal; Jim is a professor; Jim is a teacher in a children's Sunday school. ("Seriously, boss, what the hell do you get out of this?" - "Well, I do so like fairy tales… ") Sebastian is a sniper and a bodyguard and a constant.
—-
Some ten years after what Jim refers to as 'the Fall', they run into Holmes and the good Dr. Watson in a rather posh café in Prague. It is completely unexpected – or so Jim claims – but the encounter ends on amicable enough terms. Amicable in this case meaning that no one dies, fakes their death, or threatens to burn someone else's heart out.
That game is over and done with.
—-
The games they play these days are as varied as they are intricate. For long stretches of time they will retreat to some fancy country house or other. As Sebastian hunts the grounds for whatever prey is available, Jim throws parties, seeking a different kind of prey. He weaves his web of lovely lies and terrible truths, just for the pleasure of seeing all the ordinary people stumble over themselves to pander to his every whim.
Then he gets bored and they return to the city - any city (but not London, not for a long time yet) - and Jim takes up the guise of an IT-genius, a financial adviser or a scientist. He writes a book, he wins the Field's Medal. ("It's like the Nobel prize of mathematics." - "I know what it is, you condescending twat," - "Yes, but you only know that because you watched Good Will Hunting.")
And if there ever is a time when the thrill of the latest game is not enough to keep Jim distracted from the screeching whirlwind of his own mind, Sebastian is there to hold him close, hold him still, until the storm passes.
—-
No, they did not plan to grow old, not together, not at all, yet there they are, one sunny Saturday morning in a beach house off the coast of Grenada. Sebastian pours the coffee into two cups, and – after adding milk to Jim's – carries them over to the kitchen table.
Jim looks up from his Spanish newspaper, looks at Sebastian with a slight frown, and bursts out laughing. It's a wild giggle, high-pitched and just slightly crazy, utterly Jim. "What the fuck's the matter with you?" Sebastian demands.
"Look at you!" Jim crows. Gleeful, delighted. "You are old."
"Piss off."
"But you are, darling! I just realized. Your hair is gray, and you're all …wrinkly."
Sebastian stomps out of the kitchen to stare at himself in the hallway mirror. His hair is gray, his face weather bitten and tanned and, yes, wrinkly. It has been for some time now, he knows; he just never imagined it to mean that he had grown old. People like him, they die young and violently. They don't get to have coffee in Grenada with their partner (boss/friend/everything) of the last thirty odd years.
He's still strong and quick, still dangerous. And yet, he thinks as he stares at his face in the mirror, had he seen this face on another man he would undoubtedly have described him as bloody close to ancient.
He returns to the kitchen, sitting down in front of Jim. "I am old," he tells his lover. "How the hell did this happen?"
Jim's hair is, of course, dyed a perfect black.
—-
He should be sad and horrified – and he is – but Sebastian can't help but smirk at Jim's disbelieving outrage, his absolute affront, as the doctor tells him that something as dull and ordinary as sodding cancer will spell the end for the greatest criminal who ever lived. ("Doesn't it know who I fucking am?!")
After the appointment Jim is grim, and silent. Sebastian tries to bring up the issue of possible treatments, but his lover gives him a disdainful glare. "What's the bloody use? We're not ever going to talk about this ridiculous shit again."
—-
So they don't talk about it. They go to Jamaica instead and have jerk chicken in Montego Bay. They drink rum under the stars and cheat at cards and on the seventh day Jim decides to topple the government, just for old times' sake.
At Sebastian's insistence they go on a canopy tour, swinging from tree to tree like a pair of (old and slightly stiff) monkeys, and Jim's complaining all but manages to drown out the jungle's rustling and the sound of gunshots in the distance.
They fuck every night.
—-
Three weeks after returning from Jamaica to their flat in London (they moved back to the city a couple of years ago, Jim citing homesickness) Sebastian makes them dinner. Nothing special, just an ordinary meal, but the tuna is cooked to perfection, the red wine ample and slightly spicy, just so.
They take brandy in the sofa, Jim curling up next to Sebastian, his head resting on the taller man's shoulder. Bach is playing softly in the background and outside their window night is falling.
"Sebastian?" Jim murmurs.
"Hmm?"
"I killed us a little while ago."
"What - ?!" His eyes fall on the empty glasses on the coffee-table. "Poison in the brandy?"
Jim sniffs. "That's a bit obvious, don't you think? I put it in my lip balm, passed it onto you when we kissed. Poetic, see?" He traces his fingers along Sebastian's arm. "It's a very good poison. Slow, gentle. Just like going to sleep. You don't mind, do you?" he adds, almost as an afterthought.
"You might have asked me that before," Sebastian notes wryly, but without any heat. Jim Moriarty has never in his life asked for permission, and there seems little point in him starting now. "Naw, I don't mind," he concedes.
They've had time; more so than either of them would ever have imagined.
Jim looks up at him, and Sebastian bends his head to capture the other's poison-coated lips in a kiss. It is long and deep and it is the memory of a hundred thousand kisses, it is a lifetime shared and all the words never uttered ("I love you").
Sebastian leans back in the sofa, closing his eyes. He hugs Jim tight to his chest, breathing in the smell of his lover, the taste of him still in his mouth, and Jim's body is so warm against his.