A/N: I will be using a horizontal line to indicate the beginning and end of major flashbacks, just so that there is less confusion. Oh, and March 4th is my birthday. I know it's cheesy and lame of me to make that a significant date for Seb and Jim, but you know what? I did it anyways. Birthday reviews? Please? That's the only thing that I want for my 18th birthday.

B/N: (Beta-note) As always, it's a pleasure to work with Fuseaction, and it's brilliant this time around because she is having a bit of a hobbit sort of birthday. You come to her story, she gives you a gift. ^^ Happy Birthday to the Seb to my Moriarty. -Kootenai

Chapter 10

Exactly 5 Years Ago

The 4th of March

Sebastian lounges, something he hasn't had the luxury to do since before he went to war. He's got time, time enough to relax before he needs to get ready for his next hit. 3 days to be exact.

The hotel is nice, clean sheets, soft bed, room service. The first 5 months after he was Dishonorably Discharged were spent raging around Afghanistan (not recommended), after which he returned to London a bitter and essentially homeless man. It had taken nearly a year of living in squalor after being discharged before he finally returned to his natural talent. Killing people. That's where the money was. Dealing death and getting paid. It was a simple life and suited him just fine. No more hunger, no more freezing nights spent in damp alleyways.

Barely 2 years had passed since the day that he'd accepted his first official job, and since that day, things had only gotten better. By the end of the first month he'd completed 3 hits and already had enough money to move into a small one bedroom flat. By the end of the year he had small, discreet flats all over London to lay low in after a hit. Things were definitely looking up. He had enough of a reputation by now that he could choose which jobs he took, with hits lined up months in advance. It's like I'm a bloody 5 star restaurant, he'd thought at the time.

He glances at the file on his lap that he'd been perusing, a hand running through his hair. Typical, really. The man who was paying him for this upcoming job was the usual business-man-turned-criminal looking to knock off the competition. This "Mr. Meyers" would be paying him a considerably larger amount of money than normal due to the relatively high-profile of the target. His victim was a well-known physicist and author of several books on the topic, aside from being an admired philanthropist, donating huge sums of money through different companies to charities, etc. How does someone like that get on the (s)hit-list of someone like Meyers? Well, no one that good really exists. They're undoubtedly scum as well, but they just put up a better front.

He sighs, shaking his head as he stands, stretching. While lounging was nice, Sebastian had always preferred to be on the move, hence the hotel. It made things feel more…hands-on? Nah, it's just nice to get out of the usual routine. Mix things up a bit.

He pulls on his plain leather jacket, grabbing his wallet and gun, tucking one into his pocket, and the other into the back of his trousers. He snatches his room key off of a side-table, heading out of the door and down the long, thickly-carpeted hallway. He takes the elevator down, cringing internally at the tuneless lounge music that plays over the speaker. Who was the dimwit that decided that this was the proper music for a goddamn elevator? Why can't we just enjoy some fucking silence? In the shiny metal of the doors he can see himself foggily. Blond hair, jeans, a black t-shirt, and the old leather jacket to top it all off. Despite the money that he was raking in, he preferred to dress simply, never having had a particular love for fashion or expense. He thought spending frivolous amounts of money on clothing was just that: frivolous, ridiculous, unnecessary. If it didn't have a giant hole torn in it, he'd continue to wear it.

The elevator dings, and the door opens. The woman at the front desk turns her sullen eyes on Seb, appraising him as he walks by. In your dreams. No, hell no. Not even then, lady. He strides out into the cool night air, feeling it whip his hair around as he scowls lightly at the people and cabs that clog the streets. Seb considers himself to be a practical man, avoiding the pointless and boring things that city life entails, but there is one exception. Seb appreciates a good pub. While he was in Afghanistan that was what he'd missed most about London. Amongst all of the dust and heat, there wasn't a proper pub to be found.

The nearest pub to his hotel was The Lion's Den, a ramshackle little place with dirty windows and good food. He walks there, fully intending to drink the night away. The evening is young, and Seb seats himself at one of the booths that's against the front window. He settles back, downing his first two lagers quickly, motioning to the bartender for more. This'll be nice. About time I get to relax.

Hours pass as he sits in his booth, entirely ignored by everyone else in the pub, his drink tab getting pricier as the night went on. He feels himself becoming at ease, enjoying the buzz that is making his senses dull, giving him a pleasant buffer between himself and the world. Everything is slightly muffled and muted, and it's an almost unbearable relief to not have to try and interpret the drunken slurring going on around him.

He feels someone sit in the booth next to him, and glances over. A small and unassuming man with a cap on and a large jacket is quietly drums his fingers on the table. Before he can tell him to piss off, the small man says something that takes Seb completely by inebriated surprise.

"I understand that you were paid to kill me. I'm here to make you a proposition. I'll pay you double to go back to your employer tomorrow and shove this letter opener into his neck. His people will know what it means…Goodbye for now, Sebastian. I expect we'll be seeing each other quite soon."

The small man stands and walks away from Seb, leaving a gleaming letter opener and a packet on the table, and Seb at a loss for words. He hadn't been able to catch much of a description of the man, aside from his general height and weight-class. The voice had sounded Irish, but rather weird. That seems familiar. Short. Thin. Irish. SHIT.He'd just been approached by his target. He hurriedly looks around, seeing if the man has already left, finding no trace.

He examines the letter opener, admiring its potential lethality, and then the packet. He tears open one end of the manila paper, glancing inside. Money. More than double what his employer had offered. And a note. Well, color me mind-fucked.

Be a dear, Sebastian, and look out the window to your left. You'll see a devilishly handsome fellow in a suit standing across the street. That'd be me. You already know my proposition, but I've heard of your reputation and would like to offer you more...permanent...employment. Take it. Don't take it. Either is fine, so long as you're not boring about it. If you decide not to accept my offer, I'll be sitting at a cafe table at Rubio's 3 days from now, wearing a red tie and a black suit. Kill me if you wish, but make it interesting. I plan on hearing from you. I've left you something in your hotel room. Consider it a "Welcome to the Team" present.
-J. Moriarty-

Seb looks up again, but the man is gone, leaving him feeling rather dazed. What in the sweet fuck just happened? "Left you something in your hotel room"...Seb jumps up, running once he gets outside the door, the distance to his hotel never feeling longer.

Upon reaching his door, he pauses outside with his gun at the ready, listening. Nothing. He uses the key to turn the lock, opening the door silently. He enters the room at a crouch, his gun preceding him as he slowly makes his way inside. The room should have been dark, but he finds that the bedside lamp has already been turned on, its light flooding over something long and dark on the bed. His hands tighten on his gun as he walks into each room slowly in his gunman's stance, his ears listening for the slightest sound of feet on carpet, or the click of a gun. Main bedroom: nothing. Bathroom: nothing. Balcony: nothing again.

He approaches the bed and stares, dumbfounded. A suit? A bloody expensive one at that.He picks open the black jacket, finding a dark grey button up underneath. The black slacks seem like they would be a bit form fitting, but that was the style now-a-days. Tucked into the inside pocket was another note.

Try it on. It's a guaranteed fit. You can keep it even if you don't decide to work for me. Better yet, wear it while you kill me, if that's what you want. It was tailor-made, damned expensive, and the style was chosen just for you. Choices, choices, choices. If you decide that you want to learn a little more about what our potential partnership would entail, leave a note with the word "Yes" on it with the frumpy woman at the front desk. It'll find its way to me.
-J. Moriarty-

Seb can't help but be fascinated. He rereads the note, looking at the suit, and crosses to the window, peeking out into the dark. This seems promising...

Present

The 4th of March

12 Am

Seb is startled awake by the sound of his mobile going off in the living room. No doubt it had slipped out of his pocket during his little scuffle with Jim when the tiny man had tackled him to the floor. Jim. Seb looks over at the outline of his crime lord, the gentle rise and fall of Jim's breathing creating the smallest noise against the silence, the only sign that the man was alive against the relative still. The tie is no longer around Seb's neck, having been lost amongst the folds of the sheets. The phone goes off again, causing Seb to swear under his breath as he rolls out of the warmth of the bed. Shitting hell, it's chilly. He makes a detour to his stash of clothing, putting on clean boxers and pajamas before hunting for his phone. The living room is pitch black except for a small glow coming from under the charred couch. Bugger. He kneels, leaning to reach for his phone, the brightness of its lit screen blinding him for a moment. He blinks the tracers from his eyes, reading the alert.

The day things changed.

He smiles at the words, the sleep clearing from his mind as it dawns on him. It's the anniversary of the day that he met Jim. He'd forgotten. He erases the alert from his phone. Best not to let Jim think I'm being sentimental. He sets his mobile down on the coffee table, turning away. His phone goes off again. This time it's a text.

Get back in bed, you dolt. I'm cold.

-JM

A smirk creeps onto Sebastian's face as he tosses his phone onto the blackened couch, making his way back to Jim. He approaches the bed, shifting back the sheets on his side. Jim turns over and pouts, his hair mussed and his eyes half open. Seb resists the urge to laugh. Bed head looking great, boss.

"And what were you up to at this time of night? You abandoned me to freeze in my own bed!" Jim props himself up on an elbow, yawning.

"Just checking my phone. Hmm, maybe you should do the messy, bed head look more often. Looks good on you." Jim makes a small noise of assent. Seb lifts his eyebrow as Jim stretches exaggeratedly, extending an arm and a leg across the center of the bed, encroaching on Sebastian's side. Cheeky little prat.

"Everything looks good on me." Jim turns his head away, yawning again. The smaller man's arm still rests where Seb's shoulders would be. It's not as if he's going to make this easy. Seb lies down smugly on Jim's arm, his bare back feeling the thin length of the bony forearm flex as Jim roll sideways towards Seb, leaning his head against the sniper's shoulder. No wonder everyone assumes we're fucking. You don't really give anyone anything to prove otherwise, now do you Jim? You probably enjoy how annoyed I am by that. Jim sighs against Seb's shoulder, humming under his breath as he traces circles on Seb's chest with his free hand.

"Jim?" Seb's voice is low.

"Hmm," Jim purrs, his chest thrumming with the sound.

"What are we? Us, I mean. You're my boss, and my friend when you want to be. And now we're…cuddling." Seb struggles with his thoughts. Where am I going with this? I should've stayed quiet, this'll totally ruin whatever dynamic we had going. Shit fuck.

Jim hand goes still for a moment before he resumes his tracing.

"It doesn't matter," Jim mumbles quietly, sounding slightly angry. I'm sorry I asked.

"No…you're right." Seb turns his face in the dark, his chin brushing against Jim's forehead, where he settles. It shouldn't matter, really. It doesn't.

Jim mutters something, his fingers drumming; pinky first, ring finger, middle finger, pointer, and then thumb. Over and over, the peristaltic rhythm hypnotizing Sebastian.

"It's such a common thing to do, Seb…so boring and tedious. Leave it to the peasants, pet. Let them categorize. Let them separate everyone and everything into its own little hell. Compartmentalizing and drawing lines as if it'll change anything. Nothing really matters, Seb. Remember that." Seb looks down at the line where the black of Jim's hair meets the ivory of his flesh, saddened. "We're above all that, you and I. Beyond it. So far beyond anything the generic drones of humanity can comprehend."

Seb can tell that Jim is staring off intensely into the darkness, the fervor of his thoughts trapped in that brilliant head. This is one of those times when I wish I could just switch off your intelligence, since it seems to hurt you more than anything. Seb reaches a hand over, pushing the hair back off Jim's forehead, hoping to soothe, afraid to enrage.

Jim is still, as if quietly stunned by Seb's act of affection. Seb feels Jim grappling internally with the urge to break Seb's hand or to allow the contact. Either way, I'll still be here.

"Only you, Seb." Jim relaxes into the touch, his eyelids finally sliding shut over his dark eyes.

Seb stares into the dark, cradling his crime lord's skull, recognizing it as the source of illumination that had shown him the true face of humanity; blank-faced like sheep, their eyes sightless, turned blind by the desecration of their natures at birth, fit only for slaughter.

Jim sleeps, the tension lingering in his limbs before his body finally softens. Only you, Jim. You poor fucking bastard. Seb lets out a sigh that stirs the air, the deflation of his lungs causing Jim's head to lose contact with Seb's chin momentarily.

"Happy anniversary, Boss." Seb's consciousness fades to a fuzzy black as sleep lays hold to his mind.

Seb wakes up to light shining on his face from the window and electro-swing playing from the stereo system in the living room. Jim's up then…I'd better get up before he lights something on fire again.

He makes his way to the kitchen, finding an insane amount of sliced fruit on a platter (a result of Jim's eccentric tastes), along with a pot of coffee. Guess that means no sausage… Seb plucks an apple slice off the top, making his way to the living room where Jim is lying on a new couch, having replaced the charred one during the few hours that he was awake before Seb. The power of Jim Moriarty's criminal web being used to its most dire purpose: furniture delivery. Bravo, boys.

"Well holy hell, I see you've gotten me a new couch to sleep on. Did I snore loud enough to induce such prompt replacement?"

Jim smiles, his eyes closed as he bobs a leg off the side of the couch to the beat of the music.

"Sebastian, you don't snore, you kick like a bloody mule. Nearly fell off the fucking bed because of you." Jim sits up, placing a heel on the floor that he continued to thump to the beat.

"Shame. It would've been funnier if you had." Seb dodges the playful punch that Jim had aimed at his stomach, flicking Jim's forehead hard enough in retaliation to leave a red mark.

"Ouch, you fucking prick." Jim cups a hand to his forehead, lying back on the couch again, looking like a swooning maiden. He seems happy enough. Looks like last night's been forgotten, for now.

"What're we doing today, Jim? Anything interesting?" He ignores Jim's grumbling about internal hemorrhaging, sitting on the arm of the new couch.

"We're going to head in to the office today, just to check up on a few things I've got going."

"Sounds simple enough." Seb moves off into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee. Jim limps in after him. "How's the ankle?"

"Shit, so I took a few of the pills I gave you, and now I can't feel anything." Jim sits at the counter, twisting from side to side on the rotating stool, looking like a child.

"Sebby."

"What?"

"I know what day it is." Jim's voice is smug, his eyes lit with mischief.

"Congratulations? I guess? It's Sunday, so yeah. I don't see your point, though."

"Not that, you moldy twat. It's the 5 year anniversary of us meeting."

Seb is shocked. He waits for Jim to say more, but Jim stares at him expectantly.

"Been keeping track, Jim? Seems a bit…thoughtful. You don't do thoughtful." It was the truth. Never had Jim ever acted as if he had any inkling of the significance of the 4th of March during the previous 4 years. What's brought this on?

"Oh Sebby, don't underestimate me. Today we're doing something special."

Seb tries to drown the pathetic warmth that floods his chest. You idiot, don't get all giddy over this. No doubt it'll be something business related. Despite his best efforts, Seb cracks a smile, feeling it turn into a grin as Jim responds with a small upwards curving of his lips. I've got mixed feelings about today…

A/N: Apologies for the shortness of the chapter, but I figured that I might have made up for it with the flashback. Thanks for reading ^_^! Please leave a review :3