Bang, bang
I'm a killer
Fuck you! Sucker!

- Charli XCX - Sucker -

Who the hell bothered to knock on her door at this point? "Come in," she said, frowning.

He took another breath, then reached out and opened the door, pushing it open and wheeling himself in rather ungracefully. "Hello," he said hesitantly, trying to feel out where she was in her emotions toward him.

Her eyes were steel on him. "Who the hell do you think you are?" She snapped, fingers clenched in her bed sheets.

Right. Not good. "I came to apologize," he said, wheeling in a little further and closing the door behind him with a bit of an awkward shift and a wince.

She let out a strained breath. "You came to what?"

"Apologize," he said softly. "I understand why you're angry with me. I'm sorry for upsetting you."

She sat up, even though it really hurt. "You're sorry? Oh, that's funny."

He looked at her worriedly. "Take it easy, please, you shouldn't be moving around so much." Then he raised his hands. "I'm not here to fight, Lorna. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"What does that fucking mean?" She snapped, "What the fuck were you wrong about? I want details."

He grit his teeth a little, recoiling from her fury. "Everything happened quickly. Hotly. It was an explosion, Lorna. I just want you to know that I wasn't intentionally trying to hurt you. My actions were a result of passion. Not malice."

Passion.

That stung. He'd done this because of her.

She exploded off the hospital cot and lunged at him, yanking a whole mess of machines with her with a cacophonous crash.

He let out a startled cry as she half-tackled, half-fell on top of him. He caught her, wild-eyed, as sensors screamed and a monitor fell and shattered.

She managed to punch him twice before the door slammed open and a pair of nurses came in, wide-eyed and shocked at what they saw, and pulled them apart, Lorna still screaming curses at him, and raking her nails down his cheek.

He fended her off, but went no further, still shocked, accepting the blows as they came and the gouges in his cheek like they weren't even there. He watched as she was hauled off of him, eyes wide, gasping in pain from where she had put pressure on his leg. "I'm sorry," was all he said. And then again. "I'm sorry, I am so sorry..."

Two nurses wrestled Lorna back onto the bed while another wheeled Armetti into the hall.

"Keep him out of my room," she snarled as she was pinned back down in bed, the orderlies hooking her back up to the machines, and then asking her to lie still so they could check her stitches, which hurt to high heaven, so she went mostly still, even if she was still stiff as a board.

Moran arrived just more than a minute later, his face a bit flushed from running down the stairs. He walked over, ignoring the nurses, and studied Harrison quietly. Then he met her gaze, eyes closed off, difficult to read, waiting.

Hers flitted up to his, and then back down, to the wall in front in her. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to worry you."

He glanced at the nurses, who were finishing up re-wrapping her torso, and flicked his hand. They left quickly. He waited for the door to close, and then sighed, and sat beside her on the bed, reaching out to push a hand through her hair gently. "You're alright?"

She closed her eyes briefly at his touch, then opened them to meet his. She nodded. "No permanent harm done. I'm okay."

He took a slow breath, shaking his head. "What happened?"

"He tried to apologize to me. And suggested that he was overtaken by passion," she said quietly, calmly.

He nodded just a little, and didn't bother commenting, just pushed his fingers through her dry, limp hair again. "Well, tackling him probably could have waited until a few more days after open heart surgery. Just saying."

She gave a quiet snort. "You're not wrong. It would have been nice if he'd waited a few days."

He rolled his eyes, but leaned in to kiss her forehead, resting his against hers a moment later. "Please just... focus on getting better. I'm tired of worrying about you."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, giving him an apologetic look. "I'll try. Promise."

"Good," he muttered, kissing her properly and then leaning back. He pushed a hand through his hair, smoothing it down. It was longer than he liked. He hadn't gotten a haircut since a few days after they'd gotten to Armetti's, and needed one. Half for the length, half to get rid of the off-color blond disguising the grey. "Get some rest."

"Okay," she murmured, smiling at him. She missed his company. His normal company. "Take care of yourself while I'm unable to."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm fine on my own, thank you very much," he snorted. "I'm not the one who almost died."

"Hey, you've had your turn plenty of times," she retorted, making a face at him. "You're not always the picture of health, believe it or not."

"Yeah, I'm aware," he said, a bit more bitterly than he intended. He shook it off quickly, gave her a fast smile to counter the tone, and stood. "Sleep. I'll talk to you later."

"Alright," she agreed, smiling softly. "I'll see you."

He left quickly, heading to Jim's room and knocking.

Jim was on his laptop, and he wasn't keen to be interrupted. "If it's not interesting, go away."

Moran rolled his eyes and stepped in. "Your surgery's tomorrow, sir."

Jim didn't look up, just picked up the smartphone by his side and held it up, shaking it. "I have a phone, you know, in case you'd like to join me in the 21st Century. I don't need to be receiving cute little calling cards like we're living in Victorian England," he rattled off, eyes only sliding away from the screen once he'd finished. "I suppose the bomb squad's finally got their act together, have they?"

"Yes, sir," he said a bit stiffly. "I apologize. I'll leave you be." He left without waiting to be dismissed, taking special care not to slam the door. The moment it was closed, however, he was ploughing through the infirmary, ignoring anyone in his way and sending at least one person who failed to move quickly enough tumbling. He ignored the lift and took the stairs, down the levels to the barren flat that Armetti had assigned him. He stepped in, and slammed the door so hard that it creaked in protest. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, waiting, and then he let out a roar of rage and grabbed the shitty couch that was near the right wall and hurled it across the room, watching it crash with a satisfying explosion against the far wall.

The television was next, then the chair.

It was another week before they let Lorna get out of bed, and even then she was only stuck right down into a wheelchair, but she would take the limited mobility over none at all, as she had been starting to get a little stir crazy stuck in the same room for days on end. The staff seemed to think that this wasn't a big enough occasion to warrant calling down Moran, however, so she wheeled herself into the lift by herself, excited to be returning to a place with real furniture and non-fluorescent lighting. She texted him, after she'd leaned forward to hit the button for their floor.

I've got wheels. Do they have like a garden or something down here? I'm going back to the flat but I'm really starting to crave some fresh air. LH

He got her text, but it took him a few minutes to respond. He'd needed to wash up. He took one last glance at the woman on the table- the one he had dissected after the surgery, more than two weeks ago. He'd had her frozen, and took her out to play, occasionally. It was nothing like fresh meat, but no one had struck his ire enough to justify the kill. Or, rather, to justify the kill to Jim, when they had such limited staff. Plenty of people had annoyed him enough to justify the kill to himself, this week. Nearly all of them.

He admired the woman for another long moment, reaching out to trace his fingers along the lettering- his words- lovingly carved into her arms. He was working his way along her whole body, which he'd reassembled and sewn back together with the care of a mother making a quilt. The letters were much prettier than the ones on his own body, since he had the advantage of seeing, and a scalpel, and sanity (mostly).

He washed his hands, then picked his phone up off the table and texted her back. On my way. I think there's grass on the training ground.

He returned his cadaver to the morgue freezer, and headed for the lift.

I'll meet you there, then? LH

She returned to the flat to change her clothes, which was a five-minute process filled with much swearing and grinding of teeth, and when she finally collapsed back into the chair and took a deep breath, she was glad to be sitting.

He was waiting at the entrance to the training grounds when she rolled into view, and offered her a smile. "Hey there, wheels."

"Hey," she grinned, wheeling up closer to him, and looking up the extensive distance to his face. "You know they didn't even train me on how to use this thing? I've mowed down hundreds of passerby."

"I doubt that. That would require some mass. You probably bumped into them and left them wondering who let a butterfly in." He walked around and grabbed the handles of the chair and pushed her through the open door into the training arena.

"Oh, look, the pale imitation of sunlight," Lorna smirked as he rolled her in, but judging by the only slightly sad grass on the ground, the fresh breath she took in wasn't entirely imagined.

"You should have worn a bathing suit. You could get a tan," he said dryly, heading for a tree riddled with bullet holes, overshadowing a fairly lively stretch of grass. He locked the wheels beneath it, walking around to offer her a hand out. "Or should I just lift you out?"

"My legs are fine," she chuckled, and took his hand, letting him help her up. "What's the plan here? Rolling around in the grass or ravishing me against that, frankly, abused tree? Because anything past some light petting I think my stitches might protest against."

He rolled his eyes, sitting down and pulling her gently into his lap. "No. I just wanted to relax." He wrapped his arms around her gently.

She settled back against him with a contented sigh, pleased to be back in the familiar and comforting (if very hard) embrace. She'd missed his contact. "It has occurred to me that we haven't fucked since you came back from the dead," she hummed conversationally, resting her head back against his shoulder. "When I'm better, I hope you know I expect there to be dents in the wall, if not physical bruising."

He hesitated, but then nodded. "Dents. Got it," he said, kissing the top of her head.

"Cool, we can ruin your flat and then do a walk of shame back to mine," she smirked to herself. She was a little pent up, energy-wise. When she spoke again, though, her voice was quieter. "How are you doing?"

"Let's just stick to your flat," he said absently, combing the fingers of his left hand through her hair. "I'm just happy to have you back."

"I'm happy to be back," she murmured, finding his other hand and resting hers on his.

He winced a little as his bandaged finger twinged under her touch, but didn't pull away. "Jim's recovering well."

"Good. It's time for us to be healthy again," she sighed. "How was his surgery?"

"Seamless," he said quietly, and then fell silent, eyes on the training hall. He could feel her warmth against her chest, and it was calming in a way that nothing else had been in a long time.

She snorted a little. "That's a nice change. I've really missed a little peace and quiet. And Jim being whole. Makes our lives easier."

"Sure," he said softly. "I'm looking forward to it." His voice was flat.

She shifted a little, glancing over her shoulder at him. He was very much not looking forward to that. But what the hell could she say? She sighed. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too." That, at least, was very much the truth. He felt marginally happy for the first time since Armetti had cut his finger off, just having her there.

"Can we get takeout in here?" She asked after a minute, curiously. "I'm kinda sick of jello."

"No," he said with a small chuckle. "They aren't risking security so you can have Chinese. But I can..." He trailed off, and then said "We can call the kitchen, have them make something. Jim does it all the time."

"That would be nice," she murmured, ignoring his slip. He wouldn't want to dwell on it. "Though I doubt they can do sushi."

"I doubt you would want to eat it if they could," he agreed, holding her a bit tighter.

She was happy to be held tighter. She craved it. She shut her eyes, sighing in contentment.

He tucked her under his chin, and tucked his knees up around her, closing his eyes. He took a slow breath, which stuck slightly in his aching chest. He pressed his lips together and took a slow breath through his nose, his eyes burning. It was so good to have her here, to have her alive and safe. This was the lowest he had been since he had joined the army, but she was making it just a touch better, and that was all the difference.

She hoped that no one walked in on the training square, purely for their sake. If someone caught Moran during something as tender as this, they would be tenderized, and badly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he said softly. To his horror, his voice broke slightly, and he stiffened, before clearing his throat and just holding her closer. He hated this. Hated how vulnerable and uncertain he felt.

Again, she didn't remark on it. It would have been pointless. Part of the reason they'd ever learned to live with one another was that they had learned how to let things go.

He was grateful she didn't comment, but some small part of him wished that she had. He wanted to keep this mess hidden, didn't want her seeing, but part of him... Part of him wanted her to come charging in and.. fix this somehow. That was wishful thinking, though, and he didn't let it go far. He'd gone soft. Add that to the list of reasons he was no longer nearly the man he used to be.

She was silent for a few minutes longer before she spoke again. "Sebastian... I remember realizing I couldn't grift anymore. This is eating you up inside, isn't it?"

He had gotten out of the habit of being around a grifter. Thinking too loud could get you in trouble. He was quiet for a few moments, processing. It was his decision. He could blow her off, pretend everything was fine... or take the offered hand. He decided on something in the middle. "I wouldn't say it's been... ideal..."

She snorted. A hedge answer by him was as good as admitting it outright. "You can admit it to me, Seb. It's okay. I won't love you any less." Her voice was mostly gentle. "We'll learn how to deal with this."

He was quiet again, carefully choosing his words, putting them all in order before he spoke. "I don't have a point anymore," he said finally, voice low. "I can't shoot, I can't protect Jim, or you, I can't even fucking cook. Lately I haven't done a damned bit of thinking that has kept anyone or the network safe, I've just been playing the prisoner and waiting around with my thumb up my ass, going grey. And if I'm not being a lumpabout, I'm actively making things worse. I thought I had Jim's trust again but now I lost it along with my finger. I'm completely... pointless."

"You can't shoot, but that doesn't automatically mean you can't protect us anymore," she shook her head, "As head of security with a plethora of sniping experience under your belt, you know better than anyone how to protect us. Just because you can't shoot a gun as well as you used to doesn't mean your hand-to-hand or knife training went to shit, too. And that's not even getting started on the fact that you still have another whole hand. I broke my right hand a long time ago, while I was still figuring the world out, and I learned how to do everything with my left hand. It sucked, and took almost as long as it took for my hand to heal, but it was possible." She paused for a moment, debating what the effect of her last words would be. "And... Let's face it, Seb, without you around, Jim and I kinda fall apart. You're more than your aim."

He was about to object to all of that. Point out that there was a difference between learning to write and use a spoon left-handed, and relearning a skill that had taken him years of constant practice to perfect. But that all got side-railed by her closing statement. He processed it for just a second, and felt the hair-trigger inside of him snap. He grit his teeth. "Fuck that," he growled. "More than my aim. What, I get to sit around being a trophy wife for you and Jim? 'Oh! Darling Sebby is alive, he brings me such happiness-'" He uncurled from around her slightly, heart picking up pace, trying to decide if he needed to get up and move. "I have spent the entirety of my life making myself someone powerful, dangerous, someone to be feared, and if you think it's going to make me happy that you and Jim can get your rocks off over the fact that I'm still breathing -"

"Whoa, whoa, hey," she said as he shifted under her, tensing up too and gritting her teeth a little when it hurt. "Seb, please, that's not what I meant. Yeah, okay, it's fantastic that you're alive, but if you weren't who you were, that wouldn't mean anything! We know you're deadly, and that hasn't changed! For fuck's sake, you've never even come at me with a gun. You haven't been a religious sniper in years. Watching over Jim took too much precedence. You are more than your fucking aim. You're emotionally important to me, yeah, but you've kept me alive through not shooting way more often than not. You can cause just as much damage."

"For fuck's sake, no I can't!" he snarled. "Look at the past- what- year? Two years? You and Jim were in that fucking maze, and then not two months later Ines has me- That's my goddamned job! Protecting you, protecting Jim, protecting myself so I can do the first two. And all I've done is fail, and fail, and fail a- fucking -gain!" He did shift her off his lap now, carefully, but the instant he was free he leapt to his feet, needing to pace, to move. He was ranting now, words escaping him in a tirade. "I failed to keep the network secure. I failed to keep the two of you secure. Be it security, strategy, information, physical confrontation- And this-" He whirled on her, held up his bandaged hand accusingly, "Is just the icing on the cunting cake. I'm getting old. My body and mind are slowing down. You see this?" He grabbed a fistful of his badly-dyed hair. "I'm going fucking grey. Couldn't even fix that right, but beside the point. The old Jim would have put me down like a dog years ago. And should have, too, but you and him, in your godforsaken sentimentality, are going to keep me puttering along no matter how many times I prove my utter incompetence, because it makes you feel better!"

She took his rant with a mostly blank face, the only expression on it in the form of her eyebrows, which were furrowed just a little. She kept herself sitting up by propping herself up with her hands behind her, ignoring how it stretched her chest. "It's not your fault that Jim is a blind idiot, sometimes," she said, when he'd finished, her voice slightly acidic. Not towards him, but towards Jim. "We were only in that maze because Jim fucking dismissed you. Because he had beef with me he wanted to settle in fucking public. Our misfortune is the result of fucking geniuses, Moran, not your incompetence. You did so well for so long because Jim attracted people as smart as you and I. But what are we supposed to do against Mycroft Holmes, or people like him? If Jim isn't as engaged in his own protection as you are, you can't account for everything that might happen. Jesus, Seb," she sighed, tilting her weight so she could rub her eyes. "What would putting you down do? What would that accomplish? You're irreplaceable. Even now."

"I'm not irreplaceable," he said, more quietly now. He felt tired. "No one is irreplaceable. I wasn't as good as I got when Jim first hired me, it took seasoning. But I'm not going to be around forever, and I loathe the idea of withering away in mediocrity until some moron with a knife realizes I'm slipping."

"So what solution do you have instead?" She challenged, raising her eyebrows at him. "Say someone gets hired to replace you. If you couldn't protect us against Holmes and his ilk, this greenhorn could? And what if you feel like you're withering away in mediocrity? What are you gonna do about it? Are you going to kill yourself? Just sit around and let it happen? Of course you're fucking not. So what is it going to be?"

"I don't know!" he half said, half shouted. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Lorna? I could start training a replacement, but Jim wouldn't allow that in a million fucking years, not after everything that just happened. He isn't going to want new blood anywhere near him. So where does that leave me? Doomed to increasingly brutal failures? I mean, we're hiding in a hole in the ground while you and Jim play ding-dong-ditch with death! What more can I possibly fuck up?! I for one am not interested in finding out!"

"This isn't you, Sebastian," she said, shaking her head a little. "This is defeatist. You cannot possibly take responsibility for everything that's happened. You're the second most dangerous man I've ever met, after Jim, and even still you're only one person, and even still, you're only one player. Jim and Mycroft are queens, in a chess game, and we're pawns. Maybe, occasionally, we get upgraded to bishops, or rooks. But we're outclassed, and there's nothing we can do about it. We're here because Jim failed to take care of himself. You giving up? That's not going to help."

"I know it isn't!" He shot back angrily. Then, more quietly, "I know. I fucking know." He pressed his good hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. "I am just... so tired of getting fucked over and not being able to do anything about it. And then fucking Armetti goes and takes the one thing I have left. He killed me, Lorna. He fucking killed me. It's just a matter of time."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, looking away. "I know. I've always hated the feeling of helplessness, you know that. I'm sorry."

"Don't.. it's not..." He sighed, looking up at her, and then walked back over, lifting her gently back into his lap. "It isn't your fault. Don't apologize. I'm being an idiot. I'm just... tired."

She sighed as she leaned back against him, the tension released from the tight line down her chest. "I'm still sorry this happened. I wish I'd been awake. It wouldn't have happened."

"If you had been awake, we wouldn't have started it," he said with a small smirk. "It isn't your fault that we're idiots."

She rolled her eyes, snorting. "I know you wouldn't have started it if I'd been awake, that was my point. Fools. Can't leave you alone for a minute."

He smiled just a little, kissing the top of her head. "To be fair, I was provoked. He still has the nerve to exist in my presence."

She scoffed out a laugh. "I told you you're bigger, that's not enough for you?"

He was quiet for a moment, then said, "He was standing there, watching over you, like he had some sort of... of claim to you," he said after a moment. "And I was already feeling like shit for letting this happen, and seeing him there, in my place... I told him to leave. He didn't." He traced a circling on her thigh with his thumb. "He thinks I abuse you. That you stay because you've got some sort of Stockholm syndrome or some shit. I didn't take that very well."

She sighed, hand settling on his arm, so she could touch him without disrupting his movements. "I didn't think he was that delusional," she murmured, a little troubled. "I should have seen it."

"I mean..." He was quiet for a moment. "I have tried to kill you."

"Years ago," she scoffed, indignant. "That's not enough."

"I mean, to be fair," he said with a chuckle, "that usually is a dealbreaker." He kissed the top of her ear.

"You're lucky you're so hot and I'm so tolerant," she smirked, squeezing his wrist. "So hot."

"So lucky," he retorted, smirking. What the fuck was it about this woman? Twenty minutes ago he'd been miserable. "I might have trashed my flat. So theoretically, once you're feeling up to it, a few more dents wouldn't make much different."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Jesus," she chuckled, "Well hey, it will stop us from needing to make our place less livable."

"See! Bright side," he said, kissing the side of her neck, now, just exploring, relishing the fact that she was alive and warm and recovering.

"Hmmm," she hummed, just relaxing back against him with her eyes closed, pretending that they were under a warm sun, and that she could hear birds. She'd missed his gentle touch. Every single one from Jim had been angry.

He smiled as she relaxed, his good hand shifting up to comb through her hair, his stubble- he hadn't bothered to shave in a few days- occasionally brushing against her skin as he traced curious paths with his lips, focusing just on that, trying to relax.

She didn't know how long they stayed like that, just enjoying each other's company, but she didn't stiffen when she heard the door open and voices filter in. Sebastian would do that enough for the both of them.

He let out a soft groan, pressing his forehead to her neck. "Please let them fuck up enough for me to kill them," he muttered. "Please."

"I guess we'll see," she muttered, cracking her eyes open as a group of three walked out onto the grass, guns in their arms. They hadn't noticed them yet.

Moran raised his head to observe the three. They were security, that much was clear, though he didn't know their names offhand. He snorted softly. "Observant lot," he murmured, making no move to change position, waiting.

It took them a minute to finally spot them. When they did, they started laughing. "Look at the lovebirds, snuggling up in the training ground," the leader called out, waving his gun a little.

"Right, I think that counts," he said with a smirk. "Thoughts?"

"No, no, I want to hear what else they have to say," she smirked, as the group approached, obviously making crude jokes amongst themselves.

"Hey, buddy, you interested in sharin' or somethin'?" The second one asked, grinning at the two of them. Americans. Mostly unfamiliar.

Moran laughed then, feeling delight down in the recesses of his soul. Christ... I'm going to have a fresh toy. Lovely.

"No, not really, but I'm sure she can make her own decisions. What do you think, luv, any interest in these upstanding citizens?" he asked, stepping around her name, enjoying the apparent anonymity provided by the idiocy of their assailants, at least for the time being.

"What, pick one of these lumps when I'm already wrapped up in this much muscle? No thanks," Lorna snorted, smirking up at the trio. They seemed to be beginning to grasp the severity of their mistake. The leader wasn't having any doubts, however.

"Then I guess you should'n'a taken up a spot out here, then, huh? Why don't the two of ya scram so we can actually use this patch of ground for what it's meant for?"

"Now, I'm looking at our odds, Harrison," Moran hummed, loud enough for the three to hear. "Three well-trained but painfully idiotic security goons, one of whom hasn't had more than two weeks with his gun, judging by the way he's holding it-" the fellow on the left shifted slightly at that, looking more uncertain- "Versus you, freshly out of the infirmary, and me, injured as I am. I don't know about you, but I am loving our odds..." he said, voice full of relish, giving the leader of the trio a cold smile.

"I might rip my stitches open but I could definitely put at least one of them on the ground," she hummed in agreement, drumming her fingers rhythmically on her stomach. "And the other two I'd fend off with my razor-sharp tongue-slash-wit. I mean, in some alternate universe where you were struck by lightning and hadn't already taken care of them."

"Lightning underground," he said with a laugh. "You sure about that wit?"

The leader was clearly irritated that they weren't impressed with his bravado, but the other two were backing off. Moran shifted Lorna out of his lap and then stood, offering her a hand up. "You do not know how much I've been wanting to kill someone this week," he said to her conversationally as the three took an instinctive step back when they saw his height.

The first man stepped forward again, hefting his gun a little more firmly. "Listen, faerie, I don't know who you are-"

"Oh, that's obvious, believe me," Moran said with a smirk, before grabbing the gun with his left hand and twisting it down harmlessly to the ground as the man fired in panic. His right elbow hit the man's temple like a pile-driver.

"Oooh," Lorna laughed as the man dropped like a sack of rocks, and the other two shouted, jumping back in surprise as the gun went off. They weren't going to fight at all - they were the type who fell apart once their leader was down. Lorna leaned back against the tree, and laughed as the first one broke rank and turned, stumbling as he began running away.

"Nah, not going t' chase him," Moran sighed, accent thicker now. He hefted the dropped man's gun, raised with his left hand, and prayed to his Irish ancestry that he didn't fuck this one shot up. The report was simultaneous with the running man's collapse, and he allowed himself a small smile, despite the fact that it was clear he'd only hit the man's leg from the scream of pain and the way he started crawling away. Moran nodded in satisfaction, then eyed the other man, still standing there, gun in hand but not raised, looking uncertain.

"Now, you have two options. I'm perfectly content just killing him," he said, nodding to the man on the floor. "To be honest, he was the source of my annoyance. But as I recall, you had one or two nice little jabs in there, as well. So, you can have your go with me, and I'll kill you, or you can put your gun down, come over here, and I'll cut your ear off, and you can walk away."

The man looked paralyzed with uncertainty, and Lorna didn't blame him. Biting the bullet and allowing your ear to be cut off over the high risk of being killed? Difficult decision to make. "Oh, fuck," he muttered, seemingly to himself, and dropped the gun at his feet, and started muttering the swear in repetition under his breath as he approached.

"Good little lamb," Moran said with a smile. "Give us your knife, then." The man hesitated, then pulled the tactical knife from his belt, carefully handing it over handle first. Moran took it from him, and motioned to the ground. "Kneel, please, and be aware that if you try anything I will leave you so maimed your own mother wouldn't recognize you."

The man took a deep breath and then dropped to his knees. If he moved slowly, he would only lose his nerve. He was still swearing under his breath. He screwed his eyes shut, his fingers clenched in fists on his thighs. Lorna watched, with a grin on her face.

Moran walked up behind him, feet on either side of the man's legs. He reached down, cupping under the man's chin with a soft, almost lover-like touch, smirking as the man flinched. He pulled the man's head backward, bracing his head against his own thigh. He considered taking the man's nose for a moment, but decided that he didn't need to deviate and take the man's story from 'just but terrifying punishment' to 'unjust attack worthy of vengeance'. He preferred the network to have an air of fear, not disgruntlement.

"Which do you think, Lorna?" he asked, bandaged fingers caressing along the man's throat. He touched the cold blade to the man's left ear. "Left?" He switched sides. "Or right?"

"I think the left," she said conversationally, looking down to pick at her nails. "Just feels better, you know?"

The man whimpered.

"Mmm.." he hummed in agreement, turning the man's head to give himself a better angle, and putting the knife in place. "I must admit, he's a very resigned little sod," he said cheerfully, and, bracing the man's head, sliced upward.

The scream was the best thing he'd heard all week.

She laughed as the ear fell to the ground, smiling in pleasure at the red welling of blood from the sliced skin. She'd forgotten how much she liked blood outside of a hospital setting. "Well, he took that like a man, didn't he?" she chuckled, crossing her arms over her chest.

Moran nodded, smiling, and leaned over the shaking man to look at his name-badge. Karsky. "Alright, Karsky. Free to go. No, leave the ear, good boy, it isn't yours." He smiled as the man scrambled away. "Remember my face now, Karsky. I'm Sebastian Moran, that's Lorna Harrison. Second and third in command of Moriarty's network, in case you're still struggling." He considered the bloody knife, mouth watering, but he had no idea what sort of illnesses the man might have. "So perhaps show a bit of respect next time. Off you go. I need to kill your friend here."

Karsky managed a pained nod, reluctantly left the ear where it was, and got up for real, pressing a hand to the bloody side of his head, and walked away, beginning to cry. Lorna appraised the man at their feet, still unconscious. "How are we going to kill him?"

"An excellent question," he sighed, turning his attention away from Karsky and sitting beside the unconscious man on the ground. "I'd really love for him to be awake." He prodded the man in the septum with the knife, and he came to with a strangled cry of pain. "There he is," Moran hummed, pressing the knife against the man's jugular. He went stock-still. "So. Thoughts?"

"I don't know," she hummed, sitting down beside him, tired of standing. That was a little too much exertion for her, sadly enough. "Hard to recreate my open heart surgery without a bonesaw or a lot of time... I'm certainly not strong enough to be wrenching open any ribcages today."

"Agreed," he hummed, planting a knee on the man's back as he started struggling, and pressing the knife a little more firmly into his neck. "Could nick an artery. Let him bleed out," he suggested.

"Please, my heart can only take so much strain right now," she shook her head, patting her chest gently. "Maybe a little less blood would be better."

He laughed, but acquiesced. "Right then, let's see... Knife up through the palate? Break his spine? Suffocate him?" The man let out a terrified moan.

"Ooh, I like the palate one," she nodded, eyes intent on the knife. "I've never seen that one before."

"Its pretty quick," he said, rolling the man onto his back.

"-sorry! Please don't kill-"

Moran rolled his eyes, handing Lorna the knife and using his good hand to press on either side of the man's jaw, forcing it open. The man let out a pleading scream. "Go ahead. Aim a bit back. Just right up into the brain."

She took the knife, aimed carefully, and then jammed it into place, feeling the crack of bone as the blade broke into the brain cavity, and the man gurgled. "You're right, that was quick."

He nodded, releasing his grip on the man now that it was no longer needed. Blood and oily neural fluid pooled in the man's mouth and spilled over. He smiled a little. "Christ I've needed that."

"Yeah, you've looked like it," she chuckled. "There's a tension in your shoulders."

He snorted. "There's a tension in my everywhere." He reached out to pull the knife free.

"To be fair, you've never exactly been a relaxed person," she pointed out, shifting with a grunt to put herself back in her wheelchair. As nice as the grass felt, it wasn't very supportive. And it was messy down there. She'd like to avoid changing for as long as possible. "Also, you could probably make an innuendo out of that."

"Or several," he agreed, pushing the man's hair back affectionately. He stood. He'd call someone to bring the body to his cadaver room later. He wiped his hands on the grass, and stretched, walking over to her chair and starting to push her toward the exit. "I want Karsky for our side of the pond."

"How did I know that whole thing would endear him to you?" She laughed, glancing over her shoulder at him. "You like them able to endure a trial, don't you?"

"It's a useful trait," he said with a smirk. "You learn a lot about a person when you ruin them. It taught me a lot about you, when it was your turn."

"I don't know how good of an idea it is to bring that shit up, even now," she rolled her eyes with a small snort. It was far behind her, these days, with all that had happened to her, but they still were painful memories. "But as long as you've brought up - what did you end up learning about me?"

He raised an eyebrow, but waited until they were in the lift to speak. "I learned that you had metal to you, first of all. That you were capable of recovering from trauma and continuing to work in the interim, with the man who had screwed you over. That's a level of maturity that's necessary to survive in this situation. And you weren't afraid to confront me about the situation, either. A lot of little things. Your personality, mental faculties, responses to pressure..."

She chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. "Maturity... Meanwhile, you were only treating me like shit because you didn't know how to act around someone you had a crush on, like a little kid. It wasn't maturity, Sebastian. That was depression, denial, and survival."

He snorted. "Fuck off, Harrison, I was just starting to like you," he muttered, pushing them out into the hall and heading for her room.

She rolled her eyes, amused. "You're a better actor than I gave you credit for, then," she said as they rolled up to a stop in front of her door. She leaned up to press her thumb onto the scanner.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked with a smirk, pushing the door open and the chair inside.

"It's supposed to mean that you've acted like you more than like me for quite a while now," she quipped, absentmindedly enjoying the sensation of being pushed around in the wheelchair. Moving without effort was always fun.

"That's because I'm an evil genius," he muttered, closing the door behind them and taking a slow breath. "Well, welcome home."

"Mmm, smells not antiseptic," she hummed, looking around fondly. It looked slightly more lived-in than when she had last left it. Now he'd probably been in here longer than she had.

He laughed. "I could get a spritzer of some, if it would make you more comfortable," he teased with a smirk, bringing her across the living room and offering her a hand up out of the chair and onto the couch.

"God, don't even tease. I hate infirmaries and hospitals," she groaned as he helped transfer her to the sofa. "They're horrible."

"Uh-huh," he muttered, rolling his eyes and sitting next to her, pulling her against his side and digging out his phone, texting the kitchen about getting a meal delivered.

She shifted into a more comfortable position, nestled up against him with her head cushioned on his shoulder. She let the silence stand. She was still soaking him in.

He set his phone aside, turning to kiss the top of her head. "Good to have you back," he said softly.

"I'm glad to be back," she smiled. "Though I don't know what to do with my time now that I'm not consumed with sleeping."

"You could take up knitting," he said with a smirk, smoothing his hand up her side slowly.

"Why? I could just as easily do other things with my hands. That are less boring," she replied, raising her eyebrows at him suggestively, before cracking a smirk.

He laughed. "Been missing me, I take it?" he asked, lacing his fingers through hers.

"Nonstop," she confirmed, squeezing his hand. "Like, for months. Pretending I hated you particularly sucked."

"Yeah... that," he said quietly. "You were good at it. Sometimes I wish you weren't a grifter."

She squeezed his hand again, shifting up to press a kiss to his cheek, her chest clenching a little. "I'm sorry," she murmured, resting her jaw on his shoulder. "If we could go the rest of our lives without ever having to do that again, that would be nice."

"Very much agreed," he said softly. "It wasn't your fault. I did a lot worse to you these past few months. I deserved it."

She shrugged a little. "I don't know, really not that much happened to me while Ines had me. Yeah, I had to watch that little homemade porno like twenty times, and I was almost assaulted again, but neither of those were you, really. Especially not the second. You weren't the one twisting the knife."

He gripped her a little tighter. "Let's just... talk about something else. You're back, you're alive, I'm alive... If you weren't recovering you'd be pinned to the wall already."

"If that isn't our mantra..." she mumbled, shaking her head a little and leaning into his warmth. "We should come up with some kind of queue in celebration. Or at least get a cake, you know?"

"What sort of queue?" he asked. "And I can text the kitchen for cake, if you would like cake. Might even be able to make it."

"Oh, you could definitely make cake. I'd help with anything that requires too much finesse," she smiled, then lifted her shoulders a little. "And I mean like our first queue, which you insisted didn't exist, if I recall."

He snorted in amusement. "Fine, we'll make cake. And another queue, if you like. What would you like to head it off with?"

"Hey, you're the one who's presumably only been laid the once the past four months," she snickered, running her thumb over the back of his hand. "I've been pretty sated. But if something strikes my fancy, I'll add it."

He laughed at that, sighing. "Well, pinning you to the wall is definitely up there. Always is. And Armetti's desk is right beneath it. I want to make a fucking disaster." He drummed his fingers against her knuckles. "I want to spend a day with you with no clothes and a fuckton of massage oil..."

"Well, those all sound delightful," she said cheerfully. "I'm pretty certain I can make the second one happen. I would kill someone to make the third happen, though."

He chuckled. "I'll find a day. We'll do it." There was a knock on the door, and he stood slowly, grabbing a gun from the end table with his good hand and heading for the door, glancing at the security monitor. But it was just a caterer with their food. He still exercised caution, keeping the gun in hand and visible as he maneuvered the door open with his bad hand, and motioned the small woman to walk in and place the tray of food on the coffee table. She did so and then left in a hurry, eyes on the gun.

"Ooh, what did you order?" She asked, leaning forward as the smell of food wafted her way. "Smells good."

He secured the door and walked over, sitting beside her. "Steak, baked potatoes, and grilled vegetables. Seemed like a bit of celebration was in order," he said, uncovering the food and then heading over to her liquor cabinet. "How badly do you think one glass of scotch would fuck our livers up, with the painkillers and antibiotics?"

"One glass? I think we'll live," she chuckled, scooting forward and picking up one of the heavily loaded plates, her mouth watering heavily. "Especially me. Mine has seen worse."

"That's not exactly your strongest argument," he snorted, but grabbed the scotch anyway and went to find a couple of chilled glasses. He returned and poured them both a glass, before passing her one of the steaks and taking his own food.

"I guess the argument was that it's not going to be my liver that eventually gets me," she amended with a snort, before digging in voraciously. She'd been living off subpar infirmary food for days.

He dug into his own food with a vengeance. It had been something that had fallen to the wayside in the past weeks. The only time he really consciously sought out meals was when he realized lack of food was affecting his strength. Now, however, he was able to enjoy himself. The steak was hot, and perfect, melting over his tongue, and his hungry body informed him that the potato was the best thing he'd ever decided to consume. His leg was warm where it rested against Harrison's, and that made a fair bit of the difference.

She groaned as the steak touched her tongue. "Oh, fuck, I forgot how good meat is," she moaned, leaning her head back, eyes closed.

He laughed at her apparent ecstasy. "Agreed," he muttered, leaning down and nipping her exposed throat playfully before sitting back up and taking a sip of scotch.

She pushed him with her leg in retribution as she went back to eating, unable to even look at the scotch yet. Alcohol was good, but food was better.

They ate in silence for the next few minutes, and it wasn't until his plate was clean that he sat back, sipping his scotch, relaxing.

She sat back a few moments after he did and started on her scotch, looking thoroughly pleased. "Man, you really miss tasting things."

"Yeah. I'd imagine food is a whole new world after nearly a month on IV," he said with shake of his head. He slid his arm around her again, careful of his bandaged finger, and tucked her into his side again.

She hummed in agreement, resting her head on him in between sips of scotch. "You almost forget just how great eating is."

"Yes, well. With a little luck, you won't be deprived again anytime soon." He rubbed his thumb over her hip absently.

She nodded, taking a sip of her drink. She had been dry since they'd gotten back. Her choice, but it was a comfort to taste alcohol again. "Well, one thing all this made easier was withdrawal."

He laughed, shaking his head a little. "There you go. 'Harrison's two-step program to beating withdrawal. Step one: Almost die. Step two: don't.' You could do motivational tapes."

She scoffed a laugh. "Fucking hell, can you imagine? I'd be sued by someone who actually tried it."

"Let them. We'll pay off the judge and take their money," he snorted, smirking. "No mortal can touch us."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "We've been on television enough times, don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know. You look pretty good on camera," he shot back, sipping his scotch and leaning back against the couch with a sigh of content, eyes on her, watching her.

She snorted, taking a sip of scotch. "Hey, I've never been on camera naked, unlike someone else in the room. I look fine on camera."

"Well, to be fair," he muttered, eyes narrowing, "That wasn't voluntarily. And really? Never, in your illustrious career of fucking demented millionaires and government playboys, has one taken a picture or film of you naked?"

"Why would I let them get away with that?" She asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "That lowers my retail value."

He wrinkled his nose just slightly. "Don't say it like that," he muttered. "You're not... retail. "

She was surprised that bothered him. It was so rare her job did. As such, her answer was just a little delayed. "I used to be," was all she said, shrugging matter-of-factly.

"Not anymore," he returned in a matching tone, his grip on her tightening just a little. The unspoken message was clear. You're mine.

Her heart did something funny in her chest and she had to take a small breath, smiling lopsidedly, softly at him. "Well, it's nice to know you think so."

He didn't respond, just set his empty glass on the table- He'd meant it. One glass, for both of them- and shifting on the couch, turning her with him, until he was lying down with her half-beside, half-on top of him. He moved slowly so that she could shift in a way that didn't hurt her or spill her drink, kicking off his shoes in the process and smiling just slightly, smugly, once she was curled up next to him.

She finished off her drink before he pulled her completely horizontal so she could snuggle without interruption, nestling against his side like a puzzle piece.

He took her glass and set it aside for her, before bringing his hand back to comb through her hair gently, just once, before settling on her shoulder. His injured hand was propped carefully at her waist.

She lay there quietly enjoying his company for a little while, and then dozed off into a light sleep. She felt too safe not to.

He watched her sleep, watched the slow rise and fall of her back. She looked almost healthy, with the flush of the scotch on her cheeks. She was too thin- again, honestly, would she ever be at a healthy weight for more than a few months at a time?- but he was still a little on the light side as well. They could work on that together. He just needed her here, safe with him.

She got blood cold as ice
And a heart made of stone
But she keeps me alive
She's the beast in my bones
She gets everything she wants
When she gets me alone

- Bryce Fox - Horns -