He woke in the early hours of the morning, eyes drifting open of their own accord, but didn't move, not yet. Soon he'd go work out for a while, he could already tell there was no point in sleeping any more, but for the moment he was comfortable.
She shifted about fifteen minutes later, burrowing into his chest sleepily, the previous night's argument forgotten for the moment, his warmth more important. "What time is it?" she yawned, since he was almost definitely awake.
"About three," he said quietly, finger tracing patterns on her shoulder blade.
"In the morning? Eugh," she groaned, sighing into his chest, quietly enjoying his touch.
"Go back to sleep," he suggested, smirking a bit.
"Gladly," she muttered, nestling into him a little more and promptly dropping off back asleep.
He waited until she was soundly out before he slid out of bed, heading for his dojo to work out for a few hours.
When she woke up a few hours later, she was just mildly alarmed that he wasn't in bed with her anymore, and his spot on the bed was cold. She got up with a quiet grunt and slid out of bed, deciding to make her way down to the kitchen. He would turn up. Right?
He was sitting at the breakfast table with a mug of tea. He'd showered in the downstairs bathroom and was still in a robe, short hair sticking out a bit at odd angles as he read the Times on a tablet.
She fought the urge to smile as she saw him, the picture of domestic fucking bliss, tousled and yet alert. "Morning. For real, this time," she murmured instead of smiling, passing him to head for the fridge.
"Morning," he agreed, if only to the time, taking a sip out of his mug. The tea had gone lukewarm a while ago but he wasn't particularly interested, his attention on the article.
"She got elected. My sister."
She paused, leaning against the fridge with a carton of milk in her hands, eyes on the tablet that she could just see peeking over his shoulder. She didn't say the first thought that came to her head, or the second, which were respectively Yikes, and Shit.
"Is Jim going to use her?"
It was a stupid question.
"No, he's developed a habit for letting perfectly good assets with accessible pressure points lie about being wasted," he retorted, expression unaltered despite the sarcasm.
"She has pressure points? Like what, her tendency to throw civilians unauthorized into solitary confinement or her rapist father? Yeah, because those have ended political careers in the past," she sighed, unfreezing to move and grab a box of cereal and a bowl to pour it into. "I hope he knows better than to assign us to anything involving her."
"Lesser things have brought better politicians than her to their knees. It all depends on the presentation. Jim's good at that sort of thing." He finally gave up on his tepid cuppa, standing to go dump it out. "Or do you doubt his abilities?"
She gave him a look over her bowl of cereal, which she was eating while leaning against the counter. "You're asking me that after last night? Really?"
He shrugged, not bothering to look her way as he poured new water into his mug from the kettle. "You're not always incredibly logical."
She snorted, steadily feeling more annoyed. But she knew better than to speak up about it, not while he was thinking about his sister. She knew better than to speak up about it period, if she was being honest. So she said nothing, eating her cereal in a silence just short of sullen.
He glanced over at her, wondering if this apartment was bad luck. They always seemed to fight, here. He took a breath, deciding to move the conversation forward. "I'll need to go discuss this with Jim."
She nodded, finishing up her cereal and turning to wash it in the sink. "Yeah, I figured," she said, a little tonelessly, still stuffing down the annoying persistent bitterness lurking in her chest. "If he needs my department, I'll go sort it myself. No way I'm leaving that shit up to chance."
He stands, bringing his plate to the sink and pausing to consider her, before leaning down to kiss the side of her neck, as close to a silent apology as he would likely ever stray. Then he headed for the bedroom to shower and change.
She stood there for a moment in shock, her face suddenly too warm. She waited for the blush to leave her cheeks before she followed, feeling absolutely ridiculous, and far too pleased. She managed not to pull her shirt on backwards, though.
He came out a few moments later, freshly shaven, securing the last button of his shirt. "Let's go," he said, passing her and heading for the stairs. "Today might turn into an interesting one if we play our cards right."
"Certainly have been a lack of those, lately," she sighed, following and trotting down the stairs behind him. "Honestly, I'm afraid I'll lose my touch."
"Well, hopefully we'll get a chance soon," he said, grabbing the keys off the hook and heading out the door, waiting for her to follow before locking up. "I've been stuck indoors for far too long."
"I've noticed. You actually don't even have your sniper's tan anymore," she smirked, leading the way to the car, now that she had a couple steps on him.
"Don't worry, I'll get my attractive raccoon mask and farmer's tan back shortly," he snorted, the car lights flashing as he pressed the 'unlock' button on the key fob.
Thirty minutes later he was standing outside of Jim's office, reaching up to knock briskly. He almost didn't want to know. Didn't want to find out what the psychopath had planned for his sister, because he was almost certain that Jim wouldn't even try to resist the temptation to place Moran on the assignment.
"Come in, Moran. I've been expecting you," Jim called lazily from his desk, scrolling through a report in his email about something he didn't really particularly care about. He had an itch he couldn't scratch about this latest project, and he was devouring other, extraneous bits of information in the hopes to sate his thirst. It wasn't working all that well. A pity for Harrison.
He headed inside, closing the door behind him and walking over to stand at ease in front of the desk. "How are you, this morning, sir?"
"Good. A little restless, maybe. Things are never quite moving fast enough for me," he smiled pleasantly, for once without an edge to his voice. He wasn't going to give this job to Moran because he wanted to see the sniper uncomfortable; he was giving it to him because there weren't many people he could trust to keep their loyalty and their wits about them on a long-haul like this. And someone had to make Harrison look a little more normal. It started to grate on him when Moran paced too much. "I'm sure you've seen the newspaper today. You're fairly good at keeping up to date on things. The good news is that I have a job for you. The bad news is that you're not likely to enjoy it."
"That's why I'm here, boss," Moran sighed. "I saw this coming as soon as I read it. What's the game?" He walked over to sit across from Jim, raising an eyebrow as he waited to be filled in.
He nodded, turning off his computer monitor. "Your sister was elected, yes, but she's never held a position in Parliament before. A municipal position is a much, much smaller pond, and she's not a very big fish. I'm sending Harrison in to spy for her. Sara is going to need a lot of leverage if we're going to get anywhere worthwhile, so at least one of you will have to report to her regularly. You'll be posing as a married couple in the top 1%. I'd let you pretend to be siblings, but I can't have somebody walking in on the two of you fucking like guinea pigs in some alcove or another," he snorted with amusement, and leaned down to grab a bottle of bourbon and a couple of glasses from a cabinet by his desk. He poured them both a splash. Moran looked like he needed it.
"Dig up as many dirty secrets as possible, and do whatever Sara tells you to do, as long as it's in reason. I'll recall you when I've got my claws in a few other politicians. Questions?"
"Yes. Are you sure you wouldn't rather I spell out one of the live-in torture corpses?" he asked dryly, taking the bourbon and downing it quickly. He didn't let his expression change, but he felt like his guts had been dipped in liquid nitrogen and shattered.
He considered the man across from him for a long moment, tapping the pads of his fingers silently against his desk. "I want you to know I'm not giving you this job to fuck with you. I'm giving it to you because there's no one else I trust with it."
He took a slow breath, rolling the empty glass around in his fingers and trying not to be surprised. Not by Jim's reasoning- he knew when Jim was trying to fuck with him, this wasn't it- but that Jim went so far as to clarify. To care what he thought. It was unusual to say the least.
"I know that. If I thought you were trying to screw me over I would be a lot less calm than this. I know I need to do it. But like you said. I'm not going to enjoy it. Remotely."
"Hmmph," he snorted, downing a big sip of bourbon. "The two of you will be just peas in a pod, then, won't you? I don't doubt that a few there would recognize Harrison, if she wasn't so drastically different. Either way. I've already bought a good townhouse not five blocks from Parliament. Try not to bring any rifles with you. You wouldn't want someone walking in on your gun collection during a fundraising event, now would we?"
"I'll say I do skeet-shooting and support gun rights," he shot back, standing. "Unless there's anything else, sir?"
He gave a slight flick of his wrist. "No, you're dismissed. I expect you to be moving in by tomorrow, though. I've already had things sent."
He nodded just a little. "I'll read over the documents and let you know if I have any questions. Also unless you have objections I'll be placing Evans at the head of your personal security while I'm gone. He does good work."
Jim shook his head. "No, I've no objections. You know your staff," he stated, turning his computer monitor back on. A signal to leave.
He took it without objection, walking out of the office and heading for the grifting department. He grabbed a fire extinguisher off of the wall on the way, thunking it down on Lorna's desk as he approached. "Brought you a present."
She snatched the paper she was writing on out from under the extinguisher just before it touched home, giving him a mildly exasperated look. "Thanks, but ours were filled up... two weeks ago. Sorry, we have to do it so fucking often I forget. Might as well hire the damned fire department," she snorted, folding up the paper in her hands into a paper airplane. As Kelly passed by, she aimed it at the back of his head. It hit his neck. "Kelly! Fill out that requisition. I have my hands full." He rolled his eyes, but bent to take the form and continued on his way. She returned her attention back to Sebastian.
"I assume you've come to tell me about the job? I just finished reading the report. Too many names on there I'd rather not see, but oh well. You want to look through the ring box with me?"
He shrugged. "Just pick something out. I don't care too much. Once you do, though, come up to the flat. We have a lot of discussing to do if we're going to play married. Need to set a story."
"Right," she muttered distractedly, running her hand through her hair, thinking about the story and going through the box in her head. She stood. "Okay, I'll see you in five to fifteen minutes, depending on how many new rings we've accumulated since I last needed something that would pass a jeweler's inspection."
"Mmm..." he grunted, already on his way for the stairs. This was going to be an interesting few months.
She ended up picking a silver engagement ring set with a moderately sized ruby, the color of blood. She thought it was appropriate for them. Coincidentally, it was engraved with a tiny S.M. on the side facing her finger. Likely a maker's mark, but nonetheless. No one would ever know about it, so she felt safe enough to get away with it. For the wedding rings, she chose for herself a simple gold band. She headed upstairs after him ten minutes later, a hammered silver ring in her pocket. It was edgier than most of the things in the box (literally), and it would stand out more on his hand.
"Here you are," she hummed as she entered the door. "One fake wedding ring. Had to guess the ring size."
He took it and slid it onto his finger, nodding in approval. "Good eye," he admitted, before returning his attention to the file in his hand. "What's our plan?"
"We're going to be one of those rich couples with far too much money and time on their hands. We'll pretend to be funding your sister, and with money to spare. This will give us a little leverage. Jim's already given us one of his shell companies to work with, in case we need to actually use money." She pulled out a folded piece of paper from her pocket, opening it up and giving it a quick glance. "As for the two of us, we met a couple of years after you left the military - need some kind of explanation for your scars - at... Well, this is where we have to decide whether or not to admit you're a Moran."
"No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "We need to be able to hang my conviction over my sister's head if we need to, and we can't bring that up without sinking me with her if I don't have an alias."
She nodded, moving further into the apartment and sinking onto the couch. "I thought as much. Just felt that we had to at least consider the possibility of using your family's brand name. As for me... I could pull off ex-military in front of someone who hasn't ever served, but to a vet? Absolutely not. I'm leaning towards kidnapping victim."
He considered her. "Could be how we met. Your family had the money, hired me to get you out of whatever situation you'd ended up in after I left the military." He smirked a little. "I can be your knight in shining armor," he drawled.
"Sounds good to me. Saves me the trouble of coming up with an elaborate backstory, gives us both a bit of a sharp edge. I'm only going to call you my shining knight if you're wearing leather, though, just so you know," she smirked, rolling her eyes a little. "Alright, my heroic rescuer, how long have we been blissfully married?"
"Short enough to excuse my nailing you to every available surface, long enough to justify one of us straying if necessary," he sighed. "Where does that leave us?"
"About a year, I'd think," she chuckled, running a hand through her hair. "That seems to be how married couples go, right? I don't know many of them." She let out a breath. "Okay, so that's the most important times for the timetable. What else is there?"
"We're keeping our ages, I assume, to keep things simple... How long should we have known each other?" He reached out to take the file, glancing over it.
"Not too long. Don't want people to doubt us just because my scars seem a little newer. Three years, maybe?" she suggested, shrugging a bit.
He nodded in agreement. "The rest we can just improvise, never had an issue before." He set the file down, and grinned a bit. "So, what ring did I get you?"
She pulled the two out of her pocket, handing them to him with a chuckle, figuring that even if he did see the coincidental S.M. it wasn't the end of the world. "They're beautiful, you really shouldn't have."
"Nothing but the best for you, dearest," he shot back, examining the rings. He saw the initials, but after a moment's pause, decided not to comment, not seriously at least. He liked the idea of having a bit of claim on her. He couldn't resist a quip as he handed it back, however. "Guess I'm keeping my initials."
"It's easiest for both of us, I think," she snorted, sliding them both onto her hand for safekeeping. "I hate it when I'm using an alias and I don't look up when people say the name."
He nodded in agreement, flipping through a few more pages in the file before setting it down. "Man, I am going to hate this."
"Look on the bright side," she sighed, stretching out horizontally on the sofa and making herself comfortable. "There should be lots of political mumbo-jumbo parties, and that means a lot of dresses. Tight ones, usually. Occasionally without underwear."
"That is a bright side," he agreed, fingers tracing along her calf. "Jim wants us to move in ASAP. Today, preferably."
"Hm. I suppose we can manage that. Have to get together some clothes I can't live without..." she muttered distractedly. "Oh, well. I hope it's nice, at least. Had enough shitty apartments for a lifetime."
"We're playing wealthy snobs. I'm sure it's acceptable." He stood, heading for the bedroom to pack his own clothes. "Otherwise where would we entertain?"
She hauled herself up and followed him, making a beeline for the closet. "Good point. Oh, I so look forward to sneaking away from our own party," she smirked, starting to push through the racks of dresses she had.
"Christ, when was the last time you went to a party and weren't trying to grift anyone?" he asked, looking over at her. "I can't remember the last one I went to that wasn't for a job."
"Never," she shook her head, picking out a few dresses and laying them on the bed. "I got into this business really young. Drug trafficking didn't exactly lead to a lot of party opportunities." She turned back to the closet to pull out a garment bag to put her cargo in. "But this won't be so different. Just another style of grifting."
He nodded just a bit. "Someday, we should find a party to crash. No grifting, just enjoying ourselves and getting smashed and dancing and whatever else you do at parties." He started folding shirts carefully.
She smiled, putting the dresses away in her bag. "Sounds good to me. Experience what some of the hubbub's about. Though getting smashed alone with you is usually a pretty good evening. Can you dance, by the way?"
"I suppose you will have to wait and find out," he said, expression revealing nothing as he packed the knife from under his pillow and his favorite hand gun.
The smile turned into a grin. "If you couldn't, you would have told me immediately. Likely with a scoff."
"Alternatively, if I could, I might have done the same," he pointed out, still with no expression as he zipped up his bag, turning to look at her. "Are you going to prattle on all day or are you ready to go?"
"Nothing I say is prattling, just to set the record straight, but yes, I'm ready," she snorted, pulling her bag over her shoulder. "Let's go get settled in, I suppose. At least this one is less likely to be riddled with bugs than Mycroft's."
"There is that," he agreed, grabbing a bottle of scotch and sticking it in his bag as they passed the liquor cabinet. They headed down to the garage, and he walked around a bit before deciding on a black 1980 Firebird near the back. "Seems like the right image," he said, walking to the valet's booth to grab the keys.
"Just a little bit Bond," she chuckled, opening up the door and throwing her stuff in back. "I wonder how the place is going to be decorated. I don't really want to have to change my outwards personality because there's some really strange design choices."
"It was Jim's choices, from what it sounds like. So it's anyone's guess. We can always rearrange." He started the car, waiting for her to climb in before taking off out of the garage.
"I'm happy to leave it up to you. You seem to know what you're doing in those endeavors," she replied, keeping one hand on her seatbelt, just to make herself feel a little more secure. His driving wasn't too exciting in boring cars. In cars like these? She was never sure how he was going to corner.
"I have a feeling you'd have a good eye for it, what with your taste for clothing," he said, stopping for a red and watching a cop car cross the intersection.
"I'm flattered. I'm not completely sure it translates 100% of the time, but it'd be nice if it did," she hummed, though internally wondering whether or not she'd ever really own a flat of her own again. The one across from his at HQ didn't count, and she'd sold her off-site a couple years ago just to stop paying the rent.
"We'll see, I suppose," he said, taking off again and glancing at the street names as they passed. He'd passed by the road of their new address a few times in his treks around the city, but had never been on it. He made the last turn, and found what he expected. A street of stone-hewn townhouses with large gardens, all with delicately 'unique' architecture that was indistinguishable to anyone who wasn't an expert in architecture or a salivating realtor. Number eighty-one was theirs, near to where this street met a round-about of several others, for a quick and confusing escape if necessary.
She didn't know what to think as they pulled up, eyes looking over the well-manicured gardens and wondering who was taking care of them. Anybody with important connections? Or just a lower-class citizen trying to make some good money? "Well, it looks spacious enough for a party, at least. We'll see what the floors are like. It's a pain to get wine out of carpeting," she muttered, getting out of the car, already carrying a tad bit of a different air. Any new neighbors, especially nosy ones, would be instantly curious to see who was moving into their neighborhood. "We never did decide on a last name, by the way."
"No, that's true, we didn't. I'll leave that up to your talents," he said, getting out as well and shutting the door, walking around to offer her his arm, in case anyone was watching. "We need something nice and distinguished. Old money sounding."
"Hmm.." she hummed, taking his arm and starting the walk up to the front stoop. "Madison, perhaps? Harder to get more old money than Moran, to be honest. Oh, oh wait; Morton. That sounds very us, doesn't it?"
"I don't hate it," he said, shrugging and lifting the doorbell to press his thumb against the scanner, watching the light turn green before he opened the door. "What will you be called, then? Your first name?"
"Lorna. I don't like to put on a fake front name during a long-haul. I might start to slip up," she shrugged, letting him step inside first before following and pushing the door shut. The floor was made of light maple hardwood, which she was pleased about. No sounds would be muffled on this floor; any home intruders would give themselves away almost immediately. Not that she was expecting many of those, but it never hurt to consider all the options. "You know, we should probably say you're distantly related to her. Cousins, or something. I've only seen her the once and I know she looks like you. Well, your father, I guess. You both do," she sighed, peeling off into the open dining room, trying to immediately usher the thought of Riordan Moran back out of her head. Every once in awhile, she still had the slightest drop in her stomach when he crossed her mind.
"Then we may want to choose a different name than Morton. Seems a bit of a coincidence," he points out, walking around and running fingers over walls, eyes scanning the room. It was of modern design, with few nooks and crannies in which things could hide, which he appreciated.
"You're more than welcome to have a go at it," she called from the kitchen, idly twisting her "wedding" ring around her finger. The kitchen was similar to Sebastian's off-site flat, though lacking the same spark. Maybe it was simply knowing that he had had nothing to do with this. "You're the one from old-money stock, anyhow."
"Yes, because I had so much experience with that culture," he called dryly, eyes scanning the bookshelves for any listening devices. He knew Moriarty would have had the place scanned thoroughly, but old habits...
"What about McGuire?" he asked, pulling out a tome and flipping a few pages. "I knew a bloke by the name once. It means 'pale-coloured'. Give a nod to our scarring."
"Yeah, because I really want to think about my scars," she replied sarcastically, reentering the room he was in, eyes trailing over the crown molding on the ceiling. "But fine, I can live with it."
"If you'd rather something else, that's fine," he said, returning the book. "It was just something to make us stand out from the prissy folks we'll be meeting, at least just to us. Could go with anything, honestly, with an 'm'. Marley, Miles, Montgomery..."
"I don't care, Sebastian, really," she sighed, spotting the stairs and making for them, interested to see what the upstairs looked like. "If you can remember McGuire, that's good enough for me. Hell, I suggested Morton just for the value of how easily it might be turned into morte."
"Now I'm torn," he muttered, heading after her, wanting to have a solid knowledge of the extent of the house before he relaxed. It was large for a townhouse, which lent itself to entertaining but not security.
"How are we going to explain your scars, by the way? The words, I mean. The glass wounds are pretty explainable considering your military background." She reached the second floor, which was carpeted with an unoffensive beige. The walls were a light blue, intersected by wainscoting. "And let's hope to god no one sees your bare chest."
"We say I don't like to talk about it, imply it had to do with my honorable time in the service, and let the rumors fly," he said, wandering into what proved to be the master bedroom. The bed was large and carved of sturdy oak. He smirked. "They'll make me a modest hero. As for my chest, the words are gibberish to anyone who doesn't know Gaelic. I doubt a lone JM is going to stand out. If it does, I'll make something up or have a bout of post-traumatic stress. Whichever is more convenient."
She chuckled, flopping back onto the bed and sprawling out. "Gotta love a tragic backstory. I just hope people don't stare at me. I do so detest that," she groaned, reaching out the side to grab one of the pillows and stuff it under her head, finding it a pleasing mix between fluffy and firm. "Honestly would like to get through a single long-haul without having to fuck around with someone. Some grifter I am, right?"
"Maybe you'll get lucky," he said, going through each of the cabinets and drawers in the room carefully. "Never know. It's not like we're actually trying to get anything specific, at least not yet." He pulled open the TV remote and removed the batteries, checking for extra wires before reassembling it.
"Maybe. Crossing my fingers that we'll just need to do some politicking. I always did like manipulating people," she hummed dreamily, trying very hard to look on the bright side of this. "I'll, uh, do the reports to her, if you want. No reason the both of us have to go."
He shook his head, setting the remote down and not looking at her as he moved on to examining the television itself. "You aren't ever going to be alone with her," he said firmly.
She was silent for a moment. "Are you worried about her safety or mine?"
"I would gladly help you murder her," he said quietly as he decided the television was safe. "But unfortunately that would compromise our goals. However, I see no reason to trust her, and so I see no reason to make you deal with her alone."
"We don't have to trust her. We have to trust Jim. If she's got any sort of brain in that head of hers at all she knows not to cross him. Either way. I hate her, but I don't associate her with my trauma. That's reserved for your father. You, on the other hand..." she rubbed her eyes. "Not only do I personally want to help keep her from you, but I don't want you to regress and start opening up the words again while we're here. Bleeding at an inopportune moment could make for a bad moment."
He sighed through his nose, opening and closing a drawer before nodding just a little. "Fine." He didn't say any more about it, just headed out to the hall and the next room.
She let him go without following, deciding that it wasn't worth risking a conflict. Not now, not here. They needed to be a cohesive unit for this job. Instead she just kicked off her shoes and waited for him to finish the inspection. He'd come back when he was ready to.
He came back about an hour later, having given the house a thorough looking-over. He didn't mention the issue again; in his opinion it was settled. Instead he walked over to lay down on the bed. "I can't be Sebastian," he opened. "Sebastian and Lorna, the names are too uncommon. Anyone who knows us is going to notice, and with some of the people who know us, that's risky."
"Ah, shit, you're right. In that case I'll change mine, then. I use Lana enough to not slip up. I would totally be up for you changing your name if I could be completely certain I could keep my mouth shut while we're fucking in a broom closet," she shrugged matter-of-factly. "Maybe I should dye my hair again."
He smirked a bit. "I wouldn't object to that," he agreed, walking over to lie down on the bed. "Lana," he tested out, then nodded. "Close enough that if I slip up it can be attributed to faulty hearing in the observers."
"A lot is going to be resting on faults in the people around us," she snorted, shifting a little to give him more room. "We're going to have to really keep on our toes." A small smirk spread across her face. "You can borrow a pair of high heels, if you want."
"Never really could get comfortable in those," he retorted casually. "And most aren't built to support my weight. Last time I wore a pair I snapped a heel off."
She laughed. "I don't know, I have a pair that might have managed, given they were seven sizes bigger. The more I think about it, the more suspicion I have that my skeleton could fit inside of yours."
"That's something I'd rather never figure out for certain," he decided, stretching out and looking up at the ceiling before bringing his hands back down, pausing to observe the silver band on his ring finger for a moment. "So. What should we do now, do you think?"
"Probably figure out where and when we're going to interact with the political mob. I assume Jim will send us that information, though, right? So I might dye my hair. See if there's any in the bathroom. This place is amazingly well stocked."
"Yeah, I saw. Whoever prepped this place had 'long time live-togethers' in mind, which is useful. There's even a wedding photo in the living room downstairs."
"Fuck, really? Do I look good? I've never completely trusted the photoshop capabilities of our staff," she muttered, sitting up and sliding off the bed. She made for the spacious bathroom, stripping out of her white shirt as she went and tossing it back behind her. "More importantly, can you see our hands in the photo?"
"You always look good. And I don't know, I didn't look that hard. Why?" He raised an eyebrow as the shirt flopped onto his arm, and shook it off onto the ground.
"I highly doubt they had time to put in our rings. It might look weird to see both of my hands in the photo, both missing at the very least the 'engagement' ring," she called from the bathroom, rummaging in the cabinets beneath the sink until she came across a drawer filled with boxes of red hair dye. She tried to ignore the fact that this meant Jim knew all about Sebastian's preference for redheads, or the other fact, that they were likely going to be here a long while, if he'd stocked this many. She took one of the boxes and slid the drawer closed with her elbow before standing.
"If they were that stupid, then we'll call and have them make a new one," he said, watching her through the door as she walked around topless.
She made an affirmative sound, preoccupied with the bottles of dye components now in front of her. When she was done putting them all into the mixing bottle she spoke again. "You like redheads because of someone you fucked or is it a natural predilection, just out of curiosity?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Reminds me of blood." He stood, walking over up behind her and tracing a finger along her spine, distracting.
She palpably shivered, though she acted as if nothing had happened. "You should see me in the shower after I dye my hair red," she snorted, pulling on the pair of supplied gloves. "Always alarms me at first."
"I plan to," he smirked, the finger continuing downward, along her tailbone, before he kissed her shoulder.
"How distracting are you planning to be?" she chuckled, picking up the applicator bottle. "I don't know how close you want to be to me while I've got this stuff in my hair."
"I'm improvising," he muttered, nipping her collarbone before standing back just a bit, watching as she got to work. "You know, maybe this won't be terrible. A vacation of sorts."
"There's no reason we have to be miserable," she agreed, focusing on not dripping dye all over the place. "The more fun we have, the more believable our cover is. Rich newlyweds with too much time on their hands."
"Our idea of fun is just a tad bit deviant from the norm... but I take your point," he said, sitting on the edge of the tub to watch her work.
"You know half those bastards hanging out in parliament have something deeply unsavory hidden beneath their skirts," she snorted, just barely managing to stop a drip of red from rolling down her neck. "All we have to do is find out their secrets before they find out ours."
His eyes were fixed on the red as it stained her light hair, and he stood again, taking a step forward just as a drop landed on her bare shoulder. It was almost exactly the color of blood, and he wondered what in hell he'd done to put Jim in a good enough mood to order that. He reached out to brush up the drop with his finger tip, eyes on the light stain it left on his skin. He was tempted to put it to his lips, but knew better, the scent of chemicals rough and rusty in his nose. Instead he reached up to brush it off on a still-dry part of her hair, eyes dark.
She met his eyes in the mirror, a smirk on her lips. "It might be one of my favorite things to see the way your face changes when you've got your eyes on this color," she chuckled, dropping her eyes from him as she had to dip her head forward to start applying to the back of her head. "I'd buy lingerie the color of blood if I didn't think you'd rip them immediately."
"And if I promise not to?" he asked, bending to press his lips to the curve of her spine.
"Then I guess we'll see what I look like in them," she smirked, running her fingers through her hair, trying to spread the dye around.
The scarlet flecked across her wrists, and he took a slow, deliberate breath. "A significant downside of this business is that I can't just walk downstairs and carve into someone when I want to," he whispered a tad hoarsely, leaning in to kiss her shoulder despite the mess. A strand of her hair drew across his face, leaving a crimson, horizontal line across his cheekbone that bellied out at the lowest point and dripped down the hollow of his cheek.
She grinned, looking at him in the mirror again, eyes just a little darker than normal. "Feeling a little pent up?"
"What do you think?" he asked, pressing his pelvis against her arse slowly as she bent over again.
"I think that if you don't wipe that dye off your face you're going to regret it," she hummed, though she leaned back on her heels, pressing back against him.
"Probably," he agreed. "But right now all I can think about is getting more of it on me." He slid a hand up her arm.
She took off her gloves and rinsed her wrists in the sink. "Think you can wait a half an hour and get rough with me in the shower? I'd like to avoid leaving streaks of red across everything."
He sighed, sliding his hand up her chest until it closed around her throat for just a second, but then nodded. "I suppose."
"Thanks," she cleared her throat, just a reflex, and tossed the gloves into the bin in the corner, before turning and boosting herself up onto the counter. She was almost as tall as him this way. "In the meantime I'm sure we can find some way to entertain ourselves."
"Yeah?" he asked, sidling his hips between her legs and leaning forward just a bit.
"I'm pretty sure," she chuckled, hooking a finger through a belt loop and tugging him just the slightest bit closer, close enough to brush her lips across his, just a tease.
He grinned, leaning forward to kiss her properly, his hip rolling against her hand a bit. "Alright... you might have my interest."
"I think I'm going to need more commitment than that," she scoffed, as if he wasn't already half hard, and as if she couldn't tell.
"The ring on my finger isn't enough?" he snorted, leaning forward to kiss the corner of her jaw. "What more could you want, woman?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said whimsically, just barely holding back a laugh. "My name tattooed across your forehead, perhaps? Maybe you should write me a sonnet."
"I'll call the tattoo artist tomorrow," he snorted, biting the side of her neck, egging her on.
She groaned, her free hand curling into his shirt. "You're going to make me impatient, too, aren't you?"
"Wouldn't want me to suffer alone, would you?" he asked, voice just a touch rough, his nose brushing against her skin.
She made a vaguely exasperated sound, though it was more of a 'giving-in' kind of noise than anything. "Fuck. Using that voice is cheating, Seb."
"All's fair..." he pointed out, letting her mind complete the phrase, his lips occupying themselves instead with the dip of her collarbone.
She had to agree with that one, rucking up his shirt a little so she could touch his skin. "If you put it like that, well, I guess I don't have a leg to stand on."
"Agreed. I think they're going to be rather occupied around my waist," he retorted, his torso shifting sideways a bit to meet her fingers, his smirk taut against her jugular.
"Oh, smooth," she laughed, hyper-aware of his breath on her neck. "That's a good line, you know, you should save that up for use again sometime." She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer with them.
"Apparently it does work, so I suppose I'll keep it in mind," he smirked, grinding his hips against hers.
She let out a soft sound, fingers tightening on his side briefly before slipping between them to practically yank open his trousers. "Do you think real married couples in their first year fuck as much as we do?"
"No idea." He reached between them as well, jousting her hand for position as he worked to undo her trousers. "Probably not."
"I'm glad our conclusions were the same," she chuckled, pinging his pants' waistband.
He was just leaning forward to kiss her again when the doorbell rang. It wasn't the typical distant ringing of chimes in the foyer, however, but rather a noise that was repeated by speakers throughout the house. He took a slow, deliberate breath.
"I take it that means we're not to ignore the door."
"That isn't exactly a detail that would have been added by the realtor," she muttered, glaring over his shoulder towards the doorway. "We don't have to look too presentable. This is supposed to be our home. The more vulnerable we look, the easier it'll be to fuck people over later."
"True," he said, stepping back and tucking in his shirt, though he left his fly partly unzipped and mussed his short hair a bit. "Ought to look the part. You want to appear a few moments later, looking abashed, or shall I?"
"I'm shirtless, so I think I should," she snorted, sliding off the counter and crouching to dig through the cabinets until she came up with a dark towel, wrapping it around her dye-soaked hair.
"Which leaves me to make a first impression. Brilliant," he said with a small sigh, heading for the door.
"Smile. Without teeth! You look like you're going to eat people when you smile with teeth sans laughing," she muttered, following him out so she could find her shirt.
"Usually because I am," he retorted, at the top of the stairs. "Look at it this way: if I fail miserably we can always kill them and try again," he suggested, only half joking.
"Fine, but I'm not going to make the call to Jim requesting a clean-up team," she called after him, turning her shirt right-side-out again and yanking it on, silently cursing the towel.
"Scaredy-cat," he snorted, reaching the bottom of the stairs and the offending door. There were figures outside, and he checked them out for a few seconds through the peephole before opening the door. They were a man and a woman, in their late fifties, perhaps. Both were fit for their age, and dressed well. The woman had the man's arm, and they were both smiling and seemed to mean it. Their expressions faltered slightly as they took in Sebastian's appearance- scarred and disheveled- but the smiles remained.
"Hello! I'm Peter Franklin and this is my wife, Edith... We just wanted to say hello to the new neighbors, but it seems we've caught you-"
"Not at all," Moran said quickly, trying to smile without teeth and talk at the same time. It half worked. "My wife and I were just... ah... napping... she'll be right down. Do you want to come in?"
Edith looked like the kind of woman that wasn't deterred by anything, and she smiled wider as he invited them in. "That'd be wonderful. I'd love to see what you've done with the place! It's been a while since anyone's lived here, I almost forgot what it even looked like inside," she laughed, taking a step across the threshold.
Lorna appeared a moment later, red-cheeked and barely put together. "Oh, hi! Sorry - we weren't really expecting anyone."
"I am sorry about that," Peter said bashfully. "We should have called-"
"But we don't have your number. Oh, this is lovely," she said cheerfully, looking around the sitting room before turning to Lorna. "I'm Edith Franklin, by the way, dear. This is my husband Peter."
"I'm Lana McGuire," she beamed, stepping forward to shake Edith's hand, then Peter's, taking care not to give him too much attention. She didn't want to encourage his attention, not until she knew she could gain something from it. "This is my husband, Sebastian."
"Lovely to meet you both," Edith replied as Sebastian shook their hands as well. His massive paw dwarfed both of theirs, but he didn't intentionally tower, remaining meek next to Lorna in an attempt to seem friendly.
Peter looked almost as awkward as Sebastian, hanging back from his more outgoing wife. "Lovely to meet you too," Lorna smiled, adjusting the towel on her head. Leave, please.
"Edith..." Peter said quietly. Edith smiled. "I know, I know. We won't keep you. I just wanted to invite you both to dinner. Tonight if you like, if not, just call and we can set something up."
"I think we can do that," she smiled, bumping her shoulder with Sebastian, in an obvious display of camaraderie. "Seb? We got anything else going on?"
"No, we don't," he said with a small smile, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "That sounds nice." It sounded horrible, but close.
"Wonderful!" Edith grinned, enthusiastically, as her husband did his best to usher her out the door, looking extremely apologetic. "We're just next door - eighty-three! See you at seven!"
Lorna grinned and nodded, and a moment later shut the door. She sighed. "God, I'm going to need a hit of cocaine to have the energy to speak with that woman."
"How about we stick to an Irish coffee," Moran said with a smirk, heading for the kitchen.
She let out a bleary chuckle, turning to follow him. "Alright. That should be enough time for me to wash this shit out of my hair. Besides the smiling headaches, though, this op might not be terrible."
He nods a little. "Who knows. We might even enjoy ourselves."
"I think as long as we stay just a little bit drunk the entire time we'll manage," she snorted, leading the way into the kitchen and starting to bang around, looking for mugs, coffee, and wherever the stockers had stashed the booze.
He walked over to open the liquor cabinet that he'd found in his search for surveillance, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. "I can live with that."
"Oh, good. I had a slight moment of terror where I thought you were going to insist we stay dry," she muttered, finally finding the cabinet with the mugs and sliding one across the counter in his direction before turning to the large, sophisticated, likely 600-quid-plus coffee machine gleaming on the counter in the corner. "I wonder if this thing makes cappuccinos..."
He snorted slightly at that, pouring himself a generous serving of whiskey into the mug, considering it, and then tossing it back before pouring another for the coffee. He reached for her mug and did the same. "It probably makes fine jewelry if you want it to," he muttered, raising an eyebrow at the over-extravagant thing.
She poured the coffee grounds into the machine and then started to press buttons, pretending not to be choosing them randomly, then stood back when the thing started humming. "That's silly. Why would it be kept in the kitchen? That's the kind of thing you keep in the craft room. Something I assume rich people have. I have no idea, honestly."
"Really? My sarcastic comment was silly? Staggering. Any word on whether or not the sun is bright?" he sniped, taking a sip from the bottle of whiskey and offering it to her.
She took it and two big swallows, determined not to fall behind, then handed it back to him, grimacing just a little. "Been awhile since I took anything that strong straight up," she coughed, blinking hard. "Christ, look at what I've become with your influence. You might have bettered me, Sebastian Moran."
"I like to think I have," he said with a grin, taking the bottle back. "Just look at you now."
She laughed, leaning against the counter. There would have been a time where saying that would have ended up with her suddenly faced with Sebastian Moran, the sniper, the bodyguard, the chief of staff over a few hundred hardened criminals. Instead, he still remained the version that she could use 'Seb' and 'Tiger' with, could meet his icy blue eyes without her stomach dropping in fear, could turn her back on without her neck prickling in alarm. For a brief instant, she wished that there was something binding here. She shook off the thought. "Yeah, I know," she smirked, "Covered in scars, but substance-free. I'm sure you see the red hair as an improvement, too. Not that you can see it in this towel."
"If I'm anything it's patient," he said with a smirk. Something had flickered across her face momentarily, but it was gone before he could pin down what it was, and he didn't think too much of it. He took another sip of whiskey. "If I wasn't, we wouldn't be talking right now."
She chuckled. "Yeah, that'd be a fun trip. You; refusing to talk, me; going insane," she rolled her eyes, still smirking.
"If I wasn't patient, you would have died long before we got to this trip," he clarified with a snicker.
"If you weren't patient, Jim would have a much smaller pool of criminals to be working with," she snorted, turning around as the coffee machine made a promising click, and fighting the pot for a moment before wriggling it free of the mechanism and pouring it into her whiskey.
He took the pot from her when she finished, filling his own mug and then walking over to the refrigerator to get tea. "I suppose that's true."
She narrowly resisted the urge to mock him using an imitation of his voice, then decided that wasn't worth the trouble, and sipped at her lava-hot coffee instead. "So - where'd we get married?"
It took him a tense moment to remember their charade, but when he turned back, cream in hand, he was relaxed. "On a beach somewhere exotic. Not a lot of easily traceable witnesses."
"Mm. Easy to claim the honeymoon was somewhere no one's ever heard of," she agreed, making no move to go retrieve the cream from him. She'd spent too many early mornings trying to get over one substance or another to bother with adding anything these days. Coffee with cream was a special occasion beverage. "I somehow have a feeling Edith is going to want to know our entire story."
"Mmm... what on earth gives you that impression?" he deadpanned, putting the cream away and taking a long sip of his coffee.
"You're so lucky I don't respond seriously to all your sarcasm. It'd drive you insane, admit it," she chuckled, eyes wandering over the kitchen, wondering whether or not she should put some magnets on the fridge. That seemed like a homeowner thing to do.
"We return to tonight's theme: reasons Lorna Harrison isn't currently a fine housing project for the fish of the Thames," he shot back over the rim of his coffee.
She groaned. "Alright, I'm going to have to take the bait on this one - ha ha - and stop you right there. One; human skeletons would make a terrible hiding place for fish. They degrade! Two; the Thames isn't the motherfucking Great Barrier Reef, is it? Three; my body would float to shore looong before I decayed enough to sink, unless you threw me in with a good old-fashioned ball and chain, which again, for the situation, ha ha."
"Human skeletons might not, but cement would, once the algae and plants set in," he said, sipping casually. "Consequently, that does sink. Cement. And just because it's the Thames doesn't mean it doesn't have its own special forms of nuclear wildlife."
"Nuclear wildlife," she scoffed, looking like she was personally offended at the thought, "In the Thames? Sebastian, the Thames may be polluted enough to give you cancer the second you take a purposeful sip, butradiation? Sebastian, please."
"Remember that murder thing? Really starting to appealing," he said, voice and face completely neutral.
"Yeah, right. You haven't fucked me with the red hair yet, I'm safe. Betting you're not a necrophiliac," she rolled her eyes, chugging her coffee and setting the empty mug down on the counter. "Speaking of which, I have to go wash this out of my hair."
He rolled his eyes, but let her go. Part of him wanted to follow her, to watch the red run in rivers down the shower walls, but that would just end up with both of them and most of the shower stained pink, so he stayed put.
She returned fifteen minutes later, wet crimson hair pulled over her shoulder, still wrapped in a towel, so she didn't stain any of her clothes with the water that dripped off. "Good news; water pressure is perfect."
"Sounds good," he said from where he was working on his laptop. "I'll probably shower before we go. What should I wear?"
"Wear your standard uniform. You look good in a blood-red shirt. I suggest you button up one less than usual, but that's more my own personal preference," she smirked, then sobered a little. "No cuff links until we get invited to a party with six or more people. No need to be showy about the money. They'll see it eventually."
He laughed. "Alright, that'll work. I'll keep that in mind." He closed his computer and stood. "Shaved or keep the scruff?"
She made a thoughtful face, considering him for a second. "Keep it. You look... more dangerous when you're freshly shaved. I don't want people imagining you on a rooftop with the stock of a rifle up against your face. Try to keep in mind my grifting lessons from New York, will you?"
"That's why I'm asking," he said with a small smirk. "I'm allowing you the artist's input to make me look more... cuddly."
"I appreciate it," she laughed, "But don't worry, I won't make you look too soft. We just need to round the edges off our killer personas. Politics is just a game of war for pacifists."
"Some pacifists. Some... not so much. My father's crowd would mingle well with Jim's." He headed up the stairs.
She didn't answer. That was her issue with this mission. Sebastian's sister may have allowed what had happened to her, but she hadn't been a direct cause. She was going to have to spend months swimming in a bubble tainted by Riordan Moran. She would have to talk to his friends, she would have to hear stories about him. She'd have to tell people that the ugly scar crossing her face, put there by Riordan, was from a kidnapping. It turned her stomach.
He returned a few minutes later, dressed in fresh clothes, one button undone on his shirt, his cropped blond hair neat, scars a bit pink from the heat of the shower. "What time is it?"
"Half an hour til we gotta go," she hummed, dressed now in a sweater and black jeans, damp hair pulled up into a bun. She was going through her email on her phone. She'd just sent her department a very lengthy email warning them to hold it together until she got back. "We should probably try to guess what they'll want to talk about so we'll have similar responses."
"How we met- we have that down. What we do to pass the time and make an unnecessary living. What we might have studied in school, what schools we went to..." He sat down to pull on his shoes.
"Alright, well, we'll try to stick to what we know. More believable. You're a gun-range hobbyist, which shouldn't be too surprising, and I'm stereotypically into fashion. I'll say I never went to university, which shouldn't be too unbelievable considering my general youth and obvious turmoil in my life."
He nodded. "I'll say I went straight into the military," he agreed. "The man who kidnapped you. What should his name be?"
Riordan. It almost slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself, but she swallowed it back at the last possible moment, too keen on how much that would affect him, too. "I don't care," she muttered, not looking up from her phone. "It doesn't matter."
He glanced over at her for a moment. Her tone had been tense. He let it pass, however. "Fine. Let's just both avoid using a name. I'll say it's classified or something."
"I don't think people will be surprised when I say I don't want to talk about it," she snorted, putting her phone down and looking over at him. "You look good."
He nodded. "You do, too. This should be an interesting night."
"Depends on your definition of interesting, I guess," she chuckled, standing and sliding her phone into her pocket.
He nodded in agreement, tying off his second shoe and adjusting the hems of his trousers. "Well, let's go find out what kind."
Four days later, her and Sebastian's phones buzzed at the same time, containing the same message.
You're having dinner with Sara tonight. Play nice. -JM
She swore, tossing her phone onto the sofa and heading for the stairs. "I have to go do my makeup."
He was still staring at the message, eyes closing for a moment after that, fingers gripping the phone tightly before he set it aside so he didn't break it. He took a slow breath.
Dammit.