I like Trans Ams. They're pretty. I do think that Jim can drive, though probably erratically. However, for the purposes of this drabble, Jim cannot drive. :3

"I want that car." Jim pointed across the showroom to a sleek, black automobile. Seb regarded it with narrowed eyes.

"Jim, that's a 1970's, mint condition Trans-Am Firebird."

"Yeah, and I want it."

"It's thirty-five grand."

"How wonderful. I want it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Pay the man."

"Jim."

"What?"

"You can't drive."

Seb drove the Trans-Am home, it sounded lovely, like a proper American muscle car: deep, growling, beautiful. Sebastian had a soft spot for such sounds, like the deepest purring of a cello, and the darkest, lowest notes of a Tenor saxophone, those were the sounds that Sebastian could relate things to. He thought of Jim's voice in musical terms too: perhaps a lilting violin and occasionally crashing cymbals, like thunder. When Jim sounded like thunder he could bring grown men to their knees to beg for mercy. Mercy which Jim never gave.

Jim was sprawled out over the passenger seat, the window open to the warm weather, a cigarette poised between his fingers, a subtle grin playing about his lips. Jim had learned that not every day could be filled with murder and malice so sometimes just the sun and a fast car was enough.

The car was second hand, it had to be, would there be anything in the glove box? Jim checked, half hoping there would be some rotting fingers or at least a blood stained note detailing the gruesome death of the previous owner.

There was a packet of chewing gum that Jim swiftly tossed out of the window, the papers of the car: MOT and service records, a perfect history. There was a cassette tape rattling around at the back. Jim held it out for Seb to take a look at,

"Oh, put that on James, dear." He grinned.

Jim obliged silently, switching on the radio and putting the cassette in. A couple of seconds of silence started before there was an A minor arpeggio on a vintage sounding guitar, perhaps a Gibson. Jim smiled, it was pretty. Jim liked pretty, it was why he liked Sebastian. Sebastian was, without a doubt, pretty: blonde, tall, strong jaw, thin nose, blue eyes with the beginnings of crow's feet at the edges. He was lean and strong, with hands that a normal person would take to be a surgeon's or a pianist's, but Jim knew better: they were a sniper's hands, and that made them all the more beautiful.

The both of them had blood on their hands, they could have washed their hands in blood and they would be cleaner. It was what made them right for each other. Not even as partners, nor friends, but as a unit, as a workforce: as a fearsome, formidable company. No one could or would get in their way, anyone who did would be the next basin of blood to wash from.

"What's New Orleans like, Seb?"

"Wet, I would imagine."

"You've never been there?"

"No, why would I've been?"

"You've been everywhere, Sebby."

"You're in an unusually good mood today, James." Seb reached over and gripped Jim's knee affectionately.

"Some beautiful toys are in my possession, Sebastian, why shouldn't I be happy?" Jim stretched out, his expression and tone far from happy.

"Toys, James?" Seb's tone was mockingly offended, "Surely you don't mean myself?" Jim frowned,

"Of course I do." Jim tossed the butt of his cigarette out of the window and pulled his sunglasses out from his suit pocket and slipped them on, sinking further into the bucket leather seats. Sebastian removed his hand, trying not to be offended.

"You don't own me, Jim." Jim decided to ignore Seb's comment and made to light another cigarette,

"Let's go fuck in Richmond park—we can have lunch in Pembroke." Sebastian, without a word, swung the car right the way round a round-about and went the opposite direction back down the road.

The ride was mostly silent, more so when the tape ran out and neither of them could be bothered to rewind it again, and frankly, neither of them had any inclination to listen to the Animals' rendition of 'House Of The Rising Sun' again.

It was as they crossed over Putney Bridge that Jim decided to speak again, "I've made you angry." He observed.

"Yes." Seb replied, it was too late to hide his feelings now, Jim already had every inch of him figured out.

"You don't belong to me." Jim didn't sound particularly convincing, "But I do pay you, and house you, and feed you, and clothe you, so really, you are a little bit mine."

"I'm yours in many senses, Jim, but not in the way you're implying." Sebastian snapped in reply.

"What do you mean?" Jim leant forward, head cocked to the side curiously.

"I mean I love you, always have done, always will, and so in that sense I'm yours." Jim nodded slowly, "But while we're not working, I'm not your slave. You can't order me about when we're... off duty, as it were."

"But we can hardly be equals, Sebastian, I'm far more intelligent than you." Sebastian rolled his eyes; it was the closest thing he would get to an apology.