8
Sitting pretty in my brand new Scars II
Sebastian opens his eyes to the darkness of a cold room. His heart, a thundering pulse inside his body, sends adrenaline coursing through his veins. Grabs his chest seeking to soothe it, but his fingers brush against an unfamiliar texture. Panic swells up like a crescendo, his mind lost to the screaming cacophony of needing to get the foreign thing off. Claws at it until it falls away, and pain blossoms immediately in its wake. The palm of his hand is slick with sweat. It burns when he presses it against his pectoral. Through the muscles, he can feel his heart beating. A nauseating resonation that swamps his senses until it is the only thing he can hear. He's alive. Somehow, he's still alive, but the memory of how that came to be is a void within his mind. His memory sloshes throughout his skull like port in a bottle, muted and unhelpful. He squeezes his eyes shut, hand shifting to the bridge of his nose. Pinches it like it'll help mitigate the brewing headache. It doesn't. Massaging his forehead only seems to worsen it, so he gives up, hand falling bonelessly back into his lap. Angles his head around, taking in the shadowy shapes of a desk and overburdened bookshelves. Across from him, a sliver of moonlight has managed to slip through a crack in the blinds. It illuminates a section of the carpet, highlighting one of the many stylized eagles embroidered on it. They ring a bell inside his head, but trying to follow the thread of thought only leaves him exhausted.
With several false starts that leave him even worse for wear, Sebastian sits up slowly. Sweat gathers at his brow, trickling down his face, but he doesn't have the energy to wipe it away. Barely has the strength necessary to keep himself upright. He sways, catches himself, and then gives into the urge to rest against the armrest. His stomach gurgles unpleasantly, a reminder that he hasn't eaten in god knows how long, but a secondary sensation lurks beneath the hunger. A vague sense of nausea. He swallows roughly and gathers himself together, intending to stand. Has barely started to rise when his leg crumples, and he falls, the forward momentum pitching him off the couch. His head slams against the ground, pain erupting like firecrackers in a dark sky. Sebastian groans. He struggles to get a hand under himself, but even that simple action proves too much. His muscles rebel, refusing to do anything other than continue to be useless noodles. Presses his face into the carpet, nose twitching at a familiar scent that infests it. He knows that smell, a mixture of gunpowder and ink, has smelt more times than he can count. And always, it is accompanied by a cold smile, green eyes sparkling like broken jewels in the sunlight, and skin as silk. Albert, he thinks. Albert's been here. The thought is more comforting than it ought to be, but if Albert has truly been in this room, it means he's safe, no longer in that hellish prison. He inhales deeply, senses heightening as his self-control slips. The scent grows stronger, washing through his body and leaving tingling warmth in its wake. His vision narrows into a single pinpoint before it fades entirely, leaving him in the peaceful embrace of darkness.
"Good gracious, what in the name of the Holy Father are you doing?"
The voice shatters through his daze, louder than a siren and just as irritating. Sebastian blinks. Or attempts to, as his eyelashes have clumped together so tightly he can't open his eyes. Turns his head away from the source of the noise instead.
"For fu—" The rest of the sentence dissolves into undistinguishable mumbling. Sebastian tunes it out, too tired to even attempt to pay attention. The floor vibrates, an early warning, and before there is a presence beside him. Something terribly light brushes against the back of his neck, and he flinches, instinctively trying to curl up. Blinding pain puts an end to that foolishness, as does a tense voice. "At ease, Moran! It's just me."
Albert, Sebastian's brain supplies helpfully. However, he says nothing, unsure if he could even make a word, so overwhelming is the discomfort. In the end, he doesn't need to say anything. The hand mercifully leaves his neck. "Look at me," Albert orders. Sebastian obeys; he's found throughout the years that it is less trouble to obey a Moriarty than to argue with one. Albert's inhale is terribly loud in his ears, his subsequent sigh just as much. "One moment. Do not move." The floor vibrates once more after his departure, leaving Sebastian to lie there in confusion. His eyes are still shut, sleep crust and dried blood mingling together so as to be an effective deterrent against trying to rub his own eyes. He drifts instead, time passing in a slow morass of unfinished thoughts. He wonders if Albert plans to return or if he has grown tired of his uselessness. If William took his words to heart and sought out the people seeking to harm him, they'd come perilously close after all. If the kids will ever look at him with respect again, he imagines not. Nothing is more disgraceful than a soldier who cannot even save himself, as his father once said. "The first step in protecting others is to protect yourself," he had said, horse crop landing heavily in his hand. "And yet, you pathetic welp that you are cannot even manage such a thing." As old as the memory is, it still awakens within him the same emotions. Guilt and fear poured liberally into a cooking pot until all that remains is the certainty of his own failings.
A disgraceful eldest son; truly, that was what he has always been. At least, in his death, his little brothers had been freed from his legacy. "I'm back," Albert's voice, unfamiliar in its softness, pierces through the miasma of dark thoughts as easily as a burning arrow lights up a dark sky. Sebastian instinctually breathes in; water and oil greet him. His nose scrunches, and he focuses harder, searching past whatever has been brought for Albert's scent. It hits him like a bucket of cold water. To Sebastian, anger has always smelled like smoldering wood. Cloying and tickling the inside of his nose until he wants nothing more than to sneeze. And Albert stinks of it, almost to the point of being suffocating. He recoils. Presses a hand to his face, pinching his nostrils shut until his nose hurts. He hasn't the faintest idea of what he's done to make the man angry, but it must have been monumental. The last time Albert had smelled so furious had been when someone had managed to strike Louis and left his cheek an ugly yellow color for days. Sebastian is confident that he hasn't committed that error, but that certainty fades quickly in the wake of his muddled memories. He attempts to roll over, desiring to put distance between himself and the angry Moriarty, but a loud 'tssk' has him freezing.
"I told you not to move," Albert says. "You're going to rip your stitches with all that wriggling and get even more blood on my carpet." Sebastian hears him shuffle closer and then the pitter-pattering of water droplets in a bucket. "I'm going to clean your face; stay calm." Perhaps, it is because Albert has told him what he is doing that the sensation of a wet cloth scraping against his skin does not cause him to flinch. Something warm bumps against his hand, and he lets it drop again, hardly daring to breathe as the cloth gently passes across his nose. His heart accelerates once more, rapid double beats that remind him of a kitten he'd once kept as a pet. How rapidly had the tiny creature's heartbeat when Sebastian had first picked it up. Unable to see what Albert is doing, only aware of his presence leaning over him via the occasional brush of cloth against his sensitive skin. He feels like the mouse held prisoner under the cat's claws, awaiting its impendent doom. A thumb presses against his cheek, fingers loping beneath his jaw as his head is tilted back to a more ideal position. The wetness abandons his nose, slowly crawling up his nose bridge before it veers off and alights on his eyelid. It is acceptable for the span of one heartbeat, but within the next, it is not. There's water in his nose, his mouth, and his ears. He's repeatedly drowning as a heavy hand presses down on the back of his head. The air in his lungs is a figment of his imagination. Sebastian hisses. Lashes out, but his hand is snatched before it can make contact. He snarls. Strikes out with the other arm, impervious to how the broken bone screams in protest. There's a curse, and both his arms are flat against the ground.
Sebastian struggles harder. The beast that slumbers inside is all the more desperate to get out. He bites at nothing, teeth clattering loudly together when all they encounter is air. Fingers form claws as they dig and rip at the carpet. Distantly, he's aware of a voice yelling. But the words are lost in the haze. He's so close; if only he struggled harder, he could be free from this torture. The grip on his wrists tightens, and heavy weight lands on top of him, driving the air from his lungs. The voice grows more insistent, loud bursts of hot air brushing against his ear. Sebastian headbutts in that direction. Satisfaction blooms when his head encounters something equally head-like, and a yelp ensues. It dies just as quickly, replaced with a snarl so chilling it nearly silences him. But Sebastian has never been the type to back down from a challenge; if he had, he'd never have survived the Afghanistan slaughter. Would not have been able to keep fighting until nature itself had been forced to interfere. Had he not fallen into the river, Sebastian knows, without a doubt, that he would have kept going until every last one of those bastards was dead. And so, he growls right back. Spits bloody saliva at his assailant and tries once more to land a blow with his head. He misses this time. Instead, something sharp and bony traps his arm, and a hand slams his head to the ground. No matter how he struggles, it keeps him there with a strength far superior to his weakening body.
"Stay. Still." The voice is clearer now. Burning hot in his ears, the threat of imminent death is so significant that Sebastian stills. The wetness returns without warning, scrubbing mercilessly at his face, and then just as quickly, it is gone. "Open your eyes."
He does. Squints one warily and, when nothing happens, opens it fully. Albert is the heavy weight on top of him, his knees keeping his arms pinned and his hand resting on his head. His face is flushed, sweat shining brightly on his skin. Hair a disheveled mess as if it has been treated to many a rough passage of the hand. There are bags under his eyes, so deep that they appear to almost sag. His skin has the same coloration of an eggshell left for too long in its box, an unhealthy pallor that speaks to a lack of sun. It is a tone that better suits William, who spends all his hours inside, and an unexpected one on Albert. Their eyes meet, and something like relief flashes across Albert's face. "Moran," he breathes, "how kind of you to return."
Sebastian glares at him, brain still half-lost in the swamp lands of his memory. "Ow," he settles on saying, imbuing all the anger into that one word he can. Albert's gaze drops and returns, his emotions locked away behind a neutral smile.
"Right," Albert mutters. He looks not the least bit apologetic as he stands and carefully steps away. "That was certainly… something. How are you feeling?"
"Are you fucking —" Sebastian starts, but his voice cracks halfway through. He sighs instead. "I've been better, and you look like shit."
Albert flicks his eyes up to the ceiling, his opinion on that comment written in block print across his face. "No matter, now that you're awake, you can eat. The good doctor said you needed to ingest sustenance before you could be given anything for the pain." He moves around Sebastian in an awkward crab-like scuttle and places the pillows back on the couch. Shakes out a blanket that had been pooled on the ground and folds it neatly.
"You're going to cook…?" After having been the unwilling poison tester for many of Albert's meals, Sebastian asks, feeling entirely justified in his mistrust. One such incident had left Louis bedridden for a day, resulting in Albert being banned from the kitchen. "On second thought, I'm not hungry." He winces at the sound of his voice, hating its scratchiness, not to mention how exhausting it was to even form a simple sentence. Rather than food, he wonders if returning to the sweet embrace of oblivion might not be better. If Albert is here, then surely all is well with the others, and Sebastian has nothing to worry about.
"Don't be childish," Albert mutters. He finishes puttering around the room and comes to a stand before Sebastian. His hands firmly planted on his hips and the most aristocratic scowl on his face as he peers down his narrow nose. "Louis made soup; it just needs to be reheated. Surely, I can be trusted to do that much?"
"I'll reheat the soup," Sebastian says flatly. He gets a hand under himself, ignoring the shaking in his arm and pushes himself up to his knees. He shuffles his leg into a slightly more upright position, balanced gingerly on two limbs, and for a moment, he thinks he'll make it. But then his stomach lurches nauseatingly, and his arm gives out. He collapses again. He hits his right arm on the way, and it starts throbbing again. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing shallowly through his nose. Sinks his teeth into his lower lip until the urge to scream dies. Even without looking, Sebastian knows that Albert is watching him. Can feel the weight of eyes on his back, burning his skin in quiet judgment. It makes him want to curl up and hide, tuck all the broken and hurting parts of himself away until they can no longer be perceived. He should not be emitting weakness and vulnerability, not when his sole job is to act as William's cleaner and second-in-command. And here, like this, on his knees, unable to even sit up, he's failing at both tasks. It's shameful.
"Moran."
Sebastian flinches. Feels blood fill his mouth as his teeth finally pierce through the abused flesh of his lip. The beast inside him is so close to the surface that it takes all his remaining self-control to not shift. Doing so would only likely result in his injuries worsening; he knows that, and yet there is comfort in the shelter of his animal form. As abnormal as it is.
He hears Albert grunt as he kneels down, his presence looming beside him like a hungry vulture coming to peck at his carcass. "Sebastian," he says, and warning bells start to go off in Sebastian's head. He must make some sort of noise, for the next sound that Albert releases is a long sigh. "When you were captured, Fred was so distraught that he spent the rest of the day in his Lupine form, prowling the streets hoping to find your scent." That was certainly not one of all the things that Sebastian had expected to hear. Albert continues after a pause. "In all our years of working together, I have never seen that boy lose his composure so badly. And he was not the only one. Bond to was beside himself with worry, and Jack —"
"Were you?"
Albert falls silent. Sebastian imagines his expression is shocked as he figures out the best way to spin a platitude. He tenses, prepared for whatever lie is about to taint his ears. No such words burden his ears; only silence remains in the wake of his question. And that is perhaps even worse than a false comfort. He should have known better; of course, Albert wouldn't care if he breathed or not — "Yes. He wanted to come with us, but Lord William talked him out of it." — Fred must have been wrong. Said the one thing he'd known Sebastian wanted to hear because he was an astute little bastard like that. "You weren't, were you?"
Satisfied with his conclusion, he opens his eyes and raises his head. Albert is still crouched beside him, bangs casting shadows across his face and lips pinched together. There is tension in his jaw that is rarely visible in one who has as much practiced control of his emotions as Albert does. His nostrils flare, the sound akin to a steam train whistle. His hands are white-knuckled fists, gripping his pant legs so tightly that it is a wonder the fabric doesn't tear.
Ah.
Spurred by some self-preservation instinct, Sebastian scoots backward. Faster than he can react, a hand whips through the air and latches onto his shoulder. Hauls him back in with a strength rarely seen outside of battle until his nose is only a hair breath away from Albert's own. Eyes as red as rubies glower at him from beneath furrowed brows. His voice is as cold and threatening as a hissing viper when he speaks. "How dare you. You have no idea of the distress you have caused." Sebastian's breath catches in his chest. He's seen Albert angry before; one can gain a particular enjoyment from teasing the other man, but this is different. His shoulder burns where Albert's claws have pricked his skin. Blood dripping down his arm like tiny pearlescent rubies. He doesn't dare remove his eyes from the white fangs peeking out of a partially opened mouth. Fears that if he makes any sudden movements, the man will go for his throat. Literally.
Albert's head inclines, hot air blowing against Sebastian's ear as he continues. "The secrets contained within that fool brain of yours are of such importance that we would have hunted for you to the ends of times if necessary. Do not forget that you have my brother's trust and are privy to far more than any mere soldier should ever be. Do not question —"
Without warning, he jerks away. So quick is he to retreat that Sebastian is sent sprawling onto his back, blinking dazedly up at the ceiling. Within his chest, his heart beats a solemn tune of 'I told you so. I told you so.' Although he'd known deep down that he possessed no value in the eyes of the eldest Moriarty, some part of him had still held on to that tiniest flame of hope. A fool indeed. He turns his head, eyes passing straight over Albert to the savior of his shattering heart. Bond stands in the doorway, blues eyes flickering between them warily, a bowl in his hands.
"I brought soup?" He says, voice uptilting and turning the statement into a question. "Fred heard all the stomping around and asked me to warm you up a bowl." He continues, eyes briefly alighting on Sebastian before returning to Albert. Seemingly without noticing, he takes a small step back. Sebastian can hardly blame him; near-feral energy is wafting off Albert. Though he has closed his mouth, hiding his fangs from view, his eyes are still the color of spilled blood. A glaring warning sign for anyone who cares to look. Albert shifts, his body angling to face Bond more frontally, his hands forming fists beside his back. Sebastian sees the claws pressing against soft skin and decides to interfere before things go bad or worse.
"Thanks, Bond; go ahead and leave it on the desk," he says, plastering a reassuring look on his face. Bond looks the opposite of reassuring. He takes another tiny step back, realizes it this time, and shuffles sideways, mumbling something under his breath. "No," Sebastian says flatly, despite having no clue as to what he'd said, "it's late; I'm sure you've got things you need to handle." Keeping his attention off of Albert is a struggle, so he focuses back on him, drinking in the palatable tension in his spine. The man looks as if he is one wrong word away from exploding into action, and Sebastian isn't the faintest bit interested in what direction that action will take.
"Call if you need anything," Bond says after a hard stare that causes even more concern to blossom on his face, "really, we're just down the hall. Don't hesitate."
Sebastian flashes him a thumbs up, cheeks aching from the strain of his smile. He maintains it until the door has shut again before drooping against the carpet. Rubs at his eyes, exhaustion beginning to creep in. "You can leave, Moriarty," he says, around a yawn. "I can manage from here." There is no response. Not that Sebastian was expecting one, really; of the three, Albert tends to go cold and quiet when he's at his angriest. He closes his eyes when the faint light in the room becomes too much to bear. The floor vibrates as Albert moves. Sebastian tracks his footsteps to what he assumes is the desk and then hears the quiet click of metal against porcelain. He opens his eyes again, watching suspiciously as Albert makes his way back over to him. "What are you doing." It's not a question; he knows what Albert is doing, but the thought is so absurd that it must be false.
"Can you sit up?" Albert asks rather than answers. Perhaps he is also aware of the thick tension imbuing the room. One word, one abrupt movement, and they'll both end up tumbling off the tightrope and into the cold waters below. Having fallen into such waters and sunk so deep that Sebastian had all but perished, he has no interest in repeating the endeavor. He allows a single, carefully controlled breath and cradles his right arm closer to his stomach, using the other to push himself upright. The pain returns with a vengeance, a sudden flood of overwhelming sensations that have him gasping out curses so foul they leave his tongue tasting like rust. Although, that might be a result of the blood that keeps gathering there, from the number of times his canines have broken through the skin. "Right." Sudden contact against his shoulder has Sebastian flinching, but the touch does not disappear; instead, it grows firmer. "Steady Moran," Albert says softly, "let me help you."
For a moment, Sebastian considers arguing, spite and anger rushing to the forefront of his mind, but he swallows them down. He needs the help, and Albert — as much as his actions confuse him — can at least be trusted to do that much. He gives a nod, biting back a pained cry as Albert shuffles his body into a seated position. Cool skin brushes against his shoulder, a sudden shock of cold that has Sebastian both wanting to lean away from it and towards it. "There are pillows behind you; lean back," Albert instructs, assisting him until Sebastian feels the rough texture of the couch ornaments. He relaxes slowly, blinking away the tears that insist on prickling at the corner of his eyes. When he's managed to gather some semblance of control, he looks at the other man, only to see that Albert isn't even watching him. Instead, the eldest Moriarty is busy stirring a spoon in the bowl. "Medecine," he says before Sebastian can ask. "Enough that even your physique ought to be satisfied." He kneels down and extends the bowl. Sebastian eyes it for a long moment, working up the courage until he feels confident that he can reach out and take it.
"It's warm," he murmurs, carefully settling the bowl in his lap. His hand is shaking too much to lift the spoon, so he gives himself another moment, staring into the depths of what appears to be a pumpkin pottage. " I can't remember the last time I ate something warm." He hadn't intended to speak the words out loud, but they landed heavily in the air between them all the same. Sebastian half expects a dry comment or a demand that he quit stalling, but Albert keeps his peace. It's comforting, oddly. Slowly, Sebastian lifts the spoon and takes a bite. Warmth flows into his mouth, vague but not undefeatable discomfort as it slides down his throat, but then it's over, and he discovers that he is hungry after all. He takes another spoonful and another as quickly as he can until his arm spasms, and he drops the spoon. It lands back in the bowl with a messy clatter that sends droplets spraying across his wrists. Lifts it automatically, already halfway through licking it clean before Albert's sound of horrified disgust registers.
"Must you be so crass?" He demands, all but tossing a napkin into Sebastian's lap. Sebastian eyes it, eyes Albert, and then slowly licks the last droplets off his arm. Albert's face scrunches with unbridled annoyance before he rolls his eyes and swipes at his arm with the cloth. "It's as if you've never seen a napkin before in your life," he snaps, in that haughty, aristocratic voice he enjoys using so much. Well, two can play that game, Sebastian thinks dryly.
"It's been so long since I've held utensils; it would appear that I've quite forgotten how to use them," he replies, matching Albert's tone as best he can. "The meal service has been lacking lately." Expects Albert to huff or roll his eyes, but instead, the man snatches up the spoon and brandishes it like a weapon.
"If you cannot be trusted to feed yourself, I will do it," he says in the same voice. Sebastian stares at him, and then without warning, a startled snort escapes. It's the closest he's given to a laugh since he'd said farewell to the team and climbed up the stairs of that accursed tower. Albert's expression softens noticeably, a wry smile appearing on his face. "If they couldn't feed you properly, I doubt they'd include the accouterments."
"I doubt that their food arrangements would have been up to your standards," Sebastian agrees, and though the thought of Albert being in that situation is sickening, he can't but smile. Albert would have done a far better job expressing just how idiotic his jailers had been. He eyes the other thoughtfully, but Albert no longer smells quite as angry as he had earlier, and Sebastian is hesitant to re-awaken that rage. The memory of being so easily pinned is still far too fresh. He reaches for the spoon, and after a brief hesitation, Albert returns it. Silence falls between them, but it is of the comfortable sort, and Sebastian hardly minds it. He sets the bowl aside when it is empty and sinks further against the pillows, exhaustion once more nipping at his heels. His eyes drift closed of their own volition, but there's still a question nagging at the back of his mind. One that he knows will haunt him lest he finds the answer soon. He manages to open one eye, realizing belatedly that Albert has already left his side, and it falls shut again before he can do more than grunt. Sebastian drifts in the limbo of near sleep for some time, listening intently for the sound of Albert's footsteps. Naturally, when they do come, he is already so close to the edge that talk feels like the greatest exertion known to man. He struggles for a moment, turning the words over and over in his head until he thinks he has the way of them. And yet, no sound other than a breathy sigh escapes past his parted lips.
It's enough to capture Albert's attention, and he feels the ground vibrate as the man approaches. "You're falling asleep," he murmurs, "that medicine really did wonders."
No, Sebastian thinks, no. I'm not; I'm still awake. But even his thoughts are beginning to betray him, and he finds himself instinctively leaning into the cool comfort of Albert's hand. Tilts his burning head until he can rest his cheek against it, which somewhat helps. There's a chuckle, and then fingers gently card through his hair. Sweeping his bangs back until that blessedly cool hand can alight on his forehead. Sebastian sighs and regrets that he feels like he's floating within his body; otherwise, he would shuffle in closer to that source of comfort. There's another sound, so unlike Albert in its softness, before he's shifted away. Sebastian growls, once more struggling to open an eye, but it is a pointless effort. "Easy Moran," Albert says, still with that same soothing tone, "you cannot sleep on the floor."
"Nng," Sebastian forces out, his tongue feeling heavier than lead as it sits ponderously in his mouth. It's beyond him now to even open an eye, much less lift an arm, but he gathers the last of his willpower and tilts himself sideways. Hears Albert grunt when his impact succeeds, but Sebastian can't bring himself to care, not when he's finally found something comfortable to rest his aching body against. He goes entirely limp, the beast that slumbers within seemingly eased by this compromise as well, and that alone is enough to push him right back up to the edge. Something light and terribly gentle touches his head again, carefully carding through his tangled locks in an oddly soothing gesture. It strokes down his neck to the curve of his shoulder blade before it restarts; Sebastian finds his consciousness slipping further and further away with each motion.
"Honestly, sadness does not begin to cover what I would have felt if you perished." So softly spoken are the words that they nearly do not register at first, and by the time they do, sleep has already come to carry Sebastian away once more.