A/N: We had a few requests to explore Jim and Seb's time apart, so both ladycorvidae and I thought it would be cool to have two short POVs, one for each man halfway through Jim's absence/death. Contains violence and torture and blood and boatloads of angst.
Chapter 9: To Fill a Void
Eighteen months to the day (December 16th, 2013, London UK) and it was witch-tit cold. Sebastian Moran kept his head down as he trudged through the sludge-filled street, bending into the wind as oblivious people doing their Christmas shopping brushed past him. The gaping wound in his chest had scabbed over, but with enough prodding or one glance at the medallion he hadn't worn since that day or fingers brushing over the burns on his ribs or the brand on his foot, the wound would reopen and he'd be engulfed in loneliness and despair, his only saving grace the thought of his next glass of Scotch. But he had to finish this hit first, before he could go back to the bottle; it was his first job in six months.
oOoOo
He ran. He had been running ever since he left Toum, owing a lot of money to a lot of people who were...not very nice to put it mildly. He knew that they were out for him, and he didn't know when or where his end would meet him. So now here he was, wandering the streets of London, England. It was bitterly cold and he blew into his hands to warm them, chafing them then sticking them under his arms, cursing his lack of gloves and his lack of luck.
There! Just for an instant, the ex-soldier caught sight of his mark, pure luck even though Moran no longer believed in it. Surreptitiously, he turned, following a safe distance behind as he sized up the man. Smaller than him, but most people were. Hat but no gloves, hmmmm, chapped hands would be very useful in torture. His employer wanted answers, and the sniper planned to deliver.
Tim stiffened; he could feel something ominous behind him. He turned, and there were Londoners and tourists and people laden down with food and parcels, others hailing cabs, and one other person who met his eyes for a split second. He took no chances and broke into a sprint, ducking down alleys and up side-streets, getting himself hopelessly lost, trying to shake the sudden fear that continued to only grow stronger.
Aaaaaand he bolted. "Fucking moron," Seb grumbled, chasing after him and slowly gaining on the man. He was disappointingly easy to herd as he got more and more lost, Seb managing to direct his efforts into a deserted dead end he knew well. Every now and again, the small man glanced behind and there was that man, following him. He quickly found himself in a dead-end alley, far away from anyone who would hear his screaming or the sound of a gunshot. He looked around frantically, searching for some place to hide, but it was useless; there was no cover, no shelter. He was trapped.
"Pathetic." The words were as icy as the water crystals in his blonde hair. Maybe he should have dried it before leaving the flat, not that he cared if he got sick anymore.
Tim fell to his knees. "Please..." he said, voice shaking. "Please, give me more time. Tell them that I'm working on getting the money, please don't kill me..."
Seb's boot connected with the man's pink cheek, hurling him back against the wall. "You sniveling, groveling excuse of a human being. You expect mercy? Do you know who I am?"
Tim hit the wall, cheekbone shattered and bleeding from the blow. "S-Seb-" he said. He was trying to say 'Sebastian Moran', but his broken cheek was swelling and impeding his speech, along with his fear.
The sniper's heart stopped. He was on his knees in an instant, discarding the man's hat and dragging him up. Short brown hair, pale skin, clear Irish brogue, smaller than him. "Look at me," he snarled. "LOOK AT ME!"
Tim whimpered and did so, looking up into the man's snarling and strangely desperate face.
Blue. They were grey blue. The color shocked Sebastian from his nightmare as he hauled the man up and slammed him against the wall. "Where did you hide it all? Hmm? Very interested parties want to know, and it could even save your wretched excuse for a life." No, it wouldn't. "You better fucking tell me. You know my name, you know what I'm capable of." His mind and heart were reeling, his chest a gaping hole.
"Bank, Dublin. Strongbox number 46592. Please, Seb-" he gasped as the tall man slammed him into the unforgiving brick of the alley wall.
"Stop. Calling. Me. That!" It was too close to home, hurt too much, no one called him that, no one but...him. "That the only place?"
"That's the only place! I swear it!" Tim wailed.
Seb threw him back down the alley before retrieving his gun from the back of his trousers. Tim hit the icy, unforgiving pavement, skidding and skinning his face and hands raw on its surface. He managed to pull himself up on all fours and started crawling away...too late.
One shot, back of the head and the man was down, blood pooling around him...lifeless brown eyes, cold, dead lips... "STOP IT!" Seb roared, clutching his head, trying to shake the memories. He struggled to get his mobile from his pocket, sending the information to his employer before telling him exactly where the money should be left and when before he made his way to The Magpie's Nest.
oOoOo
Roland had been a bartender at The Magpie's Nest for nearly twenty years, and most of those had been working under the service of Jim Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal. He had seen many things, and wasn't surprised by much anymore. He saw Jim's right-hand man walk in, looking like shit. Well, former right-hand man ever since Jim had gone and eaten the barrel of a gun. "Hello, Colonel," Roland said. "Your usual?"
"In ten seconds or I'll be having one of your toes as a souvenir."
Roland snorted. "Already happened," he said, taking out tumbler and pouring a double measure of good Scotch into the glass for the sniper.
"I know. I'd be having another on off you," Seb growled, downing the burning liquid in a single gulp before slamming it back on the bar, signaling another.
Roland sighed. Since his employer was dead, he couldn't very well follow his orders to cut the man in front of him off after two double Scotches. He poured another double measure and slid it over.
"Thanks," the sniper replied, eyeing the barkeep. "What's that look for?"
"Seen your look before," said the barkeep, drying another glass.
"What look?"
"Like you've been scooped hollow on the inside and it's been stuffed into your skull."
Seb had to fight back the tears that threatened him on an almost regular basis now, choosing to drain his drink instead of let them spill. "Yeah, so, what of it?" he wheezed, the Scotch, as always, like fire down his gullet.
"Drinking isn't gonna help it."
"It'll sure as hell dull it."
"No, it won't. It'll just make it worse. Because your mind unlocks the memories. And you drink more to forget, and it just makes them come back clearer. It doesn't stop 'till you've gone mad, or you decide to off yourself. Or if you find something else to do."
"That what happened to you? Never did ask why Jim took your toes." Seb slid his glass back to the barkeep, a familiar haze beginning to settle over his mind.
"Lost my wife and two babes, a son and a daughter...Emily and Alex. Drunk driver got them when my Agatha was picking them up from nursery school. Found meself at the bottom of a bottle, like you are now, wishing to God that I had died instead. The bastard who did them in got the bare minimum. Friends in high places, he had. I called Jim, asked him to fix it for me and he did, for a price, of course. Wanted me to work for him. So I says yes, on one condition; I get to watch the light leave the eyes of the man who had taken everything from me. He agreed. I watched, and worked for him. The toes? Suffice to say that I said something he didn't like and he ran a switchblade through one set of 'em as punishment. Had to get them removed because of the damage." He poured the blonde his third drink.
Seb listened, swirling the liquor around in his glass and watching it absently. "And then you were here the night he picked me up," he said bitterly. "Wish I'd never started coming here-"
"Liar," Roland interrupted quietly.
"Says you," Seb bit back, eyes flashing as he looked at the balding, pudgy man.
"I know you're a liar because if you'd never met him, then you wouldn't have what I once had. Someone to love," the barkeep said.
Seb threw the glass to the floor, shattering it and splattering Scotch all over the floor and his jeans. "Don't you dare say that. I'd rather be a drunken gutter rat than feel like this. I wish I'd never met him!"
"Still lying," murmured Roland.
Seb shot him his hardest glare, the pain in his chest almost too much to handle even with the Scotch in his system. "Give me the bottle," he said quietly.
"No. That'd be killing you. You want to do that, go get one yourself. I'm not going to watch you drink yourself to death in front of me," he said, stoic.
"Then pour me another round. That's an order."
Roland sighed. Since he was still working for the dead criminal (having never been given orders to stop), he had to obey the sniper. He did as he was told and poured him another drink.
oOoOo
It took several tries before Seb managed to fit the keys in the lock of the flat, banging the door against the wall as he stumbled into the place. He had yet to clean since Jim's death, most surfaces now blanketed by a nice layer of dust with, of course, the exceptions being the places where things had most recently been broken or torn apart. Slamming the door behind him, Seb made his way to their-his room, feet dragging in the carpet, kicking up small puffs of dust and nearly sprawling on his face a half a dozen times. When he collapsed on their-godfuckingdamnit-HIS bed, only then did the emptiness finally consume him. Barkeep was right. The drinks were only making it worse, lowering his defenses until he couldn't breathe for the pain. Hot tears trailing down an equally hot face, Seb kicked off his shoes, looking around at the untouched dresser that used to be Jim's, where the only non-dusty spot was where he'd put the medallion the man had given him. He couldn't bear to wear it anymore; it was just too close to his heart...his heart the man had viciously crushed and made him eat when he'd eaten that bullet.
"FUCK YOU!" the sniper screamed, trying to throw a discarded shoe at the wall and missing and smashing it into the mirror above Jim's dresser instead. Instantly, horror and shock crossed his face as he scrambled over, tumbling onto the carpet as he tried to piece together one of the only reminders of Jim's existence. The glass was shattered beyond all repair, but a letter of all things had fallen out from behind it. Shaking, drunken fingers opened the paper as delicately as possible, wrinkling it but thankfully not tearing it.
"I know you won't see this fucking thing, but after everything we've been through, I just want to say...well, I think you know. The monster and the drunken assassin, who would have thought, eh? The Fall is coming and I can't say goodbye. But fuck me if this doesn't fucking hurt. Catch you on the flipside, Tiger. Love, Jim."
Seb sank back onto the bed as he read and reread it, the paper dotted with water as he cried, holding it close. It was Jim's hand and hidden behind glass, so who knows when he'd hidden it there or why...but he'd known. It just confirmed that he'd fucking known.
The sniper nearly ripped it to pieces, but his trembling hands clutched it to his chest as he curled up on the sheets, unable to bear looking up at the canopy. Sometimes he could manage it, but not when he felt like he was bleeding everywhere. The better part of him was gone. He wasn't snarky anymore, he was cruel. He was completely sadistic and he didn't feel like he had a heart.
He had turned into his boss. And he just wanted it to end.
oOoOo
Jim paced the small, dingy room he was in, adding another furrow to the already decaying carpet. He was stuck in some shit hotel in a town in No-Name in fucking Hungary, of all places. He was in-between meetings, having just come from one with the Lebovitch mob patriarch, and he was scheduled to have another with the head of Hungarian crime syndicate in about three more hours. The criminal found himself thinking of Seb...
He growled. He thought a lot about Seb now, especially when he was unoccupied wahich was more and more of his time as of late. And every thought he had hurt. Remembering their times spent together: in the kitchen, laughing, watching movies curled up on the couch, making love like animals on their bed, torturing people to death, wearing matching feral grins. All of that was gone now.
He swallowed hard. Jim would never say it aloud, but he missed his sniper. His Tiger. His lover. He missed Seb the way one missed an amputated limb; he was gone, but Jim could swear he was still there on some days. And it just so happened that he would go and turn to say something cutting about his new allies to Seb...but he'd be alone.
Jim ran his hands through his hair and sat down on the bed, sighing. As much as he missed his lover, he couldn't get the image of his horrified and pained face after he saw him 'dead' on the roof of St. Bart's Hospital back in London. The consulting criminal closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He never wanted to see Seb look like that. And he realized, with growing horror, that he had broken his promise. He had lied to Seb. He had sworn he never would, but he had gone and done it anyway. When he got back, he'd have to apologize to his sniper. When he got back, he'd make it up to him. When he got back...
"Fuck me for a fool," he whispered to himself, harsh and bitter. "Even if you do get back, what makes you think that he'll still be there? What makes you think he'll take you back? He'll have moved on, found someone or something else. Or he'll be..." Here he swallowed hard and his voice became nearly inaudible, "dead." He shook his head. "No. I won't believe it," he growled. He knew that he was being childish, that it was foolish and painful and just stupid to keep up this hope; this mad, fleeting hope that Seb was still alive and would take him back if he returned- when he returned. But this hope was, right now, all that he had.
"Open up, Moriarty."
Jim started, bristling and checking his watch. The crime syndicate wasn't due for another hour at least. He opened the door, facing the sallow, weasel-faced man.
"Hello. You're quite early," he said, being courteous. He hated to do it, but one didn't make alliances by being rude and standoffish.
"Business finished early, thought I'd pop by," the man replied, elbowing his way into the flat and wrinkling his nose. "How the mighty have fallen."
His hackles were raised now. What a rude fuckass this man was. "I was under the impression that we were here to discuss an alliance," he said, his words clipped, shutting the door.
"Well, if by you coming to work for me you mean an alliance, then yes."
Jim blinked. Then, he started to laugh. He couldn't help it. "Me? Work for you? Oh, that's rich," he finally said, contempt filling his voice.
"Yes, for me, seeing as I own half of Europe. Something funny there, Jimmy?"
Oh, wrong thing to say, weaselfuck. Wrong thing to say. This tit had pressed one too many buttons. "Actually, yeah. I think it's hilarious how you say you own half of Europe when you really are operating out of your uncle's old garage. It's your older brother who runs things, and you like to shoot your mouth off when he gives you the chance to go do things. This is your first real big job, isn't it? The first big fish you have in your net. Well, you've landed a shark, and there's blood in the water," Jim said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing and opening his switchblade. It left his hand in a blur of silver and stuck hard into the wall with the man pinned through his shoulder, a red stain rapidly forming on the cloth of his cheap suit and the dingy wallpaper.
Weasel-face shrieked, his eyes wide as dinner plates as the small Irishman advanced on him. "What-what are you doing?"
"Sending a message," Jim said, keeping the man pinned and twisting the switchblade before removing it from his flesh. "Open wiiiiiide," he said, voice a sing-song as he forced the man's mouth open.
"N-No! STOP! LET ME GO!"
"Oops, too late!" Jim said, giggling. He slid the switchblade into one corner of the man's mouth and yanked, carving a thick red line through the flesh of his cheek all the way to his earlobe before moving around and doing the same to the opposite side. "Look at it this way; if you open your mouth any more, you can have people tell you if there's something stuck in your back teeth. Well, if you had back teeth," he mused, admiring his handiwork over the shrill, garbled screams.
The pain was more intense than anything he'd experienced, his sallow face burning and twitching as he saw his blood pour down his shirt, splattering the other man. He knew he was screaming, even though he couldn't feel his throat anymore, blood hot and thick as it started to choke him.
Jim's eyes burned with an unholy light as he grinned. "I think you'll be a nice message to your dear brother not to take me lightly now. And, to be honest, I'm doing him a favor...pruning the family tree," he said. He ripped the screaming man's shirt down the front, baring his torso and carving the words "YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED" across the quivering man's chest, before gutting him and letting his entrails pour out the new slit in his belly.
Weasel-face nearly passed out as the white hot blade carved him open before he saw his innards grace the room. More than he could handle and knowing he was already lost, the man collapsed in a pile of his own blood and bodily fluids as the last of the life drained from him.
Jim wiped the bloody knife on the sheets and changed his clothes, taking a shower to rinse the filth from him. As soon as he was done, he packed. "Pleasure doing business with you," he told the corpse in the room, grinning his death's-head grin before walking out, feeling much better.
A/N: Well, my co-writer does certainly like her blood. You've all been marvelously patient, and there is just one chapter to go, taking place after Jim's return, and after the closing of the parent fic. Read and Review!
