When she woke up, it was with the kind of grogginess she usually associated with a long, long sleep. The only clock in the room was an analog clock set by the TV on the dresser, and it was too dark in the room to bother trying to check it, even without the fact that Sebastian was wrapped around her like a python. She didn't mind, just shifted a little and muffled a yawn into his chest, enjoying the peace.
He was in a hazy in-between of awake and asleep. There was a rhythmic warm patch on his chest which his foggy brain gradually associated with rise and fall of Harrison's chest, and he smiled a little sleepily, tucking her a little closer under his chin.
If she'd been considering trying to get up, that dashed her hopes. She thought it was adorable when he did that, though she'd never even consider saying it out loud. That one, she'd take to the grave. She stifled another yawn and shifted her cold hands up under his shirt to try and soak up some warmth.
Warm... warm... wa-COLD VERY-
He snorted in surprise and shoved the offending item away from him. Said offending item happened to be Lorna, and he glared at her with adrenaline-widened eyes, indignant. "No."
"What the hell are- are you good for, then?" she chuckled, interrupted mid-sentence with a yawn. She tucked her cold fingers between her thighs and burrowed under the covers a little more. "M' cold. Poor circulation runs in my family."
"Or doesn't run," he pointed out with a smirk, sighing and reaching out to take her hands, pressing them against his sides above the fabric. "Just keep off bare skin," he muttered, pulling her back in.
"What's the point, then," she teased, taking the covers with her as he pulled her back over. She was feeling good. Her leg and ribs weren't in a lot of pain, and she'd gotten enough sleep to actually be alert before him for once. And they were okay. This wasn't in danger of falling apart at any minute. "I mean, I brought jeans, the least you could do is just forego the shirt entirely."
"Yeah, well, you're an icicle, so maybe we'll give that a few minutes first," he muttered, smirking.
"I'm small, I lose body heat easily, give me a break," she chuckled, curling up a little to try and get her extremities to warm up a little. "You're big, you'll be fine. Like a bear."
"Bears still do not appreciate being woken up by icicles," he muttered, but wrapped her up a bit tighter in the blanket.
"They're bears, what the fuck do they care?" she hummed, soaking up his warmth like a cat in the sun. Again, it amazed her how quickly things could change between them. Never a dull moment with them.
"Have you ever seen an angry bear? Because I have and would seriously not recommend it," he snorted, tickling her side slightly.
She let out an indignant noise and rolled away, taking the blankets with her and turning herself into a sheet burrito. "That was uncalled for."
"Oi!" he muttered, tugging on the blanket. "Neither was bogarting the blankets!"
"Fuck off, I'm cold," she retorted, smirking and rolling further away, cocooning herself tighter into the covers. "Go get your own blanket. I think there's one in the living room. Unless you're going to promise to not tickle me. Then I might relent."
"I could just smoosh you, but I won't, because you're injured. Take that as your only mercy," he muttered with a glare, before reaching over to pick her up, rolling her up onto his chest as he lay on his back. "There. Lorna-blanket."
"Alright, I suppose I don't have any complaints," she smirked, though wriggling a little to get a hand free, since the several layers of blanket burrito around her were warming her up faster than she could expel the excess heat. "Don't know if I'd call that mercy, but I guess that's not really your strong suit."
"Really not," he agreed with a smirk, tugging a layer of the blanket unwrapped to cover his sides, but leaving her the rest.
She laughed. "To be fair, I guess it's really not mine, either. Look what I did to Malcolm. Christ, what an idiot. Don't know if he really deserved to be killed in an elevator, though. Does anybody?"
"If anyone did, it was him," he said firmly, smirking and wrapping his arms around her again. "No doubt."
"Well, if you're so sure, it must be true," she grinned, then wriggled a little again. "Okay, I need to get out of these blankets. I'm baking in here. Help."
"Nope. This is your punishment," he said with a smirk, wrapping his arms around her. "Think about what you've done as your organs slow-cook."
"No no, let's not do this," she suggested, in a tone that suggested she was regretting her previous actions. "How about we let me out of this crock-pot and think of something better to do. Something like me putting on my best-fitting pair of jeans and then going to eat breakfast while you be very glad that I didn't just die of heat exhaustion right on top of you, in the not fun way."
"Finneee..." he sighed, letting her roll free carefully. "But only because you mentioned the jeans."
"Thank god," she huffed, kicking off the covers with the leg that was still fully functional and immediately sliding out of bed, desperate to be free of any residual body heat she left behind, and headed for the dresser. "Here's hoping Jim is shut away in his room. Pray for me."
"I don't know who I'd pray to, honestly. Broken most of the various overlords' rules, but if I think of anyone I haven't pissed off, I will." He stood up as well.
She snorted, smirking, and pulled a pair of jeans out of the dresser, and leaned against the dresser as she pulled them on so she didn't lose her balance. "I was more asking for the sentiment, but I'm sure I can think of something. One of the Norse gods, maybe?"
"Maybe," he smirked as he started to get dressed as well, admiring her figure in the jeans as he did so. "As for Jim, he wouldn't bother you so much if you didn't always show him your throat."
"Keep in mind my long and troubled history with my bosses. A lot of them were big on the whole being submissive thing. I'm a little too nervous to even get close to talking back," she snorted, heading for the door. "I generally try not to antagonize the man who holds my oh-so-delicate life in his hands."
"I'm not saying talk back. I'm saying don't cower," he snorted, pulling on a flannel shirt in retort to the jeans and rolling up the sleeves.
She didn't try to pretend she wasn't eyeing him in that shirt - god, did he look good in flannel - and leaned against the door. "Mhm. So what, be my normal self? I'm kinda flighty by myself, Sebastian. If you think I shouldn't cower, I've got to treat this like a job. Get a character or some shit. Sounds tiring as shit, but I guess it's better than him pulling on my puppet strings."
He shrugged. "You need to decide what the best option for you is, how to handle Jim. Or you're going to keep hitting the breaking point."
"Yeah, well..." she sighed, shrugging helplessly. "Whatever. I'll find it eventually. I'm not in a real docile mood anyway, that's for sure. Low on blood sugar and wondering how much movement I have before I bleed through the gauze and these jeans? Not planning on rolling over," she chuckled, pushing off the door and turning to open it. She really did need food. She needed to catch up on the meals she'd missed, still.
He nodded, still keeping a careful eye on her as she walked. "Seems like you're in luck, Jim seems to be in his room," he says with a grin as he heads for the refrigerator.
"Thank god," she muttered, casting a glance across the small living room towards Jim's closed door, and followed him into the kitchen to hover over his shoulder at the fridge, impatient for food. "I guess your prayers worked out. Must not have pissed off all the deities yet. Do we have bacon?"
"Yeah, plenty," he says with a nod and pulling out a tray of thick cut maple bacon imported from the U.S. They might be in hiding, but Jim still insisted on the best. "Want french toast?"
"Yes, please," she hummed, taking the bacon and beginning to rummage around for a suitable pan with which to fry them. Jim didn't seem to organize his kitchen by any sort of rules. What were the pans doing in the same cabinet as the tupperware? Why did they have tupperware? "Christ, nothing like the next three meals after you've been chained to a table for like, three days. Everything becomes fine dining."
He nodded in agreement, eyebrows raising as he stumbled upon a half a bottle of vodka at the back of the fridge in his search for butter. He pulled it out, finding a glass and pouring himself a generous serving, raising the bottle in her direction questioningly.
She glanced over, then nodded. "Yes, absolutely. Never had vodka with bacon, I don't think. Surprising, really. Anyways, some good old-fashioned painkiller would be nice," she snorted, setting the pan on the stove and turning on the gas before reaching for the bacon.
He poured her a decent helping as well, setting the bottle aside and returning to his search for french toast ingredients. He eventually surfaced with milk and eggs, and set them in the counter, pulling out a loaf of bread. "How are you feeling, anyway?"
She shrugged, the bacon hissing as she prodded a slice with a fork. "I don't know. Emotionally, I guess I'm pretty stable. Physically, I think I'm only standing up because these jeans are so tight they're compressing my leg."
His eyes tightened just slightly in concern at that, though it didn't reach the rest of his face. "Then go sit," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Don't be an idiot and make things worse for yourself."
"Why not? It seems to be my special talent, might as well make use of it," she said sarcastically, though she abandoned bacon duty briefly to boost herself up onto the counter, letting out a huff of relief as the weight was removed from her leg.
He frowned at that, but didn't comment, pulling out another pan for the french toast. "Whatever you say, Harrison."
She made a face at him. It irked her just a little when he used her last name out of a professional context, but there was no way in hell she was going to pipe up about it. "Yeah yeah, Mr. Sarcasm. You're just bitter because you know that is totally my special talent. Besides my ass game in these jeans. But it's whatever," she smirked, in an effort to keep the tone light, and twisted a little to open a cabinet above her and pull out a plate for the bacon.
"That doesn't count as a special talent," he retorted, rolling his eyes, though he smiled just a little.
It was another week before Jim broke the news, though that phrase may have been generous. In reality they woke up to plane tickets stuck to the pillow between their heads with a knife, the gate call for later that evening.
The move to New York was quiet, uneventful. They flew on a public plane (much to Jim's chagrin, but it was much harder to track), and only checked one bag (Sebastian's guns). Within two days they were moved into a place Jim had bought a few years back, which was thankfully slightly larger than the hideout in London. Then the hunt was on.