It took him all of two minutes to find a well-stocked liquor cabinet, and he pulled out a bottle of scotch and left her to make her choice, heading off to the kitchen to find glasses.
She was happy with his selection, so she just followed him, right on his heels. "If he's listening to us, he's going to be bored as fuck. Our conversational skills when drunk become nonexistent."
"Listening value might pick up once we start fucking," he pointed out, pouring a large glass. "Which I do intend to do."
"Breaking in the new place? I can get behind that," she smirked, sliding the other glass towards him in an invitation to pour her one too.
He poured her an equal amount, and raised his glass to her in a toast. "Cheers. May we both not die."
"Amen," she snorted, clicking her glass with his and taking a good swig. "Not bad. I can probably make some terrible decisions on this stuff."
"I might need a few glasses, we'll have to see. Wonder if he has absinthe. Everyone can make terrible decisions on absinthe. Though tequila also works in a pinch..." He took a long sip.
"It really doesn't matter to me. Once you get me a certain amount of turned on there's probably nothing I won't do."
His eyes lightened in amusement at that, and he smirked at her over his glass as he took another sip. "I'll have to start working on that, then."
"Oh, you got time," she assured him, leaning back, finger tapping silently against the glass. "You're good at it. But I'll not argue if you start now."
He grinned, taking a large sip of scotch and setting his glass down to refill it. "It is always a fun game, though, seeing how riled up I can get you."
"It's amazing, too. I can't believe how wound up you can get me," she snorted, muttering into her drink.
"That so?" he asks, eyes bright. "Well, maybe it's because I know your quirks," he said, lifting a hand to trail fingers over her throat as if to grab it, before dropping his hand and heading for the living room.
She bit back a shiver and followed him, taking another swig of scotch. "It's unfair that I can't do the same thing to you, Christ."
"Have you tried?" he asked with a grin, setting his glass on the end table. "You have done it a few times. One involved murder and I think we have to steer clear of that right now."
She smirked, following his lead and setting her own drink down, walking forward to adjust his collar, a bit unnecessarily. "Good point. I'm not even really sure what would get you going like you get me going. I can't always drive you crazy with jealousy."
"That is true," he conceded, smiling a bit and reaching up to slide a hand over her hip, squeezing slightly. "What I'm not sure you know, however, is that making you go crazy is a turn on for me like little else."
"God bless the feedback loop," she murmured, stepping in closer to him, pressing up against him, a grin spreading across her face. She unbuttoned the first few buttons on his shirt. "You can rip these tights, by the way."
"You know, it's really quite a bit less fun if you give me permission," he grumbled, smirking and pulling her into his lap.
She straddled him, still grinning. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do tell me what I can do to make this more fun for you, sir."
He raised an eyebrow, reaching up to just barely brush fingers over her ear and down her neck on the pretense of pushing her hair back. "Are you mocking me, Harrison?" he asked, voice neutral, inquisitive.
"Not at all," she purred, tugging his shirt out from his waist. "You are higher-ranking than me."
"Not anymore," he pointed out, sliding a hand up under her ridiculously short dress. "Neither of us have any rank at the moment."
She let out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes a little. "Alright, fine, Mr. Difficult, I was mocking you," she snorted, determined to wind him up somehow.
He grinned, eyes glinting. "You give up so easily," he chuckled, shaking his head and leaning up to bite her neck gently. "That's why I'm always in charge."
"It's only because I know how stubborn you are," she breathed, rolling her hips down onto his just a little. She wasn't nearly as good at manipulating him as she was at manipulating nearly anyone else.
"I think you just aren't persistent," he said, humming a little and shifting his hand to grip her arse beneath the dress. "Some grifter you are."
"I didn't think I had to convince you," she muttered, unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way and running her nails down his chest. "And you have a distinct advantage; you know that when you take charge you can melt me down into a puddle. But I don't know what I can do making the first move that will wind you up like a toy."
"Again, experimentation often leads to success," he said with a bit of a smirk. "But if that's what you want..." He arched a bit under her nails with a smirk, retorting by brushing a finger teasingly between her buttocks.
"I'll experiment next time," she agreed, then leaned down to kiss him, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and sliding a hand into his hair, nails scraping over his scalp. He was so hot. She'd find a way to really drive him crazy.
"Deal," he muttered, ripping the tights down the seam easily and pushing them off.
She ground down on him again, hands between them to fight with his belt, heart hammering in her chest. She bit down on his lip, tugging. "Just so you know, I want to hear you."'
He hissed slightly as she bit him, hardening beneath her in response to her grinding. He slid both of his hands along her thighs. "What's this now?"
"Talk to me, moan, I don't care. We have to put on a show for the radio, don't we?" she hummed, pulling his belt free of the loops and chucking it to the corner of the room.
He grins broadly at that. "That we do," he murmured against her lips, one hand shifting upwards so that he could slide a finger into her. "Can't have them bored."
She let out a quiet sound of something like relief, rolling her hips down onto him insistently, her hands finally getting around to unzipping his trousers, her lips trailing across his cheek and down to his jaw, where she left a tiny imprint with her teeth. "I wonder if this place is soundproofed."
He moaned softly, closing his eyes and taking a slow breath as her teeth teased his skin, finger curling slightly just inside her entrance. "I guess we'll find out," he murmured, turning his head to return the favor, nipping her neck as his other hand teased her arsehole gently.
She noticeably shivered, yanking his trousers down a little impatiently, eager to stop this ache in her core. "We just ran from fucking Moriarty. We probably have the least-interrupted sex life of anyone I've ever met," she chuckled, brushing a thumb ever-so-slightly over the bruising on his cheek before it trailed back to slide into his hair and get a firm grip.
"If you're not dead or busy, might as well fuck," he said breathlessly, pulling at her grip in his hair and shifting his hands free, lifting her up enough to shuck his pants.
She settled back down on him as soon as he was finished, leaning back just enough to peel off the ridiculous dress and send it flying across the room to land on the television. Then she was back on him, leaving a red mark on his neck, one hand going down to stroke him while the other left red marks down his side.
He groaned as she grabbed him, one hand returning to teasing her ass and entrance, the other grabbing the back of her neck firmly, pulling her back to bite her clavicle.
She gasped, her freer hand going to his frankly powerful shoulder to keep herself from falling backwards, thighs tightening on his hips. "Are we going to soil this sofa, or what?" she muttered, shifting, trying to get enough leverage to grind on him again.
"I don't know, are you riled up enough yet?" he asks, breath painting her neck with goosebumps.
"I'm not to the point of begging, if that's what you're asking. You're going to have to get rougher for that," she laughed breathlessly, only barely managing to keep herself from shuddering again.
"If you insist," he grinned, both hands moving to grip hers and push them behind her back tightly, forcing her to arch her back and push her chest forward. He scraped his teeth over her taut skin, leaving red lines, nostrils flared as he nipped at the fullness of her breast.
She groaned, swearing as he moved her until her center of gravity was hanging in the balance. How long ago had he done this exact same thing - back when he'd exerted his power because he had to remind her that this wasn't anything, that it would never be anything.
He shifted until he could both of her hands with one of his, the other coming forward to tease her nipple gently as his teeth found and dug into her throat. "What do you want me to do?" he asked softly as he released just before he broke skin, knowing she would have been expecting blood, knowing it would drive her crazy.
"Fuck me, hurt me, I don't care, just make me feel good," she groaned, writhing a little in his lap, desperate for a little more stimulation.
He smiled, shoving her backwards and finally overbalancing her, but changing the direction of her slow fall until she landed on the ottoman, her hands pinned beneath her. He was already dropping to his knees between her splayed legs, lips brushing the inside of her thigh as he leaned forward, one hand on her knee, the other shifting to her abdomen.
"Christ," she gasped, fighting to get her hands free for a moment before realizing that it was a lost cause (and an unworthy one) and giving up entirely, head falling back onto the leather of the ottoman, "You're going to kill me. Not complaining."
"Tried that once, decided I didn't like it," he quipped, pressing his mouth against her, his tongue running through her folds languidly.
She lost a witty comeback in a gasp, arching up a little, curling her hands into fists beneath her, now holding them there more in fear that he would stop than anything else; he was way too good with his tongue to interrupt.
He circled the tip of his tongue around her clit, before closing his lips around it and sucking gently, his fingers slipping up to play around her entrance, intent on making her lose control.
"Seb-" she whined, digging her heel into his back unintentionally, her breathing breaking down into high-pitched moans and gasps for breath. "Seb, Seb, fuck."
He continued without mercy, leaving her clit for the time being just as she was starting to lose her grip, plunging his tongue into her beside his fingers instead, stretching her and growling in happily as she clenched around him in response.
Even if there were only bugs upstairs, she was fairly certain that they were picking up her swears and cries. She was getting so close there were white spots in her vision, finally yanking out one of the hands that were trapped beneath her to grip onto the edge of the ottoman, to keep herself from arching so far up that she'd roll off. "Seb, Seb, please."
He finally relented, removing his tongue to return to her clit, his fingers curling to brush against her walls gently as he increased their speed, gunning to make her come spectacularly.
She was well on her way there, heat smoothing up her spine, curling in her stomach, a slight trembling in her hands where they both now held on to the small piece of furniture she was on. She didn't even try to quiet herself when she finally vaulted over the peak, crying out his name to the sound of leather scraping under her nails. And then she thought maybe she blacked out a little, because the next thing she knew she was sprawled flat against the ottoman, feeling more blissed out than she had in months, her thighs shaking just a little with the aftershocks. "Good god, I love you," she let out in a huff of breath, raising an unsteady hand to brush sweaty hair out of her face.
He moaned against as she came, his senses overwhelmed with her, her taste and voice and scent, and the way her thighs clamped around his head, her hips rolling and twisting under his free hand. He pulled back slowly when she relaxed, sliding his fingers out of her gently and licking them clean, watching her with a lopsided, toothy smile as she melted into a puddle on the ottoman.
Her shaky words when she finally spoke made him laugh, and he slid a gentle hand over her thigh, his wordless response. He might say it now, every once in awhile, but never in the house of his enemy.
He knelt up, then, leaning over, lips finding her breasts and teasing them gently as he waited for her to recover.
It wasn't long before she slid a hand into his mussed hair and got enough of a lazy grip to tug him up to her lips so she could kiss him, still slow and a little sloppy. She smirked against his lips. "What piece of furniture do you want to ruin for everyone else next?"
"Your turn to choose," he retorted with a small laugh, nipping her lip gently. "But choose quickly, because I am unbelievably turned on right now and patience is not something I have just lying around."
"Okay," she chuckled, brushing her fingers through his hair absently, humming as she thought. "Hm..." she considered the room, "How about the kitchen counter? Haven't been fucked on one of those for a while."
He didn't comment, just wrapped his arms around her and stood with a grunt, holding her close as he headed for the kitchen.
She didn't wait for her ass to hit the counter before she started trying to drive him even crazier, dragging her teeth down his throat, grinding against him with a provocative moan.
"Fuck, Lorna," he grit out, settling her on the counter a bit roughly and sweeping things out of his way with no consideration as to what it was. At least one thing made a hideous clang as it hit the ground, but he was already shoving her backwards on the marble.
"That's right, fuck me," she laughed breathlessly, completely disregarding the rather cool temperature of the stone beneath her. It would warm up. She didn't give him a chance to say anything in return, pulling him closer so she could kiss him with all she had, dragging her nails down his chest.
He snarled slightly as her nails drew blood, reaching down between them to guide his cock to her entrance, pushing into her with as near a whimper as he had ever made, body curling forward in relief as he started to thrust into her solidly.
She threw a hand behind her to catch the wall, letting out a positively filthy moan, still sensitive from coming not five minutes ago. Her free arm wrapped around his neck, keeping herself from sliding back on the counter, keeping herself as close to him as she possibly could, his labored breathing loud in her ear, the scent of sweat and gunpowder rolling off him. She curled her nails into his shoulder, leaving red marks on his clavicle between pants. She didn't need to tell him not to hold back.
Her every action sent heat and tension down his spine, his ass and thighs tightening in response, ramming his hips forward with unbridled power. His mouth found the shell of her ear, the slope of her shoulder, anything he cared to dig his teeth into, tasting flesh and blood and sweat, ravenous. One of his hands slapped flat onto the marble, steadying them both. His other arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her to him possessively, insistently. Mine.
"I'm- nnmf, fuck- I'm n-not gonna last much longer," she gasped, lips brushing his jaw before she found his lips and kissed him hard, possessively, not even sure whose blood she was tasting anymore, too heated to care. It was becoming harder to hold herself there, a jittery shaking in her arms, so she hitched a leg around his waist and used her newly free hand to scrape down his back and get a firm handful of his ass.
"Christ," he growled into her mouth, shoulders rolling back as she grabbed his ass. He lost his rhythm for a moment, almost coming on the spot. He managed to pull himself together shakily, his body pressing up against hers, panting slightly against her lips, spine a column of fire as he started to move again, so close to slipping off the edge. "Me e-either..."
She came hard then, without any real catalyst beside the fact that he felt so fucking good it felt like she was going to burn up from the inside out, that even if he was a traitor not everything they went through together could be fake, that there was something real here and in her world that was all that really mattered in the end.
He came with her, wrapping her tightly in his arms as he did so, his face buried in her shoulder as he shuddered with the force of his orgasm.
He relaxed slowly, laying her back gently against the marble counter, and shifted out from between her legs as they relaxed around him before leaning against the counter with a huff of exertion, skin shining with sweat, knees a bit wobbly.
"Wow," she breathed, the cold marble almost a relief on her overheated skin. "I'm... not sure I can move."
"Yeah, gimme a few," he grunted in agreement, head tilted back, weight on his elbows on the counter. "Fuck..."
"Take your time, it's not like I have plans," she chuckled, still breathless. "Fuck, it's still morning, too. I bet we really threw off the day of the people listening in. So many hard-ons, so little they can do about it."
"I very much hope it's the beginning of their shift and they have to suffer along," he sighed cheerfully.
"Serves them right, bugging a house that contains the two of us. They should know better, shouldn't they?" she snorted, then moaned as she shifted to roll off the counter onto her feet, a little bit gingerly. "I'm gon' go find a shower to clean up in. I might pass out in there, though."
"Mm..." he nodded, standing slowly. "I'll join you. Shower sounds good." He reached up to rub at his bruised eye a bit.
"Yeah," she nodded, thinking about taking his hand, then considering that there might be hidden cameras as well, and he might not want to appear that close to her. "There's probably one upstairs. Let's go."
He nodded in agreement, following a few steps behind her, turning over the day so far. He wished he knew what Mycroft was thinking.
She led the way up the hardwood stairs, eyes roving the woodwork on the wall for bugs, but they reached the bathroom upstairs without anything coming to her attention. She turned on the shower before she spoke. "Boy, would I like some solid answers."
"You aren't the only one," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I don't like to think that I betrayed Jim... I must have had damn good reasons if I did. I don't need money..."
"I don't know what it could have been," she sighed, stepping into the still-lukewarm shower. "I don't think you're spiteful enough to do it on any of the transgressions Jim's done to you. I highly doubt it was personal."
He sighed, too, closing his eyes. He could think of a few very specific reasons he might betray Jim, but if anyone thought he would be speaking that aloud they were very mistaken, no matter how loud the shower.
She wasn't surprised he hadn't answered; she hadn't really expected him to. It would have been out of character of him, and it would have been a bad idea. But it was her habit to wonder aloud in his company. Who else could she do it with? She let the silence be and reached for the generic shampoo in the shower rack, deciding to let him think in peace.
The information from Mycroft came later that day, a thick manila envelope hand-delivered by one of his assistants. Moran took it and headed for the sitting room where Harrison was napping on the couch, ripping it open neatly.
She shifted awake as the sound reached her ears, her grey eyes cracking open tiredly to focus blearily on the file in his hand. "That it, then?"
He nodded just a little, glancing over the file slowly before closing it and tucking it away. "Nothing useful," he said with a small shrug. A lot useful. But the papers confirmed his suspicions and he had no interest in spreading knowledge of his weaknesses any further, even to her, even if he suspected she already might know.
She nodded just a little, sitting up a bit and watching him. She wasn't going to ask to see the file herself. It wouldn't help anything. Even if she thought the file was real it wouldn't do any good to try and get a look at it for reporting back to Jim, not if she wanted to keep their cover. If this was even really a cover anymore. Was she willing to risk running Jim Moriarty for him?
Don't be stupid, you know the answer to that. Stop agonizing over it. This is no different than when he completely lost his memories. You've been on his side for years, now.
"I didn't really expect it to be," she sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It doesn't matter, either way, does it." It wasn't really a question. She turned her gaze to the windows. It was late afternoon now, and the front windows caught the descending sun better than her flat did. His caught the sunrise, though. "I guess we have to talk with him again, don't we?"
"Yes," he said with a quiet nod, taking a breath. "I don't think we have a choice. Whether I worked for him or not, with Moriarty out for our skins we don't have many options."
"Yeah," she murmured, then leaned her head back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. "Talk about trapped between a rock and a hard place, right?"
He sighed, nodded. "Agreed. But Mycroft... at least he doesn't currently seem to be trying to kill us."
"Yeah," she snorted. "If we'd had such loud sex to spite bugs Jim put on us he'd have us whipped. I mean, not that I'm putting it past Mycroft, but I'm at least seeing a delay. I don't know if he's ever forgiven me for spraying him in the eyes with a can of Lysol. Let alone what I did to his hand."
He nodded a little, and grinned just slightly. "You notice he never took his gloves off? I was trying to get a peek." Then he sighed. "Suppose we should stop enjoying that so much... apparently he's saving our skin."
"I'll still hold on to a little of that enjoyment. He's done or had done some spectacularly shitty things to me," she grumbled, tracing over one of the silvery, barely visible scars that wiggled it's way up her arm. "I mean, I don't want to bring up DeWitt if he gets pissy with me... but I'm gonna bring up DeWitt if he gets pissy with me."
His nostrils flared just a little at the name, and he nodded just slightly. "Please do. We might be making peace with him, but we don't have to like him."
"Yeah, I'm keenly aware of that," she shook her head, sighing. She glanced towards the windows again. "What do you think we have to do to get some food sent here? Loudly wish for it?"
"Or check to see if the kitchen's stocked," he said, standing and heading off to hunt.
"I mean, I was hoping for freshly prepared and hot off the stove kind of food, but whatever," she shrugged, rolling off the couch and heading to follow him, sparing a glance at the file he'd left on the bookshelf. Tempting. But she wasn't going to look. She wasn't.
"I can make that happen. Just relax a little, Harrison. Everything's got to be so immediate with you," he snickered, starting to look through what turned out to be a well-stocked fridge.
She followed him into the kitchen with a chuckle, boosting herself up onto the counter, a few feet away from where he'd nailed her. "Alright, alright, fine. Your cooking has always been startlingly good. I don't know where the hell you learned it, though."
"Cooked a lot for myself growing up," he said with a shrug, moving steadily past the subject. "Decided I might as well make it taste decent. Chicken parmesan sound okay?"
"I'm up for anything you make. You could probably make sawdust taste okay. I mean, this isn't a challenge or anything - I don't want you to make me sawdust - but the fate of my food rests in your hands."
"I very much doubt I could make sawdust taste remotely unshitty, but thanks for the compliment," he chuckled, pulling out what he needed and starting to hunt around for a baking pan.
"You're welcome. Really, after this morning's performance on the ottoman, it's the least I can do," she smirked. She wanted to ask him what he would do if Mycroft really was lying, but she couldn't, not in this place. Would he go back to Jim? Or would he take the opportunity for an out that she had passed up so many months ago? She suspected, of course, that he would go back to the network. But with Moran, anything was possible. He was more unpredictable than a tornado.
He could see the questions rolling around her lips, but he was grateful that she didn't ask them. He could guess what they were about and he had no answers for her. Nothing was certain.
"I saw Sara on the news the other day. She won her election," she said after a period of silence interrupted only by the sounds of him cooking. "I don't know what that will mean for us in the future. But I thought I'd let you know."
He sighed, but nodded. "Thanks for telling me..." He poured spaghetti sauce over the chicken. "Christ, I hate her."
"Yeah, me too," she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "I don't ever want to see her again. But I know we're going to have to. I just try not to think about it."
He nodded a little, turning to the oven to get it preheating and putting cheese over the chicken before going to the refrigerator to hunt down the makings of a salad.
"You know, if your sister had been connected to Mycroft... I don't know if I could have made myself come here," she said quietly, looking a little grim. "And if she were any less connected..."
"That's beside the point. We're here now and we have to live with that. And Jim wants her alive for some reason. What she did to me, and to you, through my father... It's part of the game. We're just sacrificial plays for a longer goal."
"Yeah, funny how sick I'm getting of being one of those," she muttered. She'd been a sacrificial play since the day she was born. Being born into crime did that to a person.
"Yeah, well, it's in the job description," he pointed out softly, starting to cut up vegetables. "We just need to work around it."
Sometimes, she was still stunned by how far they'd come. Even now she was surprised that his response hadn't been inflammatory, harsh. She let out a quiet laugh. "I know, you're right. I just like to pretend I'm too important to risk like that."
"So do I," he returned with a small smirk, his meaning ambiguous. He put the chicken in the oven and started tossing the salad together.
"Are you referring to me or to you?" she raised her eyebrows slightly, with genuine curiosity. "I mean, I'm going to assume you meant yourself, but I'm open to the idea of being flattered."
"Like you need a bigger head," he muttered, the smirk widening just slightly. He had meant her. He would like to think they both were a lot of things, but recently those hopes had been dragged through the muck.
"Excuse me, my head is perfectly sized," she retorted, grinning. Maybe if they hadn't been in unfamiliar territory she would have tried to wriggle a real answer out of him, but here... Well, there's no way they could have any doubts about my reasons for coming with him here, not after the way we've been acting. Except acting insinuates artifice. We've really become this comfortable with each other.
He smirked a little. "Whatever you say, Harrison," he snorted, tossing the salad a few times before setting it aside and leaning back against the counter.
"Damn right, whatever I say," she muttered with a smirk, sliding off the counter to open the fridge, looking through it for some beverage that wasn't alcoholic. She came up a moment later with a bottle of orange juice. "Want some?"
He glanced over to see what she was holding, and nodded a little. He turned to peer into the oven to check on the chicken.
"This is weird," she sighed, grabbing a couple of glasses from the cabinets and then pouring them both a thing of orange juice. "It's weird having Mycroft know where we are and not feeling like I'm in imminent danger."
He nodded in agreement. "We're the good guys, now, I suppose," he said quietly. He was still turning the file over and over in his mind. He would need to give it a more careful read through later.
"My parents would be so disappointed in me. Step-father included," she snorted, running a hand through her hair.
"My family would be thrilled. But there you are," he sighed, leaning down to pull the chicken out and set it out to cool.
She chuckled wearily, rubbing her eyes. "Should send your sister a spiteful postcard. Maybe dipped in something unpleasant."
He shook his head, eyes going dark as he picked up the sauce jar. "I don't want to be involved with her. At all. Murder or not. Not yet. Not until I can completely fucking... ruin her..." The jar cracked slightly under his grip and he swore quietly, pouring the rest of the contents onto the chicken before it leaked everywhere.
She fell silent, regretting bringing it up. Some things just couldn't be joked about. And the things that Sara Moran had done and had done through proxy to them... those were scars she could never be sure would heal. Even now there were times when she caught the wrong angle of him when she was tired, or drunk, and for a split second she was terrified again, back in that basement again. And him... she had no idea what things were still missing from his memory.
That brought up the issues with his possible traitor-hood. On the one hand, if he didn't remember whether or not he'd been a spy, there was a frightening possibility that he really had been. And that raised up the questions of how long he'd been a spy. How many times had he possibly betrayed her? On the other hand... if he remembered being a spy and was lying about it...
She sighed, and took a sip from her orange juice. "Do you want me to go with you when you go to talk to Holmes, or should I just occupy myself with something a 50's housewife would likely do while you're gone?"
He smirked just a little, plating the chicken. "I wonder which option you prefer? You can be so subtle, it's hard to read you." He sighed a moment later, doling out salad as he thought it over. "I want you to stay here. I want to stay here, to be honest. But we should both go."
She nodded, leaning against the counter. "Honestly, I'm not looking forward to it. But sitting around here doesn't sound much better," she sighed, shaking her head a little. "I think I've worked with enough geniuses for a lifetime, you know?"
"I know," he sighed, passing her a plate and heading for the fridge to find salad dressing. "Though honestly I enjoyed working for the last one. Or I thought I did at least. Maybe not."
"Oh, don't get me wrong, I enjoy the work, it's just the constant tiptoeing and fear of a looming presence that I don't like," she quipped, rolling her eyes. "Ugh. I don't know what kind of work I'm going to get here."
"Likewise," he sighed, walking over to sit at the table. "I'm a trained assassin and find myself working for the government. I'm not sure if my job security just went up or down."
She ran a hand through her hair, sinking down across from him. "I suppose they'll find somewhere to put us. Either way, it's not like we're lacking money."
"No. Hell, we're on Jim's hit list anyway, we could just fucking retire." He shrugged, cutting into his chicken and taking a large bite, hungry.
She smirked, following suit and wolfing down a good forkful of chicken. "I hear Mexico is nice this time of year. I speak good Spanish."
"China's also lovely. I speak Mandarin. And Irish. If I recall you speak Italian. Seems we have our pick of countries." He took another bite.
She fell silent for a moment, just eating. Then she cleared her throat. "Too bad we're such adrenaline junkies, isn't it."
"Yeah," he sighed, sitting back. "I'd go crazy in a week. Well... maybe two, depending on how often we fucked."
She nearly snorted her orange juice, breaking down into laughter. "God, we could be pornstars," she snickered, leaning back in the wooden chair with a grin across her face. "Think of the potential, Moran. That's our true calling."
"I'd probably get fired for trying to murder people whilst fucking them," he deadpanned, taking a bite of salad.
"I'm sure that's somebody's fetish," she shrugged, smirking into her glass. "But I suppose I see your point. We'll just have to become serial killers."
"I was well on my way, but Jim got annoyed and told me to stop," he said with a small smirk around his fork.
She pulled over her salad dish, chuckling. "That's what retirement's all about, isn't it? Doing all the things you wanted to do while you had a boss to order you around?"
"Would it bother you, if I were a serial killer?" he asked with a grin, well aware of the answer.
"Hmm... let's see... I'm gonna need a second to really consider my answer," she said mock-seriously, tapping a piece of lettuce on her fork against her lips thoughtfully. "I think.. I'm not positive, mind you - but I think... no."
"You should be sure," he smirked softly, voice deep. "It could mean me coming home covered in some poor sod's blood, or bringing home a victim to disassemble slowly, to taste, to feel them as they died slow... It could be intense."
"Christ, Sebastian, you ought to be careful how you speak. Dinner or not, I won't be able to help myself from you," she shook her head, eyes dark on him. It taken just about everything in her power not to shiver just then.
"I know exactly how I was speaking," he said calmly, amused by the abject desire in her expression, reaching out a foot to run softly up the inside of her leg as he returned to his chicken.
"You're going to be the death of me, I swear," she muttered into her salad, doing her best to ignore him, though now her skin was breaking out in goosebumps. Christ, he did it so easily.
"No idea what you're talking about," he smirked, returning to his food, content to let her squirm.
"You don't? Do you need help freshening up your memory?" she raised her eyebrows, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "I do need to figure out what makes you tick. Besides blood, I mean." She'd had so many men eating out of her hand before, and he would be one of them, if she had her way.
"You do indeed," he chuckles, a smirk tilting the corner of his mouth as he finished his chicken.
"I'll have to give some thought to it. I have a feeling I'm going to have to surprise you with it," she hummed, finishing up her salad.
He grinned a little wider, challenge in his eyes. "I look forward to seeing what you come up with."
"Me too," she smirked, leaning back in her chair, appraising him. As usual, he was difficult as hell to read. But damn if she wasn't going to try and wind him up.
He glanced at the clock, then stood, clearing his plate to the sink. "I suppose we should text Holmes about a meeting."
She sighed, giving the clock a disappointed look. "Yeah, I suppose so," she sighed, heaving herself up to follow him. "I assume you're going to want to do most of the talking?"
"That's up to you," he said, looking back at her. "I do want to talk to him, but if you feel like you'll be better off being conversational, then go ahead."
"It's probably just better to play it by ear," she sighed, slipping her plates past him into the sink.
He picked them up to wash them, working his way through the cooking dishes as well. "Jesus... a lot has changed in the past few years."
"Believe me, I know," she snorted, running a hand through her hair. "I mean, this... I never expected this to get... easier."
He raised an eyebrow, glancing her direction as he dried the baking pan. "What do you mean?"
She let out a kind of incredulous chuckle. "Just think about the kind of fights we used to have. I mean, it wasn't exactly a cakewalk, was it? More like a minefield."
He nodded a little, setting the dry pan aside. "Has it gotten better? I suppose a bit. We've had some blowups fairly recently to my memory."
"Have we? Hm. I guess they just don't seem as bad as they used to," she shrugged, rubbing her eyes. "I can't even remember what we argued about. Used to be I'd avoid you for days afterward, wonder what the hell I'd been doing sleeping with you in the first place. Now... I don't know. Maybe it's just after everything that's happened it's not such a big deal anymore."
He nodded in agreement. "Hell tends to make other things seem less significant." He turned from the sink and headed for the living room. "We need to discuss the acquisition of necessities and some sort of wardrobe with Holmes, as well."
She followed him out of the kitchen to lean against the living room wall, which was painted a tasteful, if slightly boring, light cream. "A wardrobe is a necessity as far as I'm concerned. Although... It's not as if we're going to be able to go on missions around here, much. Have you texted him yet, anyway?"
"No," he sighed, pulling out his phone and shooting off the message. "And mission or not, I don't have so much as a change of pants."
She snorted, tugging on the hem of her impossibly short sweater dress. "I know how you feel, believe me. Not that I haven't done a walk of shame in worse, but, you know."
He laughed a little, looking down at his phone. "He has a car waiting already. Charming. Shall we?"
"Yeah, alright," she shook her head, with an air of something like exasperation, and pushed off the wall. "Feel sorry for the poor bastard who's been waiting for us. Hope he had good music to listen to."
"I don't. We've had far worse stakeouts than sitting around for an hour in an air-conditioned limo," he muttered dryly, heading out the door.
"Touche," she shrugged, trotting down the steps of the townhouse to quickly open the door and slip inside, leaving it open for Moran, looking for all the world like there really was a price on their heads. There wasn't, of course, and wouldn't be, until Moran either remembered or made a decision. The man in the front seat didn't exactly look bored. Blank, more like. Like most of Holmes' goons.
He slid in next to her and closed the door quickly. He didn't say anything, and evidently didn't need to. The man took off down the road almost as soon as the door was shut.