Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/833140.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sebastian_Moran/Jim_Moriarty, Sebastian_Moran/James_Moriarty
  Character:
      Sebastian_Moran, Jim_Moriarty, Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Alternate_Universe
  Series:
      Part 1 of Twist_and_Growl
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-07 Completed: 2013-07-20 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 28673
****** Twist and Growl ******
by goingbadly
Summary
     "What if Sebastian and Jim had met in highschool?"
     Jim is the frustrating scholarship student that Sebastian doesn't
     notice except to pick on, until the day he realizes there's something
     much darker and much more threatening behind those big dark eyes. Not
     that he noticed Jim's eyes or anything. Because he's totally not gay.
Notes
     http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/post/70225371433/http-archiveofourown-
     org-works-833140-twist-and Twist and Growl now has a cover! Look at
     that.
***** /Wrong./ *****
There’s a ripple of hushed giggles when Sebastian hits the scholarship student
in the back of the head with a paper football. It sticks in his messy black
hair, causing another muffled burst of laughter, before a frustrated hand
swipes it away. Sebastian grins. All the way across the classandthe teacher
didn’t notice. Ten points.
The other kid turns around to spot the culprit. Under that messy fringe of
black hair, narrowed eyes dart over the class until they light on Sebastian;
leaning forward over his desk, readying another paper football. There’s a
silent exchange; a glare from the black haired boy that clearly says, get
fucked, answered with a grin that by senior year everyone has recognized as the
first sign Sebastian is itching for a fight.
The boy at the front turns back around. Sebastian attributes this to his own
bad-ass reputation. He flicks another piece of paper, which goes sailing over
the classroom with unwarranted grace and ricochets off its target’s neck. Under
the table, one of the boys on the football team gives Sebastian a low-five,
while at the front of the class, the scholarship student stiffens. His skinny
back straightens as he takes a deep breath. It’s almost possible to see all the
bones of his spine, like piano keys, pressed against his button-down shirt.
 Sebastian, feeling like he’s on a roll, readies another paper football, lines
it up, aiming for the spine this time. Unfortunately, that’s when the musty
teacher up at the front turns back from the chalkboard. She’s looking for him
immediately –in the staff room you could always count on hearing about
something Sebastian Moran had done that was, at best, mildly destructive. 
Better not to give any thought to the worst of the stories.
 ”Mister Moran,” she barks, croaking voice out of place in the drowsy
classroom. Some students have to lift their heads from their desks, blink
sleepy eyes and reorient themselves. “If you’re finding this so boring, perhaps
you’d like to explain to us the decline of the Ottoman Empire preceding the
First World War?”
 Sebastian looks up, startled, but not at all properly defensive. His grey eyes
are unconcerned. Today they look blue, innocent, wider than they are. Without a
moment’s thought, he rattles off – “Couldn’t compete with the British Empire or
Germany. Fell behind, got left behind.” He pauses, mainly for dramatic effect.
“The sun never sets on the British Empire!” Sebastian raises a fist in mock
solidarity and half the class loses their focus to giggles again.
 “At least you’re paying attention,” Mrs. Duggan says tiredly, and shoves her
glasses back up her nose. She turns to the black board, sore in her too-tight
shoes. “Now, if we look at economic strength into the early 20th century –“
“Wrong.” The voice carries in the classroom, incongruously deep for how small
the speaker is. All eyes refocus on the scholarship student. He’s tapping a pen
on his desk in irritation, sharp little clicks that contrast with the way he’s
got his chin cupped, disinterestedly, in his palm.
 Mrs. Duggan is at least as startled as her students. “Sorry…?” She says, and
blinks owlishly at him. From the back of the class, Sebastian stage whispers,
 “Here goes midget Einstein again,” but he’s ignored with perfect aplomb.
 “It’s Jim,” The black-haired boy insists, spitting out the words like bullets,
“And the Ottoman empire wasn’tin decline. You can stop teaching us lies
anytime. The pre-war days boosted the Ottoman empire's overall wealth and
military strength, not ‘fell behind got left behind.’ Which isn't even first
formgrammar.” He twists to glare at Sebastian again, large dark eyes narrowed
into dangerous slits. Mrs. Duggan flaps her hands nervously in the air as the
class erupts into murderous whispers.
 “We've covered quite thoroughly in class that – “
 “Some people just can't tell when they should be quiet.” Sebastian cuts her
off loudly, eyes locked on Jim’s.
 “Somepeople can't tell when they are wrongand simply following the herd.
You’re just a cute littlesheep.” The playful lilt in Jim’s voice gives way to a
deep growl, and his shoulders pull back angrily. Sebastian’s eyes narrow in
response, judging. His hands are slack on the paper football but when he makes
up his mind his grip is tight and it crumples into garbage.
 “Increase of production. Still a decrease of power. Doesn't matter if they got
better they were proportionally worse. Doesn't matter how fast you can run a
lap if you can't outrun the defense.” The moment of silence between them is
tense and the more suggestible students are holding their breath, watching
Jim’s face twist in fury as Sebastian’s voice gains a note of goading triumph.
“Fell behind. Got left behind. Idiot.”
 While name calling is usually against school policy and no teacher in their
right mind would allow it so loudly across the classroom to the victim’s face,
Mrs. Duggan feels about ten steps behind in the conversation. She gapes at
them, mouth working in surprise as she tries (and fails) to find something to
say before the bell rings and she loses control of the class entirely. “We'll -
we'll pick up here tomorrow then –“ She starts, but it’s completely buried in
the noise of zippers and shoved-back chairs as the class stands up en masse.
 Neither boy stands. Jim looks like an angry cat, brows tight over his
implacable glare. Sebastian isn’t much better, the easy challenging grin lost,
staring at Jim like he’s the only thing in the room; the only frustrating,
stupid, punchable thing in the room. In the chaos around them, the eye contact
is a silent, ominous note.
 Sebastian is jostled from behind by one of his friends and the moment is lost.
He snags his bag from the floor and they pour out of the class room in a noisy
mess, voices raised in condemnation. One of the girls ever-present at
Sebastian’s side tosses her hair imperiously and tells him, “You should do
something about his smart mouth,” as Jim pushes past them. The comment is
directed more at Jim than Sebastian but the blonde boy looks thoughtful
anyways. Grey eyes completely colourless as they follow Jim down the hallway,
he says,
 “I think you're right,” and turns to whisper something hurriedly in the ear of
a tall dark-haired striker against the lockers beside them.
 
 
 
                                  -----------
 
Despite his height and the notoriety he’s gained, Sebastian is good at
disappearing into a crowd when he needs to. He never loses sight of the tousled
black hair of the boy in front of him as the halls begin to empty back into
classrooms, staying in the thickest crush of people.  When Jim turns down an
abandoned hallway leading to the math wing, Sebastian grins and picks up the
pace. If there’s anything he loves more than a deserted hallway and no
witnesses, it’s what he can do with people caught in one.
 When he’s sure there’s no one around he slows down, lifts his chin, and calls
out, “Charity case.” His voice echoes slightly in the hall, but there’re no
classes in the math wing on Friday and he’s reckless enough not to care if
someone walks by. His movements have gone soft and measured, anticipation
apparent in his lazy tension.
 Jim stops, those bony shoulders squaring, but he doesn’t turn. “Moran.”
 “Oi, public school, show some respect when I'm talking to you.” He closes the
distance between them with two long strides and digs his fingers hard into
Jim’s shoulder. Under his grip, muscle shifts against bone.
 Rather than properly scared, though, Jim just looks exasperated when he turns.
There’s a glint in his eye that if Sebastian was less blind in his self-
assurance would be a surprise. He doesn’t look like prey the way he did a
moment ago, when there were people around.
 “And what do you want?” He asks, brows arched in an expression of polite
surprise that pisses Sebastian right off. Not realising that it’s not the level
but the basic premise of physical intimidation that’s failing, Sebastian grabs
two fistfuls of Jim’s uniform and slams him up against the lockers. Taller,
he’s able to lift Jim with minimal effort. Jim’s worn-through sneakers dangle
three clean inches off the ground. His lack of apparent worry about this makes
something deep in Moran’s gut twist and growl.
 “What made you think you were good enough to back talk me?” Sebastian snarls,
right into his face, sharp canines showing as his muscles go rigid with the
effort of holding Jim aloft.
 Jim’s expression is mercurial, dark and raging in a second. “What makes you
think you’re good enough to keep an illegal firearm in your locker?”
 Sebastian thinks he hides the drop in his stomach of horrified surprise well.
His eyes widen and then narrow, but it’s the only shift in his expression. He
certainly doesn’t put Jim down. “I don't have a gun in my locker, what have you
been smoking.” His voice doesn’t raise on the question, and it damns him. Jim
grins, and the liquid changing of his expression makes him look much younger
than he is.
 “Nothing, unlike you. You reek of gun oil and cigarette smoke. Aren’t
cigarettes prohibited, Sebby?” He barely gets the last syllable past his lips
before Sebastian pulls him a little off the wall and slams him back to drive
the breath from his lungs. It’s a hot puff of air between them, effect lost
when Jim just giggles.
 “Most underclassmen would piss their pants if they knew about that. And you're
alone in a hallway with me. I could leave you in three pieces and nobody would
say a thing.”
 “You cooooould,” Jim pulls the sound out like taffy on his tongue, and his
head sways, shut-eyed, a snake about to strike. He pauses, and plays his trump
card with them open. To see Sebastian’s face. “And then I can tell everyone
what REALLY happened to the missing girl... “ He lets his voice trail off into
a sweet little smile that traces a shiver of fear down the length of
Sebastian’s spine.
 “Stop spewing nonsense.” Sebastian watches him closely, ignoring the terrified
thump-thump of his own heart. Of all the secrets he had, all the things he’d
shoved behind the mischievous, good-hearted mask, that was the one that made
him panic.
 “Right.” Far from afraid, as he should be – Sebastian’s hands still white-
knuckled in his uniform jacket – Jim looks knowing and triumphant.  “Shame I
know where she is. Hidden not even a mile from her house. Cruel.”
 In Sebastian’s head, he hears her again. Her name was Kate. She had beautiful
eyes, and she had begged, please, god, please, I’ll do anything, but there
hadn’t been anything he wanted her to do.
 The blood on the grass had looked black. Her hair had tangled, and her eyes
had stared off into the sky, like she was praying.
 Sebastian should have felt bad. It might have been easier, if he felt bad.
 Oh please, please, don’t, stop, please.
 Before he knows it Sebastian has taken in a started breath, stepped back,
hands unclenching and dropping to his sides. His eyes go wide and they look
blue again, round in shock. “You know. How is that possible?”
 Jim continues as if he hasn’t spoken, dropping lightly to his feet without a
stumble to show weakness. “Oh, and by the way, DO your mates know about your
homosexual tendencies? Because I thought it was frowned upon to spy in the
showers.”
 Sebastian feels his chest go tight. All of a sudden, there isn’t enough space
in the deserted hallway. It’s like something has unfolded from that tiny skinny
body, something dark and menacing, something that’s looming over him even as
Jim has to tilt up his head to study Sebastian’s face. He can’t think. He can’t
hold on to the mask he’s clutched for so long, trying to look normal, trying to
be safe.
 Please, no, please.
 “I assume you're going to blackmail me.” His face has gone cold without him
noticing, losing the practiced humanity, and he’s one blood-spattered cheekbone
away from looking like a murderer again. Looking like he did in the mirror that
night.
 Jim just smiles at him, unconcerned. He reaches up and pats Seb’s cheek,
ignoring the flinch. His hands are cold. “Be good, Sebby,” he says, and
something swings sickeningly in Sebastian’s stomach. Then he’s turned, picked
up his bag, and started off down the hallway – confident strides that make his
heels click on the floor and Sebastian wants to follow, wants to chase him
down, wants –
 Please –
 But he doesn’t do anything but stare until Jim turns the corner and he finally
feels able to take a deep, shuddering breath.
 
 
                                     -----
 
Sebastian is in English class when his phone goes off. He’s answered a question
about Hamlet. Wrongly, as it happens. His interpretation had apparently missed
several miles of proximity to the mark. It takes him a while to figure out that
the noise the teacher is trying to locate is coming from his bag. At some
point, his text tone has been changed from a discreet vibration to a frankly
adorable kitten’s meow. He flips it open long enough to read Careful now. If
you think too hard you might have an aneurism. -Jim Moriarty xand then
resolutely flips it shut again. When the bell rings, he finally has time to
text back. He chooses his words carefully.
 Die in a hole. -SM
 He shoves his way out of class at the front of the pack, not talking to
several people who really should have rated some acknowledgement. Sebastian
Moran, not popular but always welcome, good for a laugh or a bit of fun or a
dangerous joke, looks altogether too serious today. He doesn’t know it yet, but
the mask is slipping. When he responds to a shouted joke with a barely-audible
grunt instead of his usual grin, indignant whispers cross the hall back and
forth behind him.
 That reminds me of a certain someone~ -Jim Moriarty x
  Please, no please -
 Her quiet memory is louder than any the students around him, effortlessly
drowning them out. Sebastian stops dead in the hall. Some girl in her first
year almost walks into him, not paying attention, and recoils back to avoid a
good-natured punishment. She trips over her own feet and ricochets off a
locker, leaving a red welt on her forehead. Sebastian never notices.
 Where are you. –SM
 There’s a delay, but eventually he receives an image. It’s the school, seen
from a copse of trees beside the football field. The angle is low, half-
obscured by grass, and the photo is badly contrasted so the sky is a surreal
purple-blue. Sebastian doesn’t care about quality. It’s enough to get a
location from. He works his way through the halls like a shark through a school
of fish, students parting to get out of his way because he’s big and he’s
strong and occasionally when he doesn’t grin his practical jokes are not very
funny at all. When he gets outside, he drops his bag carelessly to the ground
and starts to run.
 True to the promise of the photo, Jim is sprawled out between the trees in the
dappled sunlight. He shades his eyes with a hand when Sebastian pants to a halt
above him and growls out, “Get on your feet.”
 “Mmm... no.” Jim stretches like a cat. “I'm rather comfortable~”
 “I'm not going to kill you on your back, so get on your feet.”
 Jim shuts his eyes, not in the least surprised or threatened. “Like I
saaaaaaid.” He wriggles his hips just a little in the grass, a movement
Sebastian finds far too interesting to bear thinking about.  “Comfortable. Come
down here instead.” It’s altogether too much. Something snaps and Sebastian is
a blur of movement, knife snapped out from his back pocket and lunging for Jim.
It’s like one second he’s standing, relatively calm, fighting the urge to kill
Jim with reasonable success. And the next thing he knows he’s straddling the
other boy in the grass, gripping his wrist to force it painfully above his
head, setting the knife to his jugular.
 If he looks close enough there’s a moment of illusion where he thinks he can
feel Jim’s pulse leap through the blade. Then Jim ruins it all with another
silly giggle.
 “Sebby is upset!” He says, with the sing-song tone of a childhood tattle-tale.
It takes a millisecond longer for his face to contort and his voice to go back
to a deep growl. “Do it. I dare you to end me right here, in cold blood.” He
presses, manic, up into the knife. “END IT!” Sebastian loses the opportunity to
shocked stillness, and Jim sighs like he’s disappointed before shoving him
violently back. He stumbles, and ends up on his ass with the knife falling from
his fingers to be forgotten. Jim rises over him, brushes off his clothes and
then fixes Sebastian with an absolutely frigid look of distaste. “Coward.”
 “What do you want with me?” The words jump out of Sebastian’s mouth before he
can stop them. He wishes he could take them back, but he can’t, and Jim is
smiling again.
 “You see, I find you interesting. And I'm rather tired of being bored in this
place. You answer my texts, Sebby-dearest, or I’ll be disappointed in you.” His
manic smile gets wider, and Sebastian thinks of sharks and crocodiles, and cold
reptilian hearts that don’t feel anything. “And answer my texts.That’s all!”
The cheery little wave Jim gives is obviously dismissal, and, god help him,
Sebastian obeys.
 
                                  -----------
***** Things Sebastian Won't Actually Do (And Some He Wishes He Could) *****
Chapter Summary
     Sexual tension ahoy. Jim Moriarty is turning out to be not at all
     what Sebastian Moran expected.
By one PM Friday afternoon all anyone is talking about is how murderous
Sebastian had looked earlier and how Jim has a thin, scabbed line of red on his
throat. Only Sebastian knows that Jim pressed upwards into the knife. Only
Sebastian remembers the lick of fear that came with seeing that animated face
twist sideways in murderous disappointment.
Sebastian is quietly disgusted that not a single person has questioned the
popular explanation. He hates them for believing the lie so easily, for not
being able to see past Jim’s mask when his is coming so quickly undone. Jim is
managing both to ignore everyone and play the sullen victim at the same time,
and Sebastian, despite his anger, can’t quite make it to the end of the day
without wanting to talk to someone about how stupid people were being.
i cant believe theyve swallowed it -SM
They're idiots. It doesn't surprise me at all. -Jim Moriarty x
one look at you should be enough. too proud to beg or cry. youd die first. –SM
He types the message with his phone concealed under his desk, not needing to
look at the keys. He means it as a threat.
Yes. I would. Are you offering? -Jim Moriarty x
do you really have a death wish? -SM
my parents are out of town this weekend if your free. -SMThe thought makes him
grin, looking up over the class while the teacher drones onwards. Jim, when no
one can interrupt them, brought back down where he belongs. Jim afraid. Jim’s
broken body, limp on the hardwood. He would not be half as frightening or full
of unpleasant surprises once he was dead. Sebastian’s smile goes predatory.
He’s yet to notice the crack in his mask, except that his face isn’t as sore as
it usually is from holding his fake grin in place.
It’s not until a good thirty seconds of waiting for a return text that
Sebastian comes to a sudden realisation. His face falls and he hastily sends a
third - not that you were right about the gay thing
He can almost hear Jim’s self-satisfied chuckle, knowing as soon as he sends
the text that it sounds defensive. Time drags itself forward, and he gets more
and more keyed up, wound tight around Jim’s answer like a coil. Five minutes
until the bell rings. Three minutes until the bell rings. Two. Is he going to
reply at all? One.
Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe. If you’re so eager. –Jim Moriarty x
For a hopeful second, Sebastian thinks he’s going to ignore the desperation of
the last text. Even at this point he should know better than to expect Jim to
overlook a weakness.
AND, I'm always right about everything. -Jim Moriarty x
Sebastian curses and drops his head forward onto his desk as the bell rings.
                                  ----------
Sebastian’s door is unlocked, not that it matters to Jim. As he opens it
without knocking Sebastian sees him tuck a lock-picking kit back inside his
pocket, slim fingers smoothing the fabric on top of it so there’s no tell-tale
bulge. He looks around the ground floor curiously. It’s an old, sprawling
house, brightly lit in the sun and dark as the devil’s ass at night, as well as
an unabashed mess. Sebastian is perched on the railing at the top of the
stairwell, half-sitting on the newel post.
Jim looks up. It’s unexpected. Most people never look up, but when Jim’s done
surveying the ground floor his eyes find Sebastian on the railing like it’s no
surprise at all. He doesn’t even have the good manners to jump. “How awfully
dramatic of you,” he says, deep voice making each vowel smooth and round. “You
can come down now. I’m impressed, promise.”  Sebastian scowls, but drops from
the bannister to the stairs and stomps down to meet him. There’s a pistol
shoved into the back of his pants and knives in every available pocket,
although he’s trying veryhard not to think about why he feels the need to be so
heavily armed.
His feet carry him just a little too close to Jim. They stand in the foyer,
uncomfortably close, then Jim’s eyes do a quick up-and-down flick and he smiles
brightly. “Easy, tiger. What did you need all those knives for? It’s just
little-old-me.” He looks at Sebastian like a child who’s told an adorable joke
and Sebastian grits his teeth.
“You did come here for me to kill you.” He tries for threatening, voice rough.
Jim looks delighted.
“You're notactuallygoing to do it,” he tells Sebastian, and steps lightly past
him into the sitting room. There’s two knives in the wall at chest height and
one wedged into the edge of the high ceiling that Sebastian hasn’t been able to
reach since he tossed it up there ages ago. He supposes he’ll have to find some
way to get it out eventually.
“No one knows where you are.” Sebastian watches as Jim perches on the arm of
the couch, refusing to react as he purposefully tumbles backwards and bats his
eyes up at Sebastian, prone on his back. “I could.”
“Euuugh. Of course you could.” Jim rolls his eyes, open mouthed, looking bored.
“But you won't. You're scared. You’re a little scaredy-cat.”
 “You’re not here for the pleasure of my company.”
“Oh, that’s clever. You’re clever.” Sarcasm drips from each word, like honey.
Jim’s face twists again, and Sebastian wonders if he’ll ever learn to predict
those sudden changes of expression. He stands over Jim lying on the couch in
silence for a long moment, until he’s sure that he’s got the right question.
“What are you going to use me for?”
“Oh, hm. Protection, mostly. You can be my eyes and ears. Aaaaaand, If you
disappoint me, I will make you my lackey.”
For a long minute Sebastian just stares at him in appalled silence. “Your – ”
Then he sits down heavily in the armchair across from the couch. “They'd murder
me. I'd be hamburger. There isn't a kid at this school who wouldn't have a go
at beating my face in.” His hand tightens on the arm of the chair, fingers lost
in the stuffing ripped out of a gash in the upholstery.
“It's a good thing you can handle yourself, isn't it?” Jim is bored, picking at
his fingernails idly. “Besides. That's only a punishment.”  When his voice
isn’t flat, it’s teasing; voice light, singing the words. The effect is lost on
Sebastian, who continues as if Jim hadn’t spoken. He leans forward and there’s
a loud noise as he rips a handful of stuffing clean out of the chair.”
“It's one thing for you to be a piece of white trash - for me to serve you – ”
“Excuse me?”
Moran continues as if Jim hasn’t shoved himself upwards to stare in outraged
disbelief across the living room. He ignores the raised voice and the way Jim’s
face has fallen, once again, into those surprisingly dangerous lines of
murderous rage. “It'd be even worse, because I'd be one of them serving dirt.
I'd get more shit than you do for existing because I'd be lowering myself. Not
even to your level. That would be far enough. I'd be beneath you, and that's
inexcusable.”
He isn’t used to people being faster than he can react to. When Jim suddenly
uncoils and leaps across the room, his first response is to recoil helplessly,
not providing any defense. Jim’s quick white fingers shove into the back of his
pants for the pistol and before Sebastian finishes drawing in air he’s got the
safety off and the muzzle shoved under Sebastian’s chin.
It’s been warmed by his skin, but it’s hard and implacable. It settles in the
soft spot behind the bone of his jaw above his throat, and Sebastian swallows.
“Excuse me,” Jim repeats, all sunny politeness. “Were you speaking?” He jabs
the gun in and Sebastian feels his heart thud in his ears. His chin rises,
obedient to the push. Jim leans in closer. This close, it’s possible to see the
start of stubble on his chin. The cracks where the skin on his lips is dry.
Sebastian feels his grip tighten on the chair, almost like his hand belongs to
someone else. “If I wanted, Sebby darling, I could takeyou and breakyou. I can
do an-ny-thingI want and you can do absolutely nothing about it.” His voice is
deep and soft and it seems the whole world is silent except for that voice.
“Before you assume you’re better than me, I want you to remember who you’re
TALKING TO!” He stays polite to the end, where he loses it. Screams directly
into Sebastian’s face, scant centimeters between them. Sebastian’s chin rises a
little more, away from the gun – and up towards Jim. His hands are white with
the force of his grip and although he’s trying, he’s failing to form words even
in his thoughts.
“You’re not a tiger, Sebastian.” Jim’s dark eyes are locked on his face,
intent, and Sebastian feels like he’s being dissected. “You're a kitten that
hasn't learned to properly use its claws.” He thumbs the safety back on and the
click echoes through the room like a gunshot. For a drawn-out instant, they are
both still. Sebastian stares up at him, lips slightly parted with the force of
his breath, and Jim glares back down. The gun presses in tighter, and it seems
less deliberate this time – Jim is leaning slightly forward, and there’s a
moment where Sebastian’s stomach drops out completely and he thinks absolutely
nothing at all. He wonders frantically where his thoughts went. His eyes flick
down to Jim’s lips. He opens his mouth to speak, unsure what he’s going to say,
but needing – wanting –
Too late. Jim is changing again, throwing the gun in Sebastian’s lap and
pulling himself back with an exaggerated frown. Still not able to think,
Sebastian grabs his wrist, tightening his grip to feel the shape of Jim’s
bones. “If you think you can come into my house and threaten me you are
mincemeat.”
One look at him and Jim’s laughter echoes off the walls. “Oh kitten. That's
aDORable, it really is.” Sebastian is struck with the sudden urge to
disassemblehim.
“I think we've covered that I won't kill you.” His grip tightens over Jim’s
wrist, where he can feel his still-steady pulse. “That leaves a fuck of a lot
of ground uncovered.” He stands, pulling Jim in closer with no effort at all,
until Jim has to crick his neck back to keep smiling at Sebastian.
“So you would hurt me, Kitten?” His voice is low and smooth, a teasing promise.
“Push me to the ground and beat me until I begged, until I cried?” He steps
even closer, chests flush. Sebastian pulls back on instinct. “Would you hit me,
cutme, with your pupils all blown and your breathing labored? Until you're
seeing nothing but red through a cloud of lustand then finally act out those
homoerotic fantasies that you have?” His hips hit Sebastian’s and Sebastian
takes a reflexive breath, his grip tightening. He’s unable to stop the images
Jim is putting in his head, unable to fight the crawl of want over his skin.
Not going to deny it he settles on evasion, and tells Jim, “You wouldn't beg.”
It doesn’t seem to have any effect. Jim’s shark smile widens.
“Oh but I would, Sebby, darling. ‘Cause I can get you so worked up you have no
control of your needs anymore. I would beg just to see the adorable squirming.”
The words are an overload. Sebastian’s mind is, without his consent, supplying
images that quickly overwhelm rational thought. Jim losing control, his eyes
wide and wet with tears, his hair dishevelled. Jim on his knees, swaying,
begging. Jim, promising to do anything, still wearing that secret smile that
says I know more than you and the least of me is still out of your reach –
Something snaps in Sebastian and he throws Jim’s wrist aside, shoves him back,
and takes a swing. Jim lets it hit. His head snaps around at a sickening angle,
and when he looks back at Sebastian, his smile is split-lipped and his eyes are
half-dazed.  More images flood Sebastian’s mind, violent, half-formed lustful
things that make his heartbeat speed. Unable to fight the adrenaline rush or
the thrill, he lashes out – sending a kick at Jim’s knees that would bring him
down if Jim wasn’t faster than Sebastian to begin with. He sidesteps, Sebastian
stumbles, and then Jim’s in close again, hissing in Sebastian’s ear. “Naughty,
naughty, Kitten. You're starting to disappoint me~”
But Sebastian refuses to be goaded, channels his frustrated desire into another
punch, fast and low, aiming for Jim’s stomach. Jim swings to the side, grabs
his arm, and uses Sebastian’s momentum to pull him forward, off balance.
Sebastian trips forward into Jim’s shoulder and their lips are close, close
enough that a slide of tongue would make contact. He holds very still.
“Violence is never the answer... unless I tell you it is.” Jim grins,
Sebastian’s eyes catching the glint of white teeth between his pink lips and he
very suddenly can't get enough air. He can smell the blood on Jim's lip so
close to his and it seems heady, dizzying, and he feels half-drunk.
“Then... what you want is...”
“Oh, that.Just behave, kitten, could you?” One last teasing glint of teeth, one
last breath shared between the two, and then Jim shoves him back. His head
games have worked just fine. Sebastian is growling, his blonde hair out of
place and his eyes blown. He looks half-wild, murderous, barely controlled.
“Fine.”
Jim’s tongue flicks out, catches blood off his lip. The deep red over the pink
of his tongue is the exact colour of sin and Sebastian is fixated like a hawk
watching a rat. “Sooooo predictable. Sit, kitten, before you work yourself into
a frenzy.” Sebastian collapses backwards into the chair before he realises how
easily the obedience comes. He sees it in Jim’s eyes and flinches. Jim looks
pleased, self-satisfied, as he throws himself back on the couch.
There’s a long silence. Sebastian is staring. Jim is calculating, eyes intent
despite his relaxed posture. Finally, Sebastian shuts his eyes to calm himself,
opens them again, and says, “You’ll have the bruises to match your story now.”
It’s the right thing to say. Jim laughs. His laugh is high and carefree, at
odds with his deep voice. “I will, won't I? Every performance needs good
props.”
“You’re lucky my public...persona... still somehow ended up with a habit of
viciousness.” He leans back in the chair, watching Jim with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Even the best disguise is a self-portrait~” Jim tells him, mocking.
“After school I'll join the military.” He shuts his eyes. The sentence has the
well-worn feeling of something he tells himself too often. “Won't have to
pretend there. Men like me get shot and die young. It's what we're good for.”
Sebastian half-shrugs, a toss of his shoulders that looks disinterested to hide
the old hurts. “The world doesn't know what to do with born killers. Thank god
for the military.”
“I know what to do with them.” Jim’s sing-songing words again, playful. “Use
them for killing.” The last word is another deep growl. Sebastian is beginning
to like the rhythms of his speech, but he can’t help a sharp bark of surprised
laughter. He leans forward to grin at Jim, half-convinced he’s joking.
“Use them for –You're fifteen. You're not some sort of criminal mastermind.”
Jim just smiles, like Sebastian has played into a joke he doesn’t understand.
“Oh, you’re so sure.” Sebastian’s grin falters as he thinks, and then it gets
wider.
“No. I’m not sure at all.” They pause for a minute, and Sebastian’s grin almost
looks like the one he uses in public when he’s taking something as a challenge,
getting ready to play a joke he considers clever. Inside his chest, however, a
delicious warmth spreads. The military had always been the only option, but
this, this…“I want to work for you.”
“No. I don't trust you.” Jim, playful.
“I'll earn your trust.” Sebastian, serious.
And then all of a sudden all the playful changeable twists are gone from Jim’s
face and he stares at Sebastian like Sebastian is dirt on his shoe. “I don't
trust anyone. No. Never. Thank you for offering.”
The warmth in Sebastian’s chest disappears in a rush and leaves him cold. He
thinks he’s angry.  But his voice comes out desperate and he realises as he
speaks that it sounds like a plea. “I don't want to die in some god-forsaken
desert because I don't belong anywhere else! I'm better with a rifle than any
man you'll ever meet, I'm strong, I'm fast, you think I'm dumb but I'm smart,
any job, I don't care, I'll end up killing people anyways - I'm the best - I
deservebetter than that death.” It’s all a rush of indistinct fear, baring a
hurt he’s kept hidden for so long the ache is like a part of him. Jim doesn’t
react. His face is still that closed-off coldness that makes Sebastian cringe.
“You're begging me like you think I feel any amount of sympathy for you.”
Sebastian’s chin raises defiantly, pride stung. “You should feel sympathy for
me. You're for an early grave too. They'll kill you because they don't know
what to do with you, same as me. Just I'll come home with a medal saying how
brave I was and you'll suicide by cop.” Jim laughs and it’s a bitter sound
that’s far too old for him. But he doesn’t change his answer, and Sebastian
feels sick and dead and suddenly wants him gone. “Get out of my house.”
Jim tilts his head. He no longer looks like he’s enjoying winning. “It hurts
you, doesn't it? Realizing I'm not what I appear to be and wanting. And then I
turn you down and it makes you sick because the charity case told you no.”
“Shut up.” Sebastian looks at him, stunned into anger. He hadn’t even been
thinking about the roles they play in public and for Jim to say – to think that
he cared about money,at a time like this – it’s not right.“It hurts because you
- you - saw through me effortlessly, like no one else ever has, you figured me
out,stripped me of secrets, and now you're just going to discard me. You should
understand,you dounderstand, and you still –”Jim tumbles off the couch and to
his feet. It’s a miracle of physics, how he manages to look boneless and still
rigid and distant. He heads for the door and Sebastian searches for something,
anything, that will make him stay. He’s forgotten that only a moment ago he
told Jim to leave. Now he needs to convince him. Jim’s hand is on the doorknob,
when he stands and desperately blurts out, “You wanted to kiss me earlier. What
changed?”
Jim turns back from the doorknob to blink at him for a surprised moment, and
then he laughs. The sound is bitter, harsh, and mocking. “Just when I thought
you couldn’t get more ordinary, wow!You did it!”
But there’s something there, underneath the mocking, and Sebastian pursues it
doggedly. “You're trying to shove me away now. I know I'm not ordinary. You
know that. When you came over, you wanted to tease me. Push my limits. And now
something's ruined that game for you. What was it?”
Jim scowls at him, but at least that dead expression is gone. “You ruined it.
You ARE ordinary. Just like all of them.” Sebastian thinks hard. He’s not as
quick, or as sure as Jim, but he makes it – in the end. Jim goes to turn the
doorknob in the moment of hesitation, and then Sebastian speaks with quiet
certainty.
“I’ll earn your trust.” He sees it hit. He’s right. Jim knows it. There’s a
moment of unguarded reaction before Jim sneers and Sebastian is sure that for
once, he hasn’t been stupid or ordinary.
“Looks like you had a moment of clarity. I’m ever so proud.” His hand closes on
the doorknob again and he is moving fast and vicious, throwing the door open
and slamming it behind him. He’s gone before Sebastian can speak, leaving the
whole house to echo with the loss of his presence. Sebastian, never one to miss
an opportunity to be petty, throws a lamp at the door after him and it shatters
with an unsatisfying sound. There’s a dull ache in Sebastian’s stomach. He
wants Jim back. He wants him dead. He wants him to hurt in exactly the way
Sebastian hurts right now, wants him desperate, wants him wounded.
Most of all he wants to punish Jim for understanding him and leaving anyways.
Around Sebastian, the empty house looms upwards, silent.
And Sebastian is alone.
***** Bruises on Jim's Skin *****
Chapter Summary
     “I’m beginning to believe,” he says, his heart pounding in his throat
     with the risk he’s taking, “You’re leading me on. Do you want me or
     not?”
Monday morning Sebastian is asleep on his desk in History, head pillowed on his
forearms. The teacher doesn’t bother to disturb him, but mid-way through the
class one of his friends, the dark-haired striker he’d spoken to about Jim,
leans over and pokes him in the side. Without looking and still half-asleep,
Sebastian catches his hand. The motion is reflexive. He turns his head to the
side without raising it, and the other boy grins. “Just because you’re fast on
the field,” Sebastian says, low, so no one else will hear, “Doesn’t mean you’re
faster.” His voice is rough. He sounds like he’s been chain-smoking. He hasbeen
chain-smoking, come to think of it.
“Late one, huh?”
“Brian. Shut up.” Sebastian lets go of Brian’s hand and buries his head back in
his arms. He hasn’t slept properly all weekend and this is not what he needs
right now.
“Sebastian. It’s me. I know Rebecca’s been begging for it, come on, tell me she
gave you a call – she did, didn’t she?”
Sebastian thinks of all the ways he could kill his long-time friend right now.
None of them are undetectable. He doesn’t want to be arrested.
“I said, shut the fuck up.”
“She did and she told you not to tell anyone, Jesus.” Brian’s voice is filled
with admiration. “Bet you stole some alcohol from your parents and gave it to
her hard. Christ, Sebastian, how do I get your life?”
Between his folded arms, Sebastian’s voice comes out cold and deadly. “Keep
talking. And I will kill you.”
Brian attributes this to a hangover.
-------------
There’s a steady stream of whispers that follow Sebastian across the cafeteria
as he ignores his regular table and drops into the seat across from Jim.  The
pointed stares he gets are decidedly unfriendly, noting his shadowed eyes and
jotting down the weakness in his hunched shoulders like a swarm of piranha
focused intently on him.
He firmly decides he doesn’t care.
Jim has an apple in one hand and is scratching at it with his too-short
fingernails. He’s carving something into the glossy red skin on the side
Sebastian can’t see, focused and determined. He doesn’t look up and his face is
half-hidden, but Sebastian knows he’s tired just from the way he’s holding
himself.
“Go to hell,” Jim says, in a very reasonable voice.
“You look like crap,” Sebastian tells him. Jim’s nails stop, and his lips
tighten. His face goes a little white – anger – and he gives Sebastian a look.
It’s the first time he’s looked up. Sebastian likes it; even if Jim is clearly
trying to communicate I’m going to skin you alive with his eyes.
“People will talk,” Jim shoots back. “Get away from me.”
“People are already talking.” Jim’s hands start moving again, horizontal
scratching now, little red flakes of apple skin dropping to the grey plastic
table. Sebastian watches, half-hypnotised. “There’s an address on file for you
with the school,” he says, finally. Jim’s fingernails dig into the apple, a
record scratch, startled into making long gouges. He makes a noise like an
angry cat, baring his teeth at Sebastian. Sebastian watches this curiously. “It
is technically public.”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?” Jim isn’t loud, but his voice is rough and
sibilant and Sebastian can feel the rage in it like a slap. He leans back and
enjoys it. Jim gets tense when he’s tired, apparently, and Sebastian likes
being able to get to him. Privately, however, Sebastian is wondering why Jim is
so concerned with someone seeing his address.
“No. No one knows anything about you. I was curious.”
“Get rid of it.”
“I already have.” Sebastian gets the feeling Jim wouldn’t normally blink twice
in surprise, widen his eyes, and look so damn cute. Not when he’s angry,
anyways. But Sebastian files the expression away, something else new to know
about him. “I didn’t want anyone else to know.”
Jim gives him a look of absolute, utter disgust, like Sebastian has just
admitted to unforgiveable perversion. Without saying anything further, he picks
up his bag, stands, and leaves. The apple clenched in his fist sheds another
fleck of skin onto the floor, and Sebastian brushes the ones on the table off
to join it as he watches Jim leave. Against the beige vinyl tiles, they look
like a spatter of blood, jarring and vibrant.
People are still staring. Some of them at Jim, some of them at Sebastian. Some
people are silent, eye-brows raised. Others are whispering furiously. One of
the soccer players has leaned across the table to Brian and is speaking
quickly, jabbing his finger at Sebastian as he talks. Brian has a steely look
in his eye as he watches Sebastian and nods in agreement.
-----------
It starts half-way to English. Sebastian’s path through the hallway is blocked
by a boy who’s had his nose broken too many times, so when he looks down it at
Sebastian the effect is slightly ruined by a lump. He wears a torn-up jean vest
and holds himself like he thinks he’s strong. Sebastian is unimpressed.
“What do you want, Reever?”
“Saw you talking with the charity case at lunch today, Moran. People are saying
some weird things.” His smile makes it obvious that he’s enjoying this.
Sebastian looks him over coolly, and thinks to himself all the ways he could
shatter that nose completely. His silence unnerves Reever, who forces a laugh.
“Gunna have people thinking you’re gay for him if you keep this up.” Around
them in the hall, people slow down mid-step to watch, sizing the pair up in
case something happens. More than a few of the younger students are
aggressively hoping something does happen. Sebastian is tall, but the boy
facing him is built thick and wide like a brick house. Some of the people
whispering might be laying bets.
There’s no need, Sebastian knows. The other boy is strong. Not a soccer player,
rugby, used to hard knocks and a drunken brawler outside of school. His waist
is only saved by a beer-gut by his high school metabolism. When he’s thirty,
he’ll wear stained-wife beaters and break his wife’s cheekbone during the
football game. When I’m thirty I’ll be the best gunman this side of Russia, or
I’ll be dead. Sebastian’s chin raises, and he gives the other boy a
condescending look that’s nicked straight from Jim.
“If I was,” he says, voice sharp and mocking. “You’d only care because you’d
want to jerk off to it. Isn’t that right? After all. You’re the one who gets
half-hard in the showers.”
Reever goes purple with rage. It’s a satisfying sight. Sebastian has a split
second to appreciate it before Reever takes a swing, a haymaker, full force of
the larger boy’s weight behind it. To Sebastian, it might as well be happening
in slow motion.  The punch is thrown sloppy, and when he ducks under it Reever
carries through too far and leaves himself open. Sebastian drives his fist into
the soft vulnerable skin of Reever’s stomach, underneath his ribs. The impact
must jar something important, because Reever grunts and spins to face him, a
lumbering bear of a man.
Sebastian feels a rush of warmth and calm inside him, a pure elated joy like a
hawk in flight. A belonging.
Sebastian kicks for his knee, in the side, the same thing he’d tried on Jim.
Jim was lightening, untouchable. Reever is a mountain trying to dodge the wind.
It lands solid and his knee crumples inwards, taking him down. Sebastian steps
lightly forward as the other boy drops and drives his forehead into the fragile
cartilage of Reever’s nose.
There’s a satisfying crunch.
The on looking crowd gasps as one. Reever goes over backwards, flattened face
already a mess of blood, unconscious before he hits the ground. Teachers are
pushing their way through the crowd, hindered by the sheer mass of students.
Sebastian stands still for a moment, breathing heavily, letting himself relax.
Then, before anyone can get close enough to touch him, he turns on his heel and
stalks off. The look on his face is disturbingly satisfied.
It doesn’t last long. Three steps into his English classroom, his eyes find
Brian, seated in a desk at – for once – the front of the class. He has his
elbows on the top, hands clasped right-over-left under his chin so the knuckles
on his right hand are visible. This is intentional. He is gloating. The skin
over his knuckles is split and bruised, but not nearly enough to explain the
amount of blood on them. He’s looking straight at Sebastian with a little half-
smile, and as the teacher walks into the room he casually puts his hands
underneath his desk.
Sebastian is frozen in the door way. The teacher practically has to shove him
out of the way to get in. He understands the message in Brian’s little smile,
because cruelty is a game Sebastian taught him to play.
Jim.
Before the teacher can pull him aside to send him to the office, (breaking the
nose of another student being apparently against school rules) Sebastian throws
himself back into the hallway. He pulls his phone from his pocket as he goes,
and starts checking the places Brian usually dumps victims.
where are you? -SM
He hits send with his heart on the keyboard and it’s a full agonising minute
before he gets a response. There’s no one in the halls but him, and the school
feels surreal and distant like a nightmare.
Got bored. Went home. –Jim Moriarty x
brians got blood on his knuckles. tell me where you are. –SM
Sebastian curses Jim’s pride, Brian –  in general – and himself for leaving Jim
alone. He should have known. He checks the maths wing, and the dumpsters behind
the science building. The long pauses between Jim’s responses drive him a
little mad. He’s got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he only
vaguely recognizes. He’s worried.
I told you. I left. –Jim Moriarty x
Sebastian swears, loudly, and heads for the bathroom just outside of the gym.
He remembers Brian leaving a first-year student there last winter, head bashed
so hard against the wall the tiles cracked. They’d had to call an ambulance.
Sebastian wonders what he’ll do if Jim is hurt badly.
Kill Brian.
The thought is instant, absolute, and without any qualms whatsoever. Sebastian
hears in it the finality of fact.
Outside the bathroom, there’s a blob of red on the floor underneath the garbage
can. As Sebastian gets closer, it solidifies. On the side tilted towards him,
white flesh browned with oxygen, a heart has been scratched roughly out of the
skin. No valentines heart, but a painstaking recreation of valves and aortas,
detailed despite the method used to create it. Sebastian wonders how long Jim
was in that lunch room. Waiting? There’s long gouges off the side. Jim,
surprised.
I don’t believe you. –SM
He sends it and then puts his phone away, pushing the door to the bathroom
open. There’s a scrambling noise. A stall door lock clicks shut. Sebastian
sighs. “Jim.” No response. “Jim, come out. Please.” He sits down on the tiles
in front of the only locked stall, noting with a rush of rage that there’s
blood on the wall. “There’s no one else here.”
Jim opens the door slowly, and Sebastian searches him for injuries with
desperate eyes. Jim’s hair is matted with blood where his head must have been
cracked against the wall. He’s hunched forward protectively over ribs that are
either bruised or broken. His face is bruised, but his glaring eyes are clear
and just as imperious as always. There’s no desperation in those eyes, no
weakness, and Sebastian takes great pleasure in the way he straightens to cover
his injuries when he realizes how intently Sebastian is looking.
“Don’t just sit there,” he snaps, and Sebastian smiles broadly despite himself.
This makes Jim angrier, which makes Sebastian even more pleased. Vicious cycle.
We’ll probably end up killing each other. Excellent. “We’ve got to get out of
here. I bet you’ve been stupid enough to fight back.”
Sebastian shrugs good-naturedly, not denying it, and stands. “I don’t suppose
you’ll let me carry you,” he says, just to piss Jim off. It works. Jim’s eyes
narrow into slits underneath the bruises and he hisses that angry-cat sound.
“Didn’t think so. Shall we?”
Jim pushes past him without another word and Sebastian, still grinning,
follows. They make it out the front door because Sebastian insinuates to the
secretary who’s supposed to stop them that once he takes Jim to a doctor he’ll
come back and play doctor for her. She even goes as far as to call them a cab
when Sebastian gives her a promising smile. Too easy.
Jim looks impressed against his will.
In the cab he’s silent and Sebastian tries to follow his lead, fore-finger
tapping at his leg with frustrated energy. He runs the starts of sentences
through his head, but nothing sounds right. The cabbie doesn’t talk, and the
radio is off. Jim is staring out the window, face distant. The silence grates
on Sebastian’s nerves.
How are your ribs?
Tell me who hurt you.
Tell me so I can hurt them.
Tell me so I can protect you.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Jim doesn’t seem to notice. Finally,
unable to bear it anymore, Sebastian curls his hand into a fist and forces out,
“Brian and who?”
Jim turns away from the window to give him a scathing look. Sebastian shuts his
mouth again, and mentally kicks himself. Of course Jim wouldn’t tell him.
When they pull up to the house Sebastian pays cash, too much cash, tipping well
just because he doesn’t want to wait for change. He can’t quite ignore the way
Jim gets out stiffly to protect his ribs from being jostled, or the colour of
his hair dark and sticky with blood. He wonders if Jim knows what a mess he
looks like. Probably not. He’d never let me see if he did.Sebastian is polite
enough to ignore the wince Jim can’t help as he starts up the stairs to the
door.
“On the couch,” Sebastian tells him. He gets a glare in response, but Jim sits
anyways, so it doesn’t matter. Sebastian ducks out of the room for the medical
kit, leaving him there, mainly so he has some time alone to gather his courage.
Coming back, kit in his hands, he averts his eyes and says brusquely, “Shirt
off.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I don’t care if you think I’m gay.” Sebastian sets the medical kit down on the
table, unzips it, and goes rooting through for bandages in case Jim needs them.
“I need to see your ribs.”
“I know you’re gay.” Jim’s hands don’t even twitch towards his shirt buttons.
He just watches Sebastian with a blank, expressionless stare. “I’m not
stripping because you tell me to.” Sebastian glances up, meets Jim’s eyes, and
has to look away.
“Me or a doctor,” he says gruffly, and drops the bandages on the couch beside
Jim. Jim’s look turns contemplative, and when he sees the stubborn set of
Sebastian’s jaw he gives in, playing it off like it doesn’t matter to him after
all.
“If you want it that badly, Sebby, of course.” Jim loosens his tie with short
quick tugs as Sebastian moves to stand in front of him, waiting. Sebastian
leans over to pick up the bandages. They’re rough in his hands, and he grabs
them too tight and twists them to remind himself that Jim is undressing for
medical attention. Medical attention he needs because of Sebastian.
Guilt is a weight heavier than anger.
Jim drops the tie at Sebastian’s feet and his sure fingers start on the buttons
of his shirt. He strips it off with casual efficiency, shrugs it over his
shoulders with a single lithe motion and as he lets it fall beside the tie
Sebastian is half-tempted to thank him for not making the process into a tease.
Of course, that’s before he sees Jim’s torso.  Against his pale white flesh the
violent blooms of purple bruising show starkly, and it is almost – but not
quite – possible to count his ribs. In small places, over his sides, the
bruises are almost black. To Sebastian, they look like an accusation; a brand
of shame left by his friends, because he approached Jim.  It quashes all
thoughts of what Jim would look like with bruises from Sebastian on that
flawless skin. He bows his head and lets himself grip the bandages tightly for
comfort one last time before he speaks again.
“Arms up.” His voice is tight, and he clears his throat before continuing,
hoping Jim won’t mistake it for another gay thing. It isn’t. Not like this.
“Take deep breaths.”
Jim, for once, is silent. And obedient, more the shock. He breathes deep and
easy, and Sebastian sighs with relief. There’s a wince of pain Jim can’t hide,
but nothing more serious. And it gives him time to get up some guts, so when
Jim exhales Sebastian has enough courage to kneel down between Jim’s legs and
place his hands tentatively over the bruising.
Jim inhales sharply. His skin is so hot beneath Sebastian’s palms that
Sebastian knows his fingers must be cold. He fights the temptation to pull
away, the nervous-indecision and uncertainty, and stays absolutely still. When
Jim adjusts to the touch, rolling his eyes as if to say get on with it,
Sebastian lets his hands warm against Jim’s ribs and feels over the worst of
the injuries, searching for the hard edge of bone. He doesn’t find it.
“Fine,” Sebastian says, finally, and there’s relief in his voice. “You’re
fine.” His hands drop from Jim’s chest, but he doesn’t move from where he’s
kneeling. He finds himself unable to meet Jim’s eyes. There’s a long pause
where he stares at the fabric of the couch between Jim’s legs and lets his
hands twist uselessly in his lap. When the silence stretches past the breaking
point and Sebastian can’t stand it anymore, he says, “This is my fault.”
It’s quiet and muffled by his lowered head but Jim hears anyways. Of course he
hears.
“What is?”
“This.”
“They said I was turning you into a fag.” Jim isn’t mocking, for once, and
Sebastian appreciates it. He feels fragile, as if his heart is bruised in the
same pattern as Jim’s ribs. A rough word would be painful, now, a lilting tone
of Jim’s voice could cut right through him. His thoughts slide sickeningly,
dizzy, drunk on guilt. When they catch on something, a plan, a thought, he
clutches it desperately.
What if it wasn’t Jim they thought turned me gay? What if it was someone else,
someone expendable –
“Who else in our school is gay?” For once Jim doesn’t follow the logical leap.
He smirks, but there’s no comprehension in his eyes of what Sebastian is now
planning.
“Brian.”
“Wouldn’t work.”  Sebastian looks up, finally. “If someone else was to take the
brunt of ‘turning me gay’ they'd shift focus from you. If I got caught –“
There’s a moment of disgust where his throat works and he can’t get the words
out, but he forces through, clenching his fists. “Letting one of them – blowing
someone –“
“No.”
“It could work.”
“I said no.”
Sebastian shifts uncomfortably on his knees, trying to ignore the sick feeling
in his gut at the thought of what he’s proposed. He chokes it down and stares
up at Jim, refusing to give an inch. “Why the hell not. It’d get them off your
back.”
“It’s a stupid idea, and it will get you killed.” Jim glares back, but the
sickness fades in Sebastian. You’d care if I was hurt.Jim looks just as cat-
angry as he did before, but Sebastian is beginning to see that the vicious
wrath is covering something sweeter.
“I can take it,” he says anyways, because it’s not a stupid idea and they both
know it. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Jim hisses back, leaning forward. The motion puts
him startlingly close, and Sebastian pulls back. Almost losing his balance.
Realising where he is.
On my knees between his legs. Talking about blowing someone.
Fuck.
He stands abruptly. Jim’s face, for a second, flashes surprise and
understanding. Neither of them says anything. Jim leans down, picks up his
shirt, and pulls it back on. Before he can stop himself, Sebastian blurts out,
“Will you stay tonight?”
“Why the hell would I do that?” Jim is caught somewhere between shock and
outrage. Sebastian hopes the temptation he can read in Jim’s tense shoulders
isn’t just wishful thinking.
“It’s a long walk.”
“Shut up.”
Another silence as Sebastian watches Jim do up the buttons of his shirt. When
he’s caught staring, he shrugs, not discomforted. “You intended originally to
frustrate me sexually. Don’t be surprised it worked.”
“I intended originally to kill you.” Jim throws the words down like a
challenge. Sebastian’s eyes widen.
“What?”
“Oh please, Sebby, don’t look so surprised. After all the wonderful things you
convinced your friends to do to the charity case, I was going to have your skin
as a lampshade.”
The world lurches around Sebastian and he stares in horror at Jim, now fully
dressed and altogether too composed. Then, replacing the cold horror, a hot
rush of embarrassment floods him.
“So when I asked you to trust me, the reaction was disgust.I was being fooled
too easily.” He turns away, struggling, unable in the end to overcome the
guilt. Even knowing that the brief flashes he’d seen of humanity and friendship
were only the cleverest parts of Jim’s mask - I’m still responsible for those
bruises. Even if he didn’t mean a word of anything, it doesn’t change what I’ve
done.He turns away to hide his face, not that he thinks it’ll fool Jim. “You’re
still welcome to stay. My room’s upstairs. Other than that, the house is
yours.”
“I didn’t kill you,” Jim tells his back, frustrated that he has to say
something so obvious. “I only kill the ordinary people.”
Sebastian straightens his shoulders, bracing himself against the weight of
another brilliant manipulation. “You’ve delighted in telling me how ordinary I
am. Don’t stop now.” He heads for the stairs without looking back. Leaving Jim
there on the couch.
Jim doesn’t follow, but he speaks louder. “I have them killed, really. I never,
never, ever, get involved myself. I just don’t get my hands dirty, Sebastian.”
This takes a moment to process. When it does, Sebastian has his hand on the
newel post. There’s never been a buffer between us. He’s always come after me
alone. I’m special. I’m an exception. I’m –Sebastian turns back to Jim.
“I’m beginning to believe,” he says, his heart pounding in his throat with the
risk he’s taking, “You’re leading me on. Do you want me or not?”
Jim is completely expressionless, an iron mask, a perfect poker face. “What
would you do if I did?”
“It wouldn’t mean you’d have me.” Sebastian tries for calm, fails, but manages
‘restrained.’ “It wouldn’t change anything. I’d want you either way, but, I’d
never – I wouldn’t assume desire alone was enough. All that changes is that I
know.”
Long, long silence.
Long enough to grind Sebastian’s teeth together, dry out his mouth, make his
fists clench. Long enough that the quiet and the expressionless calm in Jim’s
face has his heart back thumping in his temples, in his ears, until he feels
like he’s vibrating and he’ll tear himself to pieces without an answer.
And then, without warning, Jim smiles and trills at him, “Touch me without my
permission, dearest, and I’ll cut off your fingers, but oh yes,do I ever.”
***** Blood on Sebastian's Lip *****
Chapter Summary
     Jim and Sebastian's sexual tension finally comes to a head, but only
     /after/ Sebastian tries to do something truly stupid.
Chapter Notes
     This gets a little dubconny, fair warning is fair
Sebastian wakes up alone on his uncovered mattress at five forty-six in the
morning, and is unable to shut his eyes again.
He stares at the half-lit ceiling. The sun hasn’t broken the horizon outside
his window, and his room is desaturated in the pre-dawn light. Everything looks
soft and woollen, and Sebastian is desperately tired even though he knows he
won’t sleep anymore. Jim’s bruised ribs glare in his mind on waking, but
asleep, it was a different face –
Please, god, please, don’t don’t don’t –
He fumbles for his phone.
It takes four text messages for Sebastian to get what he needs planned. In the
green glow of the screen his face looks satisfied, if a little resigned, like a
man preparing to eat a burnt meal in the hopes of a promising desert.
Sebastian rolls out of bed, makes a face at the cold floors under his feet, and
goes to make breakfast.
                              -------------------
Jim is curled up in a nest of clothing and blankets on the floor by the couch.
The tufts of dark hair just visible under the bottom of an old canvas jacket
are the only hint that it isn’t just a heap of rags. Sebastian hadn’t expected
him to stay but when he’s drawn to the kitchen by the sizzle and smell of bacon
cooking, wrapped in a comforter, Sebastian gets a golden feeling that lasts all
through breakfast.
Of course, after breakfast, everything goes to shit.
Sebastian is cleaning up the dishes when he glances at the clock and realizes
he’ll be late for school. Or, rather, late for what he has to do at school. He
dries his hands hurriedly, and goes to find Jim. Bored with the washing up, Jim
has sprawled out on the couch in the living room – on top of his nest, this
time. His fingers tap at the buttons on his phone a little too fast, just this
side of hyperactive. “I'm leaving,” Sebastian says, but Jim doesn’t look up.
Sebastian continues gamely. “Don't feel compelled to lock up, but if you nick
anything from my room I'll have one of your fingers.”
“Why are you going at all?” Jim drawls, eyes still locked on the keys.
“I have something to arrange.”
Sebastian turns away. As he does, the tapping noise of Jim’s fingers stills.
There’s deadly silence in the room. Sebastian hopes his back is impenetrable.
He hunts around for books and pencils, doing his best mimicry of his normal
routine.
“You’ll arrange nothing,”comes the deep growl behind him, “I know what that
means.”
“I'm late on my homework for English. I'm going to get an extension.”
“Don't lie to me. Don't you daretry and shift the gay blame, kitten. I'll end
you.”
“What is your objection?!” Sebastian doesn’t intend to turn around and shout at
Jim, but it happens anyways. His fists are frustrated knots at his sides. It’s
a good plan and he knows it, the stubborn ass. Did he want to think of it
himself?
“You're an IDIOT and it won't WORK!” Jim is shouting back, screaming really,
rubbing sleep out of his eyes with a curt gesture in order to glare more
efficiently.
“I'm not going to stand by while you take punishment for something I did -“
“You seem to have forgotten who made the first move in this little game of
chess.”
Sebastian’s mouth sets in a stubborn line, and he does an uncannily good
imitation of a mule balking. “You can't stop me.” Jim’s expression goes
correspondingly murderous.
“Is that really what you think?” It’s low, a challenge; how stupid are you
willing to be?
“I think it's none of your goddamn business who I fuck or where I fuck them.
You know my idea'd work. It would protect you.”
“You're not to go through with it.”
They stare at each other in heavy silence, and Sebastian is the first to break.
He looks away, drops the things he’s been collecting roughly to the floor. A
pencil bounces and goes skittering off beneath the chair. Lost forever.
Sebastian watches it and tries to tell himself he won’t sulk. He’s sulking
anyways already, frustrated that Jim won’t even consider –
Jim is in an infinitely better mood all of a sudden, although whether it’s
Sebastian’s sullenness or the discarded items motivating his grin is unclear.
“I thought you were going to school?”
“Specifically the locker rooms,” Sebastian doesn’t expect it to be a surprise,
so he tries to match Jim’s teasing tone. “Patrick from math class will be
disappointed.”
“YOU ALREADY MADE PLANS?!”
If he thought Jim was screaming before it is nothing, nothing, to the shrill
shriek of rage that follows Sebastian’s admission. Jim is on his feet in a hot
second, hair and eyes wild. Sebastian, caught out with no time to prepare, just
raises his chin defiantly and says nothing.
Not that he has much of a chance to speak.
Jim is a hummingbird, smooth movements so fast they look like vibration, or
like no movement at all. Sebastian blinks and Jim is in front of him. There’s a
blur of a fist and then a bright, blank explosion of pain as Jim’s knuckles
make contact. Sebastian’s nose is on fire. His ears are ringing. He misses just
as completely the sweep of Jim’s leg that takes him to the floor. He lands
heavy on his back and tenses, about to surge upwards.
That’s when Jim’s heel stomps down into his solar plexus, and the breath leaves
his lungs. Sebastian lets it all go in a rush, then chokes, fighting panic as
he can’t get enough air.
“Don't youFUCKINGmove!” Jim shrieks, “How dare you! How dareyou!” Sebastian
concentrates on being able to breathe again and stays silent. Clutching his
stomach, he glares up at Jim without an inch of remorse in his eyes. He doesn’t
even look cowed when Jim pounces on him, grabbing his chin and jerking his face
upwards. “Don’t ever try that again,” Jim snarls, with a snap of his wrist that
shakes Sebastian’s head.
Perversely, this makes Sebastian even less contrite. “Disobeying you or – “ he
has to pause to suck in a breath, the insulting tone hard to reach when his
lungs are only now beginning to feel full enough again “- Hooking up with
someone else - boss -“
“Disobeying me. I don't care if you think it would have worked.” Sebastian
opens his mouth angrily to protest this and Jim lets go of his jaw, pulls back,
and punches him to shut him up. There’s no heat or emotion in it. At his worst,
Jim is always calculating.
It’s effective. Sebastian shuts up. A thin trail of blood trickles out of his
nose.
Jim gets off him with a snort of derision that makes it clear just how
unimpressive Sebastian has been. “I’m going to school,” he says, “And since you
obviously can’t handle the responsibility, Sebby, you are staying here or I am
making you into shoelaces.”
“You said you'd let meprotect you,” spits Sebastian from the floor.
“When you’re not a good kitten,” Jim trills back, with a coquettish grin that
sets Sebastian’s teeth on edge, “You don’t get to have fun.” He bats his
eyelashes, and skips away to gather his things.
Sebastian pulls himself up to a sitting position and tries not to think about
murder. He watches the small hurricane of movement that is Jim getting ready
with a detached sense of unease.
You really won’t be safe without me, you know, they’ll eat you alive.
The only bruises on your skin should come from me.
But Sebastian doesn’t say anything, not even when Jim slams the door behind
himself a little too hard, and then the chance to speak is gone.
                                   --------
All day long Sebastian feels like he’s drunk one cup of coffee too many. He’s
nervous and fidgety. His chest is tight, uncomfortable, a sick feeling that he
vaguely understands is his heart speeding with the stress of an adrenaline rush
that doesn’t seem to end. Jim is in danger.  He organizes all the weapons,
alphabetically, according to how many ways you can kill someone with them, and
then alphabetically again when the second classification ends up being more
trouble than it’s worth. He washes the dishes, scrubs the counters, cleans the
floors, and manages to get all the knives and darts out of the walls of the
living room. Nothing to be done about the holes.
When that’s all done, he glances at the clock.
Noon.
Fuck.
This is going to take forever.
It’s another fifteen minutes before he can convince himself that he will
literally, seriously die if he doesn’t text Jim.
how long will you be? -SM
Agonizing minutes pass. Twelve thirty. Twelve forty. Twelve forty-five.
Not sure, we’ll see. –Jim Moriarty x
Sebastian’s fingers hesitate on the keys. He types in are you, deletes it, then
has anyone tried, but really, would Jim tell him that? Eventually, because it’s
better than silence, he sendstext if you need me. -SM
I'm fine. –JM
This, for some reason, makes Sebastian even angrier than no reply would have.
you wouldnt tell me if something was wrong, he sends, and hurls his phone at a
particularly offensive couch cushion.  It lies there for a full ten seconds of
petulant sulking before he gets up and fetches it. After all, Jim could text
back.
By the end of the school day the house is absolutely spotlessand Moran is back
to pacing. He tosses his phone into the air every three steps exactly, catching
it in the middle of the fourth.
Do I text now? Do I wait? How long will it take him to get here? What if he
goes home?Sebastian’s thoughts are an ouroboros, eating themselves, and they’re
deeply, desperately, out of his control. Can I leave? He'll be angry. Is he
okay? Should I text?Back around again, until Sebastian thinks he’s going mad.
He feels a sudden sympathy for animals who chew off their own legs to escape
traps.
I'm going home. Don't wait up. -Jim Moriarty x
This time his phone hits the wall, and it shatters.
He stares at the broken pieces for a few seconds before they really register,
and then growls low in the back of his throat. Enough,he thinks, is enough. It
takes him less than ten seconds to get his shoes on and the door locked behind
him. He has Jim’s address, and if Jim is texting him to tell him not to come,
well – he’s not getting those instructions now.
It’s a long walk, but Sebastian needs it. It calms him down. By the time he’s
left his own affluent neighbourhood and started wandering through the truly
grubby parts of town, he’s back in control again. His face is locked into the
charming grin that hides all his real emotions, and his eyes are bright and
interested as they scan the dilapidated houses around him.
He wonders if he’ll recognize Jim’s house. Half the buildings don’t seem to
have street numbers and those that do are often just spray-painted numerals
next to the doors.
Crack-shacks, he thinks, and then the circle of worry inside his head starts up
again. Jim lives in this place.
It’s outside one of the better houses that he pauses. A little green townhouse,
once, it now sports raw wood over the windows and a distressingly rickety
staircase on the front porch. He looks down the street, counting from the last
house with a legible number. 5568, 5570, 5572… A door slams in front of him,
and he looks back to the green townhouse.
Jim is standing on the front porch in a t-shirt with no shoes on, looking equal
parts stunned and furious. The door is shut firmly behind him. “What the fuck,”
he hisses, not loud enough to draw attention, “Are you doing here?”
“I was curious,” Sebastian tells him. There’s a sick feeling in the pit of his
stomach when he spots new discolorations on Jim’s arm. Forearm. They dragged
him. It’ll be worse under the t-shirt. To keep himself from demanding names, he
settles for, “You've got new bruises.”
Jim scowls. “Get lost.”
Another pause. There’s a needle dangerously close to Jim’s bare foot. “Who’s
the addict?” Sebastian asks, and a storm settles in Jim’s expression. “Not
you,” he says, with that clear certainty he occasionally reaches. “Family
member. Parent?”
Jim jumps off the porch, narrowly avoiding the needle and bypassing the broken
stairs altogether. He shoves Sebastian away from his house, with both hands.
Somewhere in the movement his anger has been lost, and he looks desperate and
scared. Sebastian grabs his wrist before he can pull back. “Get away from me!”
“What are you so afraid of?” Sebastian asks him, eyes searching his face. Jim
is wearing a furious mask. “Stop hiding.”
“I'm not hiding,” Jim insists quietly.
“You are. You're hiding whoever the addict is in there. Your new bruises.
That's why you didn't come back, isn't it? You're hiding weakness however it
occurs. Do you think I can protect you without knowing where you're vulnerable?
 There is no one else in this town, no one, that can see you for what you are.
Let me.” Sebastian’s face, too young to know how to lie, is written over with
admiration and fear and respect. “Don't shove me away,” he says, and it’s a
plea and a shout of defiance.
Jim’s eyes are unreadable. Sebastian only lets go of his wrist when it’s
obvious he’s not pulling away. There’s another tense pause, standing too close,
staring at each other. To both of them, the whole world is dim except the space
between them, which sparks bright and vibrant with unsaid words.
Jim, slow, deliberate, turns and goes back inside. He leaves the door open.
Sebastian follows him past the couch where an older woman lies prone. There’s a
thin stretch of leather still loosely tied over her arm and a halo of needles
on the floor. Her knuckles brush the carpet, and Sebastian can’t tell if she’s
breathing. Jim pays her no attention. She’s part of the furniture. Upstairs
there is a mattress on the floor and there Jim is waiting, the only room in the
house not strewn with the trappings of addiction.
Sebastian shuts the door behind him with a click.
Instead of needles and lightly toasted spoons, the floor is covered with paper.
Every available sheet has been covered in black spider-scratches that bear no
visible resemblance to the Latin alphabet. Sebastian, after a quick survey,
can’t find a safe path through it to Jim. He sits down cross-legged with his
back to the door.
Jim pulls a pile of papers towards him, making small changes in that same
jagged script, not looking at Sebastian. “Why are you here?”
“I…worried.”
Jim doesn’t look like he understands. He blinks, then frowns, and doesn’t say
anything. The only noise in the room is the rapid scrawl of his pencil over the
paper. Sebastian isn’t sure how long they sit there. At intermediate intervals
and showing no pattern that Sebastian can see, Jim puts one piece of paper down
and grabs the next. Sebastian watches him. The movements of his hands. The
tension in his shoulders. Sebastian wants to touch with a hunger like an ache
in his stomach.
When the sunlight coming through the window has shifted a full ten degrees on
the floor, Sebastian sits up, hugging his knees to his chest. Jim jumps. The
movement is jarring after the completely motionless way Sebastian’s been
sitting. He looks around. Sebastian is watching him calmly. “I'm sorry I
disobeyed you,” he mumbles finally. Jim doesn’t respond, so he continues, “I've
had a lot of time to think today.”
“I'm sure you have,” Jim tells him dismissively. He shifts as if to turn back
to his writing, but catches the involuntary flinch his words cause in Sebastian
and sighs. “Oh, Sebby. I’ll only make you weak you in the end. Please try not
to get sentimental.”
“There isn't anyone else for me to be attached to,” Sebastian says dully,
looking down. “I'll deal with it. It won't be a problem again.”
“See that it isn't.”
Sebastian’s arms hug a little tighter around himself. It’s not very comforting.
He nods, just once, quick and sharp, to show that he’s understood. The room is
dead quiet without the scratch of Jim’s pencil on paper. Sebastian doesn’t look
up.
I know you want me. I know –
I don’t know anything. I’ll never figure you out, will I?
Jim takes pity on him, finally. “Come here, Seb. I'll teach you how to read
these.” Sebastian looks up, startled, and blinks at Jim. Jim hasn’t looked
away. Those dark eyes are fixed on Sebastian, just as intense as ever, but
tempered by unexpected sweetness. He’s being kind. Sebastian unfolds himself
from the door, and picks his way through the mess. Jim shoves a few papers to
the side, and clears a spot next to him on the mattress.
Sebastian sits down carefully like it’s a bed of nails.
“Now see this,” Jim starts, pointing out one of the scratches, practically
indecipherable from the rest, “Is the key to the whole thing…”
Sebastian picks the code up quickly. It’s a tricky bit of letter substitution
based around the pattern of a spider’s web, the letters all swapped and jumbled
together and replaced by symbols in a way that seems random but isn’t. His lips
move as he repeats things to himself silently. Jim doesn’t have to explain
anything twice.
The small patch of sunlight in the room creeps away from them, then disappears
entirely. They’re both still in the center of the room, shifting position only
minutely – Sebastian’s foot falls asleep, and he shifts to allow blood flow to
it. Jim straightens to keep his back from going sore. It’s silent again, apart
from the sounds of Jim writing. Once Sebastian can understand what Jim’s doing,
the room goes from messy to meticulously organized – piles of accounts,
numbers, addresses, things as simple as garbage dumps, “call for rapid
cleaning,” and then, occasionally, what must be records of arms deals and drug
shipments and smuggling…
Despite the fact that neither of them has moved, they’ve ended up closer
together, the line of Sebastian’s thigh pressed tight along Jim’s.
                                  ----------
“You really want to join the military,” Jim says, apropos nothing, when the
light starts to fade from the room. His voice is rough. Sebastian wonders how
long it’s been since either of them has spoken. It hasn’t seemed necessary.
Somehow he’s braced himself slightly behind Jim so Jim’s back is pressed to his
chest. Easier to read over his shoulder, this way, but when Jim twists to look
at him Sebastian realizes how close they are.
“I won't survive in captivity,” he answers, after a moment of thought. “The
life my parents want for me - Eton. Law. A practice. A carefully selected wife.
The pub on Sundays. Drinking myself mad and sloppy until I snap and kill
someone for no reason except I can and I was the best, before life made me old
and soft and slow. No. No. Better a bloody death then that.” He thinks Jim will
understand.
“But, oh, the places you could go,” Jim looks away, back to the papers, fingers
hovering over them as he looks for something specific. “The people who would
hire…”
“Don't,” Sebastian says firmly, feeling like his heart has gone deep-sea
diving. Jim, thinking he can fix everything. Assuming he can control the world.
Find Sebastian a job with a gun, keep him out of the war. If it’s not him, I
don’t want it. I don’t want anyone else to use me.“It's not worth it.”
“Don't what?”
“Whatever you're doing. I’m for the military. And we'll both hope I take a
bullet there.”
“Fine,” Jim says, and drops the paper he’s plucked out back on the pile. It’s
not until the word leaves his mouth that Sebastian realizes he’d been hoping
Jim would deny it, been holding his breath for Jim to say, ‘But I want you to
live.’
Selfish. Unrealistic. Of course he wouldn’t hold on when it’s easier to let go.
Sebastian stands. Jim looks startled. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” Sebastian tells him, and heads for the door on unsteady legs. He’s been
sitting too long. “I shouldn't have come.” There’s silence behind him, but he
still stops with his hand on the doorknob. Hesitating. There’s longing and hurt
like a swelling ache in his chest, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to
speak to Jim without pissing them both off.  I want to stay, he thinks, but I
want to stay forever so it’s better to leave quick like ripping a Band-Aid off…
There’s a loud bang behind him as a drawer slams shut.
Sebastian turns back, startled. Jim has a duffle bag in one hand and is shoving
clothes inside it haphazardly. As Sebastian watches, he grabs the pile of
papers with Important!! scratched across the top, and shoves that in as well.
“What are you doing?” Sebastian asks, somewhat redundantly.
“Really, Sebby,” Jim drawls, packing like a whirling dervish, blowing around
the room as the duffle bag swells to bursting, “Would you want to live here?
“If you don't have somewhere else,” Sebastian manages, smiling slowly, “You
know I do have spare rooms –“
On their way down the stairs they pass Jim’s mother on the couch. She hasn’t
moved. Sebastian still can’t tell if she’s living or dead.
                              ------------------
The cab ride is silent and tense. In the end they make it a total of three
steps inside the door of Sebastian’s house before Jim drops his bag and fixes
Sebastian with a dissection-stare. “So, why.”
“Sorry?”
“Why are you doing all this?”
Sebastian places his bag on the couch, steeling himself. “Shut the door.” Jim
kicks it closed behind himself, crosses his arms, and stares at Sebastian with
an obvious challenge on his face. Sebastian takes a moment just to look at him
– drink him in – then slowly starts to piece the words together. “I am alone,”
he starts, finally. “Utterly alone. There isn't a person who knows who I am. I
killed someone and no one even noticed a change.” Jim isn’t helping, isn’t
saying anything, isn’t even twisting his face in interesting ways to distract
Sebastian from how naked and bare the words feel. “And then there was you. You.
You the only - you are unique in this world. I owe you. I need you. I had
nothing to look ahead to except a senseless death, but you –“
“Adorable as that is, darling, you must have realized by now that I'm a
complete psychopath. I don't doemotion.”
You’re not, you’re not.
You’re brutal and fierce and implacable but underneath you care, so much, you
are sweet and unsure and Iknow–
No.
I don’t know anything.
“Fine,” Sebastian growls, not sure if he’s frustrated with himself or with Jim,
“I don't care. Make me what you need me to be to keep me around. Your pet.
Whatever. Weren't you boasting that you could break me down and rebuild me how
you like? Then do it.”
Jim scoffs, eyes rolling. “I have enough toys, Sebastian, I really don’t need
another one making my toy-box all messy.”
A brief flash of frustration flares behind Sebastian’s eyelids and his tongue
moves faster than his brain. “Shame. Other way around then? I'd love to have
you on a leash.”
The world seems to pause so Sebastian has time to look aghast at the words that
have come out of his mouth.
Jim starts laughing, hysterically, doubled over and clutching his stomach. He
has to wipe tears from his eyes before he can speak. “Oh, Kitten!” Then, sudden
shock of change, and his voice is a biting snarl. “As if you could.”
“You see yourself topping? I don't think so.”
“You don't have to top to be in control.”
Jim riding Sebastian, hips rocking them together hard, a sheen of sweat on his
skin and a snarl in his throat as he sinks his teeth in Sebastian’s shoulder, a
brilliant hot flare of pain as his hips slam down again and Sebastian is
helpless –“Let’s not talk about this.”
“Why, kitten, does it make you nervous? Knowing that even with your dick in my
ass, you'd still be the BITCH?”
“Stop it.”
Jim leaves the door and grabs a fistful of Sebastian’s hair, yanking him down
so they’re eye to eye. “Stop what, kitten? Stop telling the truth?” Sebastian
struggles, but it’s not enough to stop Jim. He doesn’t know if he wants it to
be. His lips feel dry, and he licks them, but it doesn’t help.
“S-Stop trying to frustrate me.”
“Why, is it working?”
“No!”
The fist in Sebastian’s hair tightens, pulls him the rest of the way to the
ground. Sebastian hits his knees and sways, unsteady. His eyes on Jim are so
blown they look black. “Liar, liar. I don't have boundaries and I DON'T FEEL.
Look at you, Sebby, are you SURE you even want to try and survive me?!”
“Yes. Boss.” Sebastian is, embarrassingly, breathless. Jim spits on him, a
spatter across his face.
“You are the most single-mindedlySTUPID person I have ever met.” When he turns
his back to stalk away, hand disentangling from Sebastian’s hair, Sebastian
wipes Jim’s spit from his face with the back of his hand. He’s on his feet in
an instant, lunging forward, the momentum carrying him into Jim and slamming
them both hard against the wall by the door. Jim’s crushed into the wall with a
grunt. He struggles, but Sebastian is stronger, and once he grabs Jim’s arms
there’s no escape for either of them. “Let me go!” Jim shrieks, angry, writhing
against the wall. Sebastian twists him around, pinning him again with barely an
inch of separation between their faces. Their bodies are pressed tight, chests,
hips, one of Sebastian’s thighs between Jim’s. Ragged breath puffs against
Sebastian’s face, Jim’s lips just slightly parted, and Sebastian sees him tilt
on the edge of something much deeper than anger.
“No.”
Jim screams in frustration. “I’ll kill you – !” Sebastian cuts him off with a
hard press of his lips into Jim’s. They are soft, and slightly chapped. His
face is roughly shaven, and Sebastian can feel the scratch of facial hair
against his chin. He tastes sweetly of mint, his breath hot and startled, his
lips parted with surprise when Sebastian pulls back.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jim’s eyes are round and open, and all the anger
is gone. His voice sounds soft and fragile.
“What you should have done while I was on my knees. Then you'd have had control
of it.” Sebastian smiles at him sweetly. Jim goes slack in his grip, sulking.
“I told you not to touch me until I started it.”
“You did start it. Talking about me being your bitch with my cock in your ass.
Forcing me to my knees.” Unable to help himself, Sebastian shifts closer. His
mouth ghosts against Jim’s ear. “I'd've sucked your cock if you'd given me the
chance. Still would.” He can feel the tremor that Jim struggles to supress.
Trapped between them, the small shudder runs down the length of Sebastian’s
body and, god, he wants.
“Don't touch me,” Jim says, all in one breath, nervous, “I don't like people
touching me I don't like getting dirty -” He’s starting to panic, heartbeat
high, and Sebastian wonders if Jim can even tell the difference between fear
and arousal. The line seems very thin. He rakes his teeth over Jim’s earlobe,
and Jim moans, “No – “ but it doesn’t sound like a protest. Sebastian bites him
again, lower, over the jumping pulse in his throat, traces a spiral of wet with
his tongue upwards.
“You could have had me on the floor,” he murmurs against Jim’s neck, feeling
his lips move on the skin. Jim sucks in a breath, sharp and hissing. “I don't
have any practice but you could have fucked my mouth if you wanted.” Jim tries
to shove him away, but he refuses to move, sucks a mark beneath Jim’s ear. “If
wanted me to stop you'd have gone for the pistol by now. You can get out of a
hold like this.”
Jim growls, low and wild, and slips Sebastian’s grip.
I misjudged.
He’ll kill me.
If he really didn’t want –
And that’s as far as Sebastian gets before Jim’s hand wraps in his hair, yanks
his head back. Suddenly, explosively, Jim’s mouth is on his. His brain goes
offline. Jim’s mouth is hot, devouring, and he kisses Sebastian frantic and
violent. There’s a bloom of pain when Jim sinks his teeth in Sebastian’s lip
and the quick, clever movements of Jim’s tongue against his own are just this
side of manic, just this side of too much.
Sebastian thinks he whimpers, but it’s hard to tell.
Sebastian crushes them both against the wall, and his fingers bury in the
fabric of Jim’s pants, yanking his hips forward. The friction makes him curse,
that one he hears, but Jim’s mouth swallows the sound and out of nowhere,
Sebastian thinks clearly, fuck, I don’t know if I can survive this.
He pulls back, gasping. “I need –“
“Shut the fuck up,” Jim cuts him off, and that fucking hand in Sebastian’s hair
is wrenching his head backwards at an angle that’s painful and perfect. “I
don't care what you need.” Where Sebastian’s skin is stretched taut, over his
bared throat, Jim buries his teeth.
“Oh christ – oh fuck – Jim – “  There’s another yank on his hair and Jim is
leaving a connect-the-dot puzzle of bruises over his neck. Sebastian grinds his
hips forward against Jim, fucking them together, and there is too much fabric
and it’s too hot and Sebastian’s mind is in sobbing pieces on the floor.
“Please!”
He doesn’t know how Jim gets the right leverage to shove him back, but suddenly
Sebastian is stumbling away from him, looking at a dishevelled, panting madman
with blown eyes and bruised lips. Jim’s shirt is hopelessly wrinkled and the
way his trousers are strained and tight, outline of his cock nearly visible,
he’s just as affected as Sebastian.
“Couch or bed,” Jim snaps, “Because I am NOT getting fucked against a bloody
wall.”
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
They barely make it up the stairs.
At the landing Sebastian catches up with Jim and pushes him off balance against
the wall, pinning him there for a frantic kiss. He rips Jim’s shirt up and at
the touch of his hands on Jim’s bare stomach Jim makes a helpless noise –
almost a whimper. It goes straight to Sebastian’s cock. He bites Jim’s lip and
pulls him back off the wall, gives him a hard shove towards the rest of the
stairs. Jim scrambles up them, Sebastian on his heels, gripping the railing to
haul himself upwards faster.
At the top of the stairs Jim turns and his hair is a dark halo around him. He
says, “Now, Seb,” and holds out his arms. Sebastian is in them in a second,
kissing him fiercely, grabbing at him – hips, ass, ribs, God, my hands on Jim,
fuck,fuck– then Sebastian isn’t thinking at all anymore. They lose the kiss
when Jim’s shirt is tugged over his head, almost catch it, lose it again. It’s
an open-mouth slide that they can’t quite get to fit in the desperation and
rush.
They do make it to shirtless, somehow. Then they’re in the bedroom, and
Sebastian kicks the door shut behind them. The noise echoes through the house.
Jim is greedy, running his hands over Sebastian’s sides and shoulder blades,
digging his nails in on the way down like he can’t get a deep enough contact.
Sebastian is panting, open mouthed.
Jim bends his head. His teeth scrape over Sebastian’s chest.
Oh fuck.
Didn’t know I could make that sound.
Sebastian grabs a fistful of hair and yanks him back up, seals their mouths
together again. He chases Jim’s tongue with his own, but Jim is licking
possession of him in little teasing flicks and he can’t seem to get enough. He
gives up on winning that, settles for the button of Jim’s trousers, the zip.
His fingers brush the rigid heat underneath the fabric and Jim gasps, mouth
open and round in a perfect O.
Then the button comes, and Jim’s trousers pool to the floor. He nearly trips
stepping out of them. Sebastian laughs. His get tossed casually aside, knocking
the shade off the lamp on the dresser.
Just pants separating them now, two thin layers of cotton, and Jim is back in
his arms like a living flame, writhing and clutching and grinding his cock
against Sebastian’s thigh.
It’s heaven. It’s hell. Sebastian is going mad with it. He grabs Jim’s hips,
jerks them an inch to the left, and then with almost no barrier they’re pressed
hard against each other. There isn’t enough breath between their mouths. Jim
hisses, and his fingernails draw blood, and Sebastian ruts against him again
with a groan that’s equal parts relief and frustration.
Jim pushes and drags Sebastian to the bed, and somehow – Sebastian’s a bit
fuzzy on the details – he ends up sitting on the edge with Jim straddling him.
There’s a moment of breathless peace like the eye of the storm, and then
Sebastian grabs underneath Jim’s thighs and pulls him closer, his cock pressing
hard against Jim’s ass. He leaves a trail of flushed skin down to Jim’s
shoulder, and Jim is panting, head lolling back, fingers scrabbling over
Sebastian for purchase. Sebastian rocks his hips upwards. He can feel a frantic
heartbeat and he’s not sure if it’s his or Jim’s. Over Jim’s collarbone, his
teeth sink in.
“Sebastian!” Jim gasps, sounding shocked, sounding wrecked.
Sebastian pulls back as he strips Jim the rest of the way, looking up at him
like watching Jim’s swollen parted lips will keep him sane. It’s hard to think
straight while he peels the thin cotton pants off Jim, hard to breathe right.
Jim helps by wiggling his hips in a way that’s more distracting than actually
helpful, but between the two of them they manage to get him naked. Then
Sebastian is lost again because there’s a drop of pre-cum beading at the top of
Jim’s cock and when he takes it in his fist Jim makes a sound like he’s crying,
a sob or a moan or a plea for help –
“I want you to ride me,” Sebastian tells him, with a sharp grind of his hips
upwards to punctuate the sentence. It drives Jim higher into Sebastian’s hand,
a tight ring around his cock, half-slick with pre-cum.  Only one layer of
cotton between them, now, and Jim is moaning like he’s already fucked.
“Oh – yes – lube – “Jim’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s rocking them together
in tiny stilted jerks, up into Sebastian’s hand and down onto his erection.
More like twitches, really. Sebastian wonders if Jim could stop if he tried.
“Top drawer.”
Jim whines a little in protest, but he reaches for it anyways –fingers fumbling
at the drawer of the bedside table and he nearly falls when Sebastian’s hand
moves down his shaft again. He gets the bottle of lube despite a series of deep
growling groans that Sebastian considers arousing enough to be illegal.
Sebastian takes the opportunity to get naked underneath him, kicking his pants
onto the floor, and then there is nothing, nothing,separating them.
The slide of skin on skin whites out Sebastian’s brain. He uncaps the lube and
squirts it on his hand, too much of it, thick colourless globs that slick his
fingers and half his hand and drips onto the bed where they will stain the
sheets. It doesn’t seem to matter, not when Jim’s pressing back against the pad
of Sebastian’s index finger like he’s incapable of self-control. The first
finger slides in to the knuckle almost without resistance, and Jim ruts back
onto it greedily.
Fucking himself on my fingers.
Jesus.
He slides it out just a little, pushes back in, makes Jim curse in a long
gravelly stream of truly creative profanity. The clench of muscle around his
finger is hot and unbelievably tight, so tight Sebastian thinks he’ll never
manage to fit. Jim is already impatient between moans, growling, “Hurry up,”
and scowling when his face isn’t slack in pleasure.
The second finger is a harder fit. When the two slide in together there’s this
slick sound of lube and flesh that makes Sebastian’s hips buck upwards, sliding
his cock along Jim’s with just their pre-cum to ease the friction. Jim is past
swearing, now, moans hitching in the back of his throat and coming out
strangled.
There’s a terrifying moment where Sebastian thinks he might come – just from
this, just from the way Jim grabs at his shoulder and writhes and makes those
helpless, wanting noises. He swallows the impulse, thrusts his fingers in
again, spreads Jim open. Jim’s head falls back, baring his throat, and
Sebastian can’t resist; he’s surging upwards, hips and fingers and teeth, and
Jim is a line of needy tension above him, unsure whether to grind down onto
Sebastian’s fingers or press upwards into the pain of the bruise Sebastian is
grinding over his trachea.
A third finger in, now. Jim’s breathing is so loud it drowns out everything
else, hitching at the bottom of each snatched lungful and devolving into little
pitiful moans like he wants something, badly, that he can’t reach. Like it’s
killing him not to have more.
I can fix that.
Sebastian pulls his fingers away and Jim cries out in protest, sounding
betrayed. Sebastian bites him again to soothe it, leaving a deep purple mark
that will sit just under the collar of Jim’s shirt when they’re dressed. When
he pulls back Jim’s eyes are open again, just barely, the thick fringe of
lashes like a smudge of coal.
“Seb,” he whispers, and can’t manage any more. Sebastian reaches down between
them, lets the lube from his fingers smear over his cock, still hot from Jim’s
body.
Fuck, oh fuck, oh Jesus fucking Christ –
His eyes have shut, he realizes, hand falling away from his cock because the
only other option is to keep touching and then he’ll never be able to stop. Jim
is pushing him backwards on the bed, unexpectedly strong. His shoulders hit
hard, and when he tries to get up there’s a flat palm on his chest holding him
down. He opens his eyes. Jim is grinning, reaching behind himself, taking
Sebastian’s cock in too-cold hand, positioning himself –
Oh.
“Jim – “
And then Jim pushes himself backwards and down, impaling himself inch-by-inch
on Sebastian, and everything is blank. There’s a gold sort of glow from
Sebastian’s toes to his hips and fuck, Jim is slick and tight around him, all
surrender except for the way he’s panting past a wicked grin as he watches
Sebastian coming undone.
Jim is impatient. He takes Sebastian in with no sense of restraint, not
stopping until his ass is flat against Seb’s thighs and then there’s no pause,
nothing, no chance to adjust before he starts back up with those awkward
stilted twitches of his hips. Jim shuts his eyes and bites his lip, causing a
dent in the skin that Sebastian can’t look away from. Somehow, he’s still
grinning. Bruised and debauched and moaning as he fucks himself on Sebastian,
Jim is smiling a triumphant mocking smile that makes it hard for Sebastian to
focus on anything, anything, anything but him. Sebastian grabs at him again,
fingers spasming on Jim’s thigh, leaving long scratches that do nothing at all
to direct Jim’s movements because Sebastian was madif he thought he was
controlling this.
Jim’s jerking thrusts have gotten longer and smoother and he’s riding Sebastian
like he means it, panting and growling and driving them both relentlessly to
climax. Sebastian is obliterated, eyes screwed shut, lungs heaving as he tries
to get enough air to stay sane and he feels rather than sees Jim go rigid over
him, the tenseness and tremor that runs over Jim’s body like water.
“Sebastian,” Jim says, not a scream, a toneless gasp of disbelief that’s so
quiet Sebastian nearly misses it. Then he’s writhing, muscles clenching,
jamming himself down as far as he can on Sebastian as his body jerks and he
loses himself.
It’s too much.
Sebastian teeters on the last vestiges of self-control for a heart stopping
second, then, all at once like a car crash or the spark of a gun, he feels
himself fall over the edge of release.
And he’s gone.
 
***** Five Minutes to Midnight *****
Chapter Summary
     Sebastian has a birthday surprise. Jim does not like the surprise.
It’s good, while it lasts.
They have a year, and it’s a good year. They make a defiant stand at school and
dare anyone,anyone, to beat them. No one can. Sebastian fights almost every
day, in and out of the principal’s office with bruises and cuts on his face.
Jim cleans them in the bathroom afterwards with rough hands and disinfectant
that he knows will sting, laughing delightedly when Sebastian curses. Two boys
land in the hospital, Brian and the lackey he used on Jim. Brian’s football
career is officially over; although there’s a good chance when he gets out of
recovery he’ll regain most of the use of his legs. No one can prove Sebastian
did it. Expulsion is discussed. His parents Skype his teacher from a business
trip to London, and no, regrettably, they won’t be able to come home until the
summer –
Jim spends a sleepless night on his laptop and suddenly there’s no record of
Sebastian fighting in the school computers. Without the record, an expulsion
could lead to a lawsuit from Sebastian’s threateningly wealthy parents. The
school backs down.
Nights they spend together. The house seems less cavernous with the two of them
in it, the noise of them shouting and laughing and fucking filling the empty
space. Jim’s papers spread over the floor and the neat little table that
displays Sebastian’s weapons quickly becomes the only clean place in the house.
Whenever they can, they end up in bed.
Sebastian is always frantic after a fight, tearing Jim’s clothing, marking his
skin, consumed by a destructive energy that Jim laps up until they’re past the
point where a punch is something thrown in anger. When Sebastian backhands Jim
now there’s a breathless tension and they both understand it’s going to end
with Jim telling him, “Just fuck me already!” imperious and frustrated. Jim
likes that, the way Sebastian gets rough and thoughtless, likes how he gets off
on the violence of it.
In the mornings, though, half-asleep, Sebastian can be sweet and lazy like
molasses. He comes awake gradually, stretching and yawning, curling Jim into
him. Half the time when Jim wakes up first he stays where he is, waits for
Sebastian’s soft sleepy kisses against the bruises on his neck. Those are the
days where they go slow, drawing frustration to the point of tears and past
again, just because they have all day to see who gives way first.
Jim always wins, and he likes that too.
It seems to pass like a dream, the last year of high school, and Jim half-
thinks he’s never going to wake up.
                               ----------------
One morning, swimming out of the edge of sleep, Jim rolls over and realizes
Sebastian is gone.
It’s been altogether too fast that he’s gotten used to the warm heavy weight of
Sebastian beside him at night, the comfortable familiarity of Sebastian’s
indent in the mattress. Waking up without him is jarringly new, and Jim is
fully conscious in a heartbeat.
The bed is cool where Sebastian should be sleeping, sun through the window
lighting the neat turn of the sheets. Sebastian had gotten out slow, careful
not to wake him. Jim hisses through his teeth.
Stupid, Kitten, very stupid. Do you think you can hide things from me? Oh,
you’re in for it now.
He swings himself out of bed and drops barefoot to the floor. It’s already
getting hot outside, despite the early hour, and the sky is a pure flawless
blue through the windows. The house is quiet, almost silent, and Jim pads
through it without disturbing anything but the dust motes in the air.
Sebastian is nowhere to be found, although his weapons haven’t been touched and
he rarely leaves the house unarmed. Jim trails his fingers over the sharp edge
of an illegal butterfly knife. Hide-and-go-seek, he thinks, and grins, the
anger gone before he can hold on to it and replaced by fond anticipation of
punishing Sebastian for whatever he’s hiding. Plans spiral through Jim’s mind
and his finger over the blade presses idly down, a prick of pain to suit his
thoughts.
Poor thing really does like it too much when I’m angry. Oh, Tiger, I’m going
tohurtyou tonight.
Jim cards his fingers through his hair, tugs it, scrubs his hands over his
face. He’s already in a better mood, bright and bubbly. When Sebastian gets
back he’ll be all sullen and contrite, all hair-in-his-eyes and scowls, and Jim
is looking forward to making him beg for forgiveness.
He skips upstairs to get dressed, completely unconcerned that the grin on his
face feels too wide to be pleasant, even to him.
                                ---------------
Sebastian isn’t back until almost half noon.
Jim ends up waiting for him on the back lawn, sprawled out in the grass. He
braids flower-stems while he waits and keeps his phone tucked in a pocket
because you never know when work might call. Especially when you’ve got a drug
ring getting started in London.
Sebastian’s shadow gives him away before the sound of his quiet footsteps are
audible over the grass. Jim can appreciate a man who knows how to be quiet.
Come to think of it, he can appreciate a lot about Sebastian.
“I’ve turned eighteen,” Sebastian says without preamble, flopping to the ground
beside Jim. Jim twists to look at him. In the sun Sebastian is golden hair and
tanned skin, graceful and lazy like a great sleepy cat.
“Happy birthday,” he drawls, and expects that to be the end of it. But
Sebastian doesn’t let it go. He stares out over the lawn with that shuttered-
off expression that Jim’s starting to hate, avoiding eye contact. Jim frowns.
“Which means I’m eligible to enlist.”
The frown turns into a glare. “I told you you’re not to.” In the core of Jim
there’s a bright spark of fear against the darkness of anger. Disobedient,
stupid, ordinary, you idiot, you’ll die. He expects Sebastian to shrug and move
on, start a new conversation. Posture a bit and then give in, like Sebastian
always does, but Sebastian gives him nothing but resolute silence. That’s
worrying. “I told you not to!” Jim repeats, a bit louder to drown out the
quiet, the pitch of his voice jumping nervously high.
“And I told you it was the only reasonable option.”
This is a fight they’ve had before and they’ll have again, because that idiot
can’t see Jim has jobs lined up for both of them. If he wants to shoot people
Jim is more than ready to accommodate. Jim can do that. He’s clever enough to
do anything, but it all goes to shit if Sebastian is really dense enough to
join the military. Jim doesn’t even bother to struggle with his rising
frustration. His face twists in a deeper scowl and if Sebastian is going to be
difficult today Jim is going to remind him just who’s in charge here.
“I forbid you, do you hear me?”
“You can’t forbid me from doing something I’ve already done.”
Jim’s body goes still as his mind kicks into overdrive. Sneaking out of the
house on his eighteenth birthday, that little fuck, he can’t have.But Sebastian
isn’t looking at him and Jim can read in his posture, in his stiff shoulders
and rigid back, that Sebastian is scared and determined. How he looks when he’s
defying me. Sebastian’s mouth, familiar bloody and soft, cursing and pleading,
is set in a thin stubborn line. No. No no no no no no no, NO.
“You what.”
“I enlisted.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Sebastian’s voice is calm and Jim’s mind goes utterly black in anger. Before
Jim knows it he’s scrambled to his feet and is staring down at Sebastian, hands
balled into furious fists. Sebastian looks up, his eyes intent on Jim’s face,
and Jim wonders what he’s searching for.
Did you want to piss me off? Did you want to hurt me? I’ll fucking kill you for
this, Seb, I swear this time I’m going to skin you alive.
“How dare you! I told you we’ll find another way,” Jim spits at Sebastian,
ignoring the inexplicable hollow ache that’s settled in his stomach. It feels
like fear and pain, almost, but Jim won’t let himself think about that now. “I
told you!” 
Sebastian just stares up at him and for once that transparent face is totally
unreadable. Jim hates him in that bitter instant, hates his stoicism and his
stubborn one-track mind.
You can’t go, you just can’t, dammit Sebastian I fucking told you –
Before he can betray anything else Jim turns sharply on his heel and stalks
away.
“Hey –“ Sebastian’s voice behind him is confused, and Jim can almost picture
him blinking like a slaughterhouse cow in surprise, scrambling to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving,” Jim snarls, not bothering to turn.
“What?!”
Don’t act so surprised, kitten, you were leaving me first.Jim’s heels stomp
over the front porch and into the house, not pausing to collect the vital
papers that are the only physical manifestation of his growing organization.
Keep them. Keep the whole fucking thing, I can build it again, it’s just me,
it’s just me and how clever I am and I should never have depended onanyone.
Even the voice in Jim’s mind sounds bitter.
“Jim – Jim – “ Sebastian’s voice behind him is ragged and he must have run from
the backyard. Jim supposes he’s moving fast if Sebastian is panting chasing
him, but he can’t tell. Everything seems slowed down, like the world is
stalling. Sebastian’s hand closing around his arm is an unwanted note of
reality. “What the hell does that mean?”
“What does it soundlike it means?!” Isn’t it obvious? I’m going home and you
can die in the desert for all I care.Jim snatches his arm away. He gets a
glance at Sebastian’s face from the motion and it stabs through his chest.
Sebastian’s eyes are wide and confused, and Jim has never seen anyone so
pathetically vulnerable.
“We weren’t – I thought you’d expect this, Jim, I – what else was I supposed to
do?”
Jim wants to scream, wants to dig his fingernails in those stupid eyes and
gouge them out. He jerks himself away from Sebastian and yells, “DID YOU EVER
THINK I MIGHT HAVE-“ only cutting himself off when he realizes that it’s too
late now for anything he might have done. Everything he’s built in the past
year is being destroyed, and there’s a crushing finality to the emptiness left
behind. “No,” he settles on finally, voice low and dangerous. “Fuck this. FUCK
you,” as he gives Sebastian a quick shove backwards. “Get the fuck away from
me.”
“You might have what,” Sebastian snarls back, and there’s a sickening drop in
Jim’s stomach when instead of hurt Sebastian is implacably angry. He feels with
stunned betrayal Sebastian’s hands on his chest, goes stumbling back into the
table when he’s pushed. Sebastian’s hair is out of place and Jim’s mind jumps
painfully to his thoughts this morning, how he wanted to hurt Seb then just to
make it all go away. We were always supposed to hurt each other, Tiger, but not
like this.“You're a psychopath,” Sebastian continues, voice hard and cruel, and
Jim’s never dealt with pain like this before. “You don't feel anything about
this. You're just angry I've spoilt your plans.” The words are a punch to the
gut and Jim’s thoughts swirl in dizzying anger and pain. He hears it repeat in
his mind, not like this.
Somehow he drags himself off the table and makes it to the door, dimly
recognizing that Sebastian is close on his heels. When he’s standing in the
doorway he turns, giving them one last chance. “I don’t ever want to see you
again,” he hisses at Sebastian, but what he means is, convince me to forgive
you and we’ll have it the way it was, Kitten, just besorryand I’ll make it
okay.
Sebastian spits at his feet. “Good.In case you forgot, I won’t be on this
continent very long.”
And that’s it, then. No more chances. No more hazy mornings and violent nights,
no more games of power and control, no more loving bruises or sweet cruelties
or stupid faces that make Sebastian laugh.
Jim slams the door viciously hard behind him, and, ignoring the sting in his
eyes and the tears he knows are coming, walks calmly away.
                               -----------------
Jim is alone in a hazy city, blurred edges and surreal angles that don’t quite
comfortably fit in the human mind. It’s the setting his dreams usually take.
The city spreads and twists and dizzyingly moves around him, but he hangs still
in the center and watches it like he always does, like a fly on the wall or a
bug in a web.
It’s half lucid, Jim’s mind drifting lazily through various plans and schedules
that will come to fruition soon, daily errands and chores he’ll need to keep
his business running smoothly. He can feel consciousness niggling at one corner
of his mind, but he’s beating it down because he knows he’ll be waking up alone
in his mother’s house and he’d like to stay sleeping. There’re splashes of
colour like strokes of a brush through the city, and fragments of his code, and
sharp bright details that hurt Jim’s brain when he looks at them too closely.
The city in Jim’s head is a troubling place, but it’s calmingly familiar now.
Sloppy, someone says behind him, and that is new. Anything new in the city is
dangerous. New means his emotions have seeped through the cracks again, some
deadly urge or hunger from his back-brain surfacing into consciousness. He
shouldn’t be curious, but Jim turns, achingly slow, a sort of shapeless fear
making his heart race faster. Couldn’t take the time to imagine a better
fucking town?
Sebastian? You’re old. Even as he speaks, he wants to take it back. No, whoever
this is, it’s not his Sebastian. Close, though. The man in front of him is tall
and blond and tanned, his bare forearms crossed with scars. There’s a rifle
case by his foot and a home-rolled cigarette in his mouth. He’s picked out in
perfect detail against the shapeless city behind him, from his combat boots to
the blood under his fingernails. Maybe in ten years Sebastian will look like
this, but he’d never have those cold gauging eyes that are watching Jim without
an inch of pity or humanity.
Not Sebastian, Jim thinks, but the man’s eyes narrow in dangerous judgement as
he takes a drag on his cigarette and he replies calmly – It’sMoran. You are?
Jim, Moriarty tells him, and expects him to understand. After all, it’s Jim’s
dream. But there’s no flash of recognition in this Moran’s eyes, and that makes
this dream officially a nightmare. He doesn’t know Jim. The dream tilts hard on
its axis, throwing the city off balance.
If you’re here to hire me go home. Try to follow me to my flat and I'll kill
you. I'm creative. And patient. There's no one else there. You could stay alive
for days.
There's... you're alone?Jim feels a cold pang of sorrow despite his uneasy
fear, despite the way Moran is still looking at him like he’s sizing Jim for a
coffin. In Jim’s head the record of Sebastian’s desperation plays, a stream of
memories of Seb begging for the approval of the only person who could see him.
Begging for Jim not to let him be alone anymore.
The Moran in front of him blinks in surprise. The expression is Sebastian’s,
and Jim’s heart wrenches again. Around them, the city is moving faster, getting
darker like a storm is blowing in. The bright flashes of colour aren’t so
bright any more. Is that a come on? Moran asks.
Unable to help his curiosity, Jim counters, What if it was?
A truly unpleasant smile breaks across Moran’s face, getting wider, and there
is nothing jovial about it. If I wanted to take you home, I'd fuck you until
you couldn't see straight, let alone walk. And then I'd start hurting you.He
takes a step closer. Jim is unable to move away. His heart is going
uncomfortably fast, now, the kind of fear only achievable in dreams that drags
you awake screaming. Eventually you'd beg me to stop. I'd break something
important. Leave you for dead or for intensive care. Never hear about you
again. Do you want to reconsider asking?The city goes black and Jim’s breath
catches, and he wonders if you can suffocate from fear in a dream. Are you
scared? Moran asks him, voice low and pleased. His expression is cunning and
amused, and Jim feels the wrongness of it like a slap.
This is all my fault,Jim thinks, or says, the line between the two ill-defined
and getting worse. I let you go...
Yes.Moran's face twists and stretches like rubber, changing. Then, all at once,
he snaps back into focus and he’s Sebastian, Sebastian as he looked this
morning, scared and angry in equal parts. I deserved better than this.
But you're leaving me.
No -Sebastian reaches out, and with a voice choked with panic and desperation
and fear, cries, Jim!his eyes wide and terrified.
Jim hangs immobile, caught in his web, as gravity lurches painfully steep and
Sebastian falls away into the darkness.
                               ----------------
He comes awake in a tangle of clammy sheets and sweat-stained pillows,
breathing hard. Without thinking, Jim scrambles out of bed and shoves his feet
in the first pair of shoes to hand – gym trainers – not bothering with socks.
The t-shirt he pulls on next sticks to the sweat on his spine but that doesn’t
matter, not now. He’s out the door in seconds, still in his boxers.
It feels like another nightmare, stumbling through the dark towards Sebastian’s
house, running when he can and slowing to a shuddering walk when he can’t push
his body any further. Jim’s lungs burn and his legs ache; mosquitos flock to
the sweat on his bare shins. He’s sore, so exhausted he can’t think, and
there’s a blister on his foot that will probably drive him mad for the next
week. But he makes it to Sebastian’s house in under thirty-five minutes. It’s a
new record.
He doesn’t bother knocking.
Sebastian is sitting at the kitchen table, hands stilled on a partially
disassembled Glock 17. Sebastian always cleans when he’s restless. Usually Jim
finds this endearingly compulsive, but right now, he can’t call up the energy
to be mocking and light-hearted about it.
“Yes?” Sebastian’s voice is cool and Jim can tell from the way his fingers
tense that the effort to stay calm costs him.
Jim eliminates the distance between them with quick steps and he sees
Sebastian’s eyes widen as they take in Jim’s unkempt, half-dressed appearance.
Never show weakness, huh? Well I’m weak all over now, Kitten, how does it suit
me?
Jim drops to his knees. Sebastian takes a deep breath, and Jim can see the
shock and disbelief on his face.
“Don’t go,” Jim whispers, hating himself for how needy it is, but there’s no
time anymore to be stubborn. “Please.” Then words fail him and he takes a
breath in that is reallythreatening to become a sob.
Pieces of Glock scatter across the table and Sebastian’s voice catches on Jim’s
name. He’s reaching for Jim, looking worried now, shoving his chair back so he
can pull Jim to him in a protective embrace. Despite himself Jim feels a little
spike of amusement at how fast Sebastian leaps to defend him. Then a sliver of
light reflects off the gun barrel on the table and Jim remembers why he needs
protecting. The brief amusement is gone. He clutches at Sebastian’s shirt and
Sebastian, mercifully, hugs him tighter.
Jim doesn’t realize that there’s a silence until Sebastian has been holding him
for several dragging minutes, rocking him gently back and forth like a sobbing
child. The terror of the nightmare is fading slowly and Jim’s sweat still
hasn’t dried, but his breathing gets a little closer to normal. When he trusts
himself to speak, Jim insists to Sebastian, “You can’t.”
Sebastian is infuriatingly calm. “You’ll need someone experienced,” he murmurs
against Jim’s hair, quiet and resigned.
“You can get that anywhere –“ Sebastian interrupts with a sigh, a long huff
through his nose that means he’s going to disagree, and fear lurches through
Jim’s chest again. Sebastian, becoming that soulless creature from the dream,
Sebastian at war, Sebastian dead in the desert, no, it can’t, he can’t,
Ican’t.“Please!”
“That’s twice,” Sebastian says carefully, “That you’ve said please. You never
say please. Something’s happened to you.”
“I need you here,” Jim evades, hiding his face in Sebastian’s shoulder. “You
can’t go, Kitten, and that’s final. Tell me you won’t, now.”
“Tell me why,” Sebastian commands him, and Jim curses whatever God had a sick
enough sense of humour to make Sebastian Moran perceptive enough to demand a
reason at a time like this.
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t care.”
Jim takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a soft
terrified sound and it unnerves him even more.
Oh my. I’m really coming undone. Whoops.
But before he can start to second-guess Sebastian is there, stroking his hair
and murmuring steady meaningless things like a farmer to a nervous filly. His
quietly reasonable voice leaves no room for panic, and the whole nightmare
comes tumbling out of Jim’s mouth in a jumbled up mess that he knows doesn’t
make sense at all.
“It wasn't you,” Jim finishes, finally. “It was you but you were alone and a
husk and you were so, so – so broken, Seb you were soulless,I could see it in
you.” Sebastian’s fingers card through his hair and just for a second Jim
thinks that means Seb’s finally decided to be reasonable.
“I need basic,” Sebastian says finally, and Jim nearly moans at how stupid and
frustrating it is to be back to square one again. “Let me learn everything I
can and then get myself dishonorably discharged, Jim, I'm sure I could do any
number of things that’ll send me home in disgrace.”
“Or you could just not go, how does that sound?”
“Who’s going to hire an inexperienced hit man?” Sebastian chuckles and kisses
Jim’s forehead. Jim wants to smack him. “Idiot.” His voice is full of affection
as his thumb strokes over Jim’s spine reassuringly.
“You go and then you’ll break and I –“ Jim stops himself there, and Sebastian
covers it for him.
“I won’t. It’s only three months for basic. They can’t break me in three
months.”
“It took me a week!”
“You’re different.”
Jim buries his face in Sebastian’s chest and tries to ignore the invisible
knife shoved through his chest. Sebastian huffs again, frustrated and tired.
Jim wonders why he can’t just do what Jim wants, because at this point,
honestly, Seb’s only being stubborn.
I could fix it all for you, promise, I could.
“Kiss me,” Sebastian says suddenly, gently, his knuckle pushing Jim’s chin
upwards.
If you can’t fight it, fuck it, Jim thinks, how very typical ofyou.
But Sebastian’s knuckle presses up again and Jim lets his head tilt back. When
Sebastian’s lips seal over his Jim bites at him hard as punishment. Sebastian
makes a soft, wanting noise, the sound of a dam breaking, then Jim is pouring
all his fear and his fury into the kiss, pulling Sebastian closer with
insatiable frustration.
Instead of rising to the occasion, escalating things, making this a bloody
night and a sore morning, Sebastian just takes it. He lets Jim tongue-fuck his
mouth and scratch at his shoulders until Jim wants to scream.
Come on!Fight me. I want to be angry at you!
The next bite at Seb’s lip draws blood, and it’s there in kiss between them – a
metallic taste in Jim’s mouth, on the slide of Sebastian’s tongue against his
as Sebastian kisses back slow and languid. He’s patient, letting Jim slake his
frustrations until Jim sags in his arms. Then he takes control.
He presses soft barely-there kisses on Jim’s lips, on the vulnerable skin just
under his jaw, over his jugular. All the places where he’d normally leave a
bruise, Sebastian traces with gentle, languid attention. His hands slide over
Jim with a slow hard pressure, learning his body by feel.
The sentimental idiot is worshipping me.
As Jim thinks it Sebastian’s hands are on his hips and he’s being lifted,
pulled into Sebastian’s lap. Sebastian tugs Jim’s t-shirt over his head and his
mouth trails lower, an unexpected lick of tongue over Jim’s collarbone that
feels like lightening. From the new position Jim can grind his hips downwards
into Sebastian’s lap and he writhes, trying to force frustration.
Sebastian refuses to be hurried.
When he finally starts to bite, it’s not the familiar animal tear of anger and
lust. He nips little claiming marks into Jim’s neck, deliberately indiscreet,
just on the edge of pain without falling over. It’s maddening. Jim whines, and
presses down again into Sebastian’s increasingly obvious erection. It doesn’t
get him anything, not at first. When Seb’s traced his neck in flushed red from
collar to jaw he nips at Jim’s ear and goes back down – slick slides of tongue
over the bruises, and the movements of Jim’s hips stop being calculated. He
thrusts mindlessly against Sebastian, breath soft even though it’s speeding.
There’s a sense of fragility to the moment and Jim can’t tell if it’s because
it’s so slow or because he knows it’ll be over so soon. He opens his mouth, and
he’s not sure what he’s about to say but it’s one of two things and they’re
completely opposed.
Don’t you dare tease me. Hurry up. I need you NOW.
Tiger, you make this last or I’ll never forgive you.
Doesn’t matter what would have come out of his mouth, because as soon as he
opens it Sebastian lifts his head and kisses him again, stalling the words. Not
as slow anymore, but not violent, a passionate heat and if kisses could speak
this one would say, I lov –
Jim cuts that thought off violently just before Sebastian rolls his hips
upwards and the press of their bodies together makes Jim moan, mouth dropping
open. Sebastian swallows the sound, gives it back with a thrust of tongue into
a hungry kiss. Jim is on board. Jim wants more of that, more of Sebastian’s
hard cock rocking up into his ass. As soon as the first shock of pressure is
gone he’s hungry for harder, faster, more– this should be the cue for Sebastian
to get going. But instead Seb rocks them together at the same measured pace
with infuriating restraint, refusing to listen to Jim’s frustrated whimpers.
I’m going fucking mad.
When he thinks he can’t take it anymore, when he’s on the edge of grabbing
what’s left of the Glock and holding it to Sebastian’s head just to get an inch
more stimulation, Sebastian grips his hips and lets the kiss go, picking Jim up
as he stands.
Jim wraps his legs around Seb’s waist on instinct, and the angle is all right
now.
That’s better. Oh come on – just –
Altogether too soon Seb sets him down on the table, and Jim is on the edge of
screaming frustration again. Then he realizes Sebastian is pushing him
backwards, setting his mouth to Jim’s stomach as Jim is pressed flat on the
table and pieces of gun go crashing to the floor. He pulls Jim’s boxers off and
lets them drop in a crumpled heap, leaves those same little nipping bruises
over Jim’s hip bones. It’s going perfectly fine until Sebastian shifts just a
little and his mouth is – oh fuck –his mouth is close and his breath is hot
against Jim’s erection, and – oh fuck Tiger – oh please –
Nope.
Sebastian moves off again.
Jim makes a sound that will humiliate him for ages, he’s sure, something high-
pitched and keening, and he tries without much success not to writhe on the
table. Mercifully Sebastian is back before the words to demand his return are
fully formed, and somehow – Jim doesn’t really care how, at this point – his
fingers are slick and sticky with lube.
He pushes in to the first knuckle without warning or hesitation.
Jim feels his spine come off the table in a long arc, only the bones of his
shoulders and hips touching the wood. His fingers scramble for contact and his
left hand finds Sebastian’s forearm braced on the table. He grips hard for
support, and then a second finger is pushing in andJim isn’t even sure if he
can take it. There’s a burning ache despite how much he’s bearing down on Seb’s
fingers, and he knows Sebastian is stretching him far too quickly.
I don’t care, I don’t care, I want it.
The burn is giving way quickly to pleasure, and it seems Sebastian was saving
all of his impatience for this, the last thing keeping them from being as close
as humanly possible. He preps Jim with short quick thrusts of his fingers, no
consideration for skill, only brushing Jim’s prostate by happy accident.  Jim
squirms.
A new kind of teasing. Dammit, Seb, just fuck me! I’m never letting you set the
pace again.
When Jim is again considering threatening murder just as a way to get laid,
Sebastian pulls his fingers out with a slick sound. Jim is left feeling loose
and empty, taking deep breaths to calm himself and collect his scattered mind.
It doesn’t seem to help. Before he can even squirm to a less exposed position
Sebastian’s back over him, pulling him to the edge of the table where their
hips can fit together.
Jim’s breath catches.
He pushes up on his elbows as Sebastian leans forward and there – oh yes,
there, hell fucking yes – they find the kiss just as Sebastian pushes in.
After the rush of preparation Sebastian is taking his time, and Jim doesn’t
mind as much when it’s Sebastian’s cock pressing into Jim inch by measured
inch. The leisurely pace of the kiss is doing very little to hide Sebastian’s
ragged breathing.
It’s been a long time since either of them have spoken. Both of them have been
hushed, almost silent, like there’s someone in the next room they’re trying to
hide from.
Maybe if we speak it’ll all pop like a balloon and we’ll be fighting again.
But until then Sebastian is surging the last inch forward and he’s pressed so
deep into Jim that Jim can’t seem to breathe right. Neither of them is going to
last and they both know it. From the helpless growl against Jim’s lips when
he’s finally seated, Sebastian’s used all his self-control up.
When he starts to move the withdrawal makes Jim moan and clutch at him, but
Sebastian makes up for it with a brutal thrust that slams Jim back against the
table and they’re probably both going to have bruises on their hips tonight.
Jim’s breaths are choked, Sebastian’s fucking into him with hard short thrusts
and he can’t tell if he’s pleading out loud or in his head,Sebastian, please, I
need you, I need you, don’t leave. There’s no real kiss, anymore, just slack
mouths and heavy breaths and the overwhelming pleasure of Sebastian claiming
him.
Jim clutches at his arms, at his back, at his hips, drawing him ever closer.
If I could make us one person –
If I could sew myself inside you –
If I could fix it –
He fights his orgasm desperately, forcing it off as long as he can, because Jim
knows that this could be the last time they’ll touch and he’s willing to never
come, not ever, so long as it means Sebastian stays here with him.
In the end, it’s a pointless struggle. There’s no escaping the too-quick build
of climax and even if he could Sebastian is already losing rhythm above him,
already going tensed and strained and mindless. Clawing at control, Jim feels
himself arch backwards, hears the desperate pant of Sebastian’s name on his
lips, knows he can’t hold on anymore.
No, please, just a little more –
He screams in frustration and digs his fingernails into Sebastian’s arm so hard
they leave thin lines of red, but it’s too late, and he’s coming.
An unforgiving burst of pleasure, like an explosion.
His mind wiped clean and blank, and then that’s it.
It’s all over.
***** The Misadventure of Mr. Holmes *****
Chapter Summary
     Sebastian Moran goes to boot camp, where he meets a young British
     official that has very different ideas about how he's going to use
     his newfound skills.
Chapter Notes
     I left you a note at the end bbys <3 see you there <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                               Six Months Later
Sebastian takes another drag of the cigarette he’s finishing on one of the
picnic benches outside the mess hall, right under the no-smoking sign. Ten feet
in front of him, the rest of his would-be sniper unit are standing at
attention.
Having been rejected from the long-range marksman program for a truly
appallingperformance on the final exam, Sebastian is no longer required to
stand in the line. He’s been let go, declined a job in the regular infantry,
and is only waiting around for two things; a cab, and the end of a surprise
inspection that apparently doesn’t care whether or not he’s still part of the
military.
It’s hot as the devil’s ass outside and the orderly line of soldiers in front
of him is dripping sweat. Sebastian smiles and leans back a little, into the
shade. The man who used to run beside him in the mornings gives him a death
glare, acting for the whole group since he’s the closest.
They’d sincerely like to kill him at this point. Sebastian had embarrassed them
all effortlessly in training and drills, sucked-up to the commanding officers
and been borderline neurotic about making sure his bed was neat. Only to throw
the final exam, possibly just so he didn’t have to stand at attention when it
was a hundred degrees in the shade.
None of them have guessed, of course.
All for you, Jim.
                                --------------
He’s curled up on the floor when Sebastian comes down the stairs carrying the
only bag a recruit is permitted take to basic. It’s heavy and the thick canvas
is cutting into his hand.
He leaves it by the front door and kneels down in front of Jim. “Won’t you say
goodbye?”
“I told you not to go,” Jim’s voice is muffled, buried in his palms. “They’ll
break you. They will.” Sebastian tries to be gentle, but prying Jim’s hands
away from his face takes some strength and his grip has to be tight.
“They won’t.”
Jim’s face, when it appears, is twisted up into his disdainful glare. Framed by
Sebastian’s fingers wrapped around his wrists, it triggers a spreading warmth
over Sebastian’s chest.
Cute when you’re mad, boss.
Wish I could take you to bed. Push your buttons until you scream.
Kiss you until you scream a little different.
“They WILL!” Jim snaps, and Sebastian smiles, wanting to run a hand through
Jim’s messy hair to smooth it. He would, if he was willing to let go of Jim’s
wrists.
“They can’t. Listen to me.” Jim pouts, sullen. He doesn’t pull away. Sebastian
takes this as a sign to continue. “They can't. If I was alone, maybe, but not
now. Not like this.”
“You don't even - you don't know-!”
“Neither do you. In the dream –“ Jim scowls, but Sebastian powers through.
Despite practicality and the pain of saying goodbye, what they’re really
arguing about is a nightmare and Sebastian knows it. “You said I didn't
remember you. So - give me something, then. So I can't forget. You’re so
scared, change the fucking possibilities.”
“There's nothing I could give you that won't be lost.”
“Yes,” Sebastian corrects him, and lets go of his wrists. “There is. There's a
knife on the table.”
Jim’s hands drop heavy into his lap and Sebastian falls a little in love with
the way his lashes frame his wide, startled eyes.
                                --------------
                                        
The mess hall door slams open and then shut again, the soldiers in front of
Sebastian snapping smartly to attention as their Staff Sergeant walks onto the
field. Following him, sweating a little more heavily than the men in uniform,
is an overweight young man in a well-tailored suit. He’s got a satyr’s face
lined finely with pudge, and Sebastian wonders if he knows about the premature
bald spot already evident in his hair.
Probably. Looks like a vain son of a bitch.
Sebastian takes another drag and kills the butt on the table beside him. Pudgy
Satyr sends him a disapproving glance, then another, more searching look.
Sebastian feels – with an unpleasant lurch –  a sort of twisted familiarity.
It’s the same dissection stare Jim gives Sebastian when he’s reading
Sebastian’s mind. The man’s face may be soft, but those eyes are cold and hard
and Sebastian can feel himself mercilessly weighed in judgement.
“These are the candidates, Mr. Holmes.” Sebastian lets out a breath he didn’t
know he was holding when the Staff Sergeant’s words distract Pudgy Satyr – Mr.
Holmes– and that penetrating gaze slides off him and refocuses with a mild
blink on the nine soldiers at attention in the line.
“Why are there only nine, Staff?” Holmes asks, after a polite pause. His tone
is just as reasonable and unassuming, but there’s a quiet and obvious threat
underneath it. Sebastian thinks of a soft glove over an iron fist, a dagger
piercing his spine in the dark.
This is bad.
“The last man failed, Sir. Couldn’t shoot under pressure.”
Holmes hums noncommittally and he spares the line one more quick glance before
turning away. “The two gentlemen at the end, if you would. And,” Holmes’s voice
hasn’t raised or sped and he’s still sweating uncomfortably in his expensive
suit, but Sebastian feels fear up his neck like fire. There’s nothing silly
about that bald spot now – not with those eyes. Not now that Holmes is looking
at him and saying, “This man, here.”
                              ------------------
Jim’s weight settles heavily across his thighs. One hand traces down
Sebastian’s bare torso, considering, and Sebastian shuts his eyes.
“Where?” Jim asks, but Sebastian just shakes his head.
The knife bites in over his hipbone. It’s surprisingly difficult to tell what
Jim’s doing, only that it hurts. There’s an electric burst of pain each time
the knife slides a little further, and Sebastian can feel each catch and slip
in his skin as Jim carves. Piecing together the overall picture would require
impossible concentration.
His breath is light and shallow past his gritted teeth and when Jim pulls back
he keeps his eyes shut and says, “Go over that deeper.”
The second time hurts more than the first. Logically, Jim’s just retracing the
same wounds, but the burn of it seems to spread outwards until his entire hip
feels over-sensitized and raw.
Like Jim is flaying him.
The second time Jim pulls back Sebastian can feel blood trickling down his side
and onto the floor. His teeth are aching from clenching together.
“Again,” he says, and Jim obeys.
The third time is simply a trial of endurance. Sebastian wills himself not to
scream or move or ask Jim to stop. It seems to take forever. When it’s finally
over, the side Jim’s carving is slick all the way to the floor and
uncomfortably stuck to the hardwood.
“Will it scar?” He grinds out through his teeth, and above him there’s a soft,
indistinct noise. It could be pity.
Sebastian doesn’t open his eyes.
A thin fingertip traces over the lines of the knife, smearing blood on both
their skins.
JM.
“It’ll scar.”
“Tell me what we’ll do when I come home,” Sebastian says, because he needs to
hold on to something while he’s gone.
“We'll get out of this place. Go... move to London. I'll have the empire
complete and... We’ll go on assignments and kill together...” Jim’s voice
sounds like it’s breaking.
Sebastian chokes out a laugh. Even to him it’s bitter and terrified. “Tell me
we'll buy the biggest fuck-off house in the city with blood money and no one
will ever know who we used to be.”
A cool hand cups his cheek, sticky and wet, and Jim’s thumb strokes a thick red
streak over his cheekbone.  “I'll let you pick it. Whatever you want.”
“Tell me we'll get a bed that's far too big even for both of us. We'll kill
anyone who crosses us.”
“It'll be big enough for 4 people but we'll never let anyone else in it. We'll
kill them before they have the chance to cross us.”
“Promise me, Jim.”
Promise me I won’t break.
Promise me I’m coming home.
Promise me we’re not going to die pointless and forgotten.
Promise me a short bloody life and promise me it’ll be with you.
“I promise.”
                             --------------------
“Sir,” The Staff Sergeant says, hesitant, afraid to cross a superior. “He’s the
one that failed…”
“Yes, I’m aware.” Holmes hasn’t done anything as undignified as pointing, but
his eyes are locked on Sebastian’s. Sebastian sits forward on the picnic table,
wishing his cab had come just a little faster. “And his scores for the rest of
the training…?”
“Um… Well,” – Checking his records – “Perfect.”
“Of course they were.”
Sebastian clamps down hard on his expression and feels his face go rigid and
determined. The side of Holmes’s mouth quirks in an understated smile, and
Sebastian wonders briefly if he could survive murdering the official with nine
trained snipers standing not ten feet away.
Probably not.
“But, the final test is designed to weed out…”
Mycroft interrupts before the Staff Sergeant can finish. “Staff, if you wanted
to receive the finest training the British military could offer, but you didn’t
want to be messily shot, what would you do? Ah. That’s right,” Sebastian glares
at Holmes, murder in his eyes and his body a rigid line of muscle. But the fat
fuck just smiles back like they’re standing in a deep freeze instead of the
blazing sun. “You’d fail immediately after discerning there was no more to
learn.”
Sebastian uncoils from the picnic table, unable to do nothing. Despite the
difference in physicality, he and the overweight official are almost of a
height, and Sebastian is unable to loom over him. Holmes’s small smile tugs
wider again, like this is a perfectly predictable and childish reaction.
Sebastian wants badly to gut him.
“I refuse.You can't draft me. We have the option to opt out at –“
Holmes cuts him off smoothly, without ever raising his voice. “You’re the best
man here, Mr. Moran, you’re well aware of it. I don't know who you're training
for, but it wouldn't take me even the better part of the afternoon to find out
if I took an interest.” He tugs a silk handkerchief out of his pocket, wipes
the sweat from his brow, and tucks it back away. Sebastian’s movement forward
is aborted when Holmes continues, simply, “You will go, or I will take an
interest.”
Jim.
Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “You’d never find him in a million years. And if you
did, I’d –“ He stops himself just in time. Threatening Holmes – boot camp
flunk-out or not – could land him in jail.
Jim’d hate that.
Holmes smiles like a cat licking cream.
“I think you'll find we can do whatever we wish, Mister Moran, especially to
someone like you.” His cold eyes are level and utterly inhuman, and Sebastian
knows that if Mycroft wanted to he could find all Sebastian’s weaknesses. He
has a vivid mental image of those swollen fingers prying open his ribs,
cracking them like crab’s legs to get at the meat of secrets within.
Sebastian feels like he’s drowning. Grasping at straws, he tries limply, “We're
supposed to go home now - until we're assigned –“ Thinking of Jim, and the
empire. Jim’d be able to hide him, if only he could get home.
But Mycroft just smiles that knowing smile. “There are barracks on-site. You
will stay there.”
“A phone call, at least…”
This can’t be legal.
This can’t be happening.
“Yes, I think we might manage that. Staff –“ Mycroft turns away, finally, takes
the Staff Sergeant’s clipboard and makes a few changes in elegant blue script.
“I assume you’ll have him for the standard tour – four years out, and in
Afghanistan I should think.” The Staff Sergeant looks as stunned as Sebastian,
accepting his clipboard back with automatic numbness. Mycroft nods at him
reassuringly, returns his pen, and turns back towards the mess hall.
“I want the call completely off the record,” Sebastian snaps before Mycroft can
leave, because it’s all that’s left to ask for. There’s a hollow, icy horror
threaded through him like poison. “Nobody listens in. No recordings.” Mycroft
hesitates, turns back to Sebastian. There’s an insincere sadness on his face
that Sebastian knows precedes a denial. It’s too much. Back to the wall,
Sebastian straightens and snarls at him, flat and furious, “Do you really think
I went through the trouble of embarrassing all these other idiots to fail the
test for fun? Give me a phone call and I'll do my tour without incident.”
There’s a naked challenge in his eyes.
You think you can read me, do it.
Tell me I have nothing to threaten you with.
Tell me I’m not still the most dangerous man here.
Mycroft looks at him consideringly for a long moment then, slowly, nods. “Yes.
I’ll make sure you have a secure line. Staff, if you could show Mister Moran to
the phone in the office…” They both know he’s lying. Of course the line will be
tapped. It’s what Jim would do.
                               ----------------
When Jim picks up, without preamble, Sebastian says, “I can’t be sure this call
is clean.” There’s a little pause, and the hiss of the long-distance line.
“I understand.”
Jim’s voice takes Sebastian like a fist to the gut, even cut through with
distortion. He forgets, for a moment, what he was supposed to say. “It’s good
to hear your voice,” he settles on instead, because it is.
Four years.
“And yours, kitten, of course…” Jim is drawling, bored. He must be smiling, but
Sebastian can’t see. “Are you on your way home to me?”
Deep breath.
I’m so sorry.
“I… Won’t be. Coming home.”
Over the phone he can’t hear the hiss of surprise he expects. He wonders how
much of their voices are getting lost. “What…?” Jim breathes, so quietly as to
be nearly static.
“Some sort of judgement call. Man came by. Said even though I failed the tests
I was… just hiding how good I was. They’re sending me out anyways.” For some
reason, Sebastian’s legs don’t seem to be supporting him properly. He leans
against the wall and grips the cord of the phone hard. “I have a name.”
“W-What? How could he –“ Sebastian imagines he can hear the cogs of Jim’s brain
grind to work. “Give me the name. Now.”
If anyone could save us, it’d be you.
“Holmes. His name is Holmes. And that’s all I know. It’s – it’s four years. The
tour.”
“Four YEARS!?” The scream cracks through the phone like a whip and Sebastian
makes a choked noise between a laugh and a sob.
“We're supposed to get a visit home before we're shipped off. I think he knew
I'd run.”
“But you...” There’s distress in Jim’s voice, plain and clear, and if Sebastian
didn’t want to be home before he does now just to see the expression that goes
with that voice. “You have to come back!”
“I will.”
“NOW!”
Sebastian laughs at the frantic cry, because this is breaking his heart,
because he loves Jim, because there’s nothing to do but laugh or he’ll snap in
two. “Take it up with Holmes. I'll be home, I swear. I haven't forgotten.”
His fingers fall to his hip, trace lightly over Jim’s initials.
There’s a silence, a long silence, the kind of silence Jim used to use to put
Sebastian on edge. Now Sebastian thinks he just doesn’t know what to say. When
he speaks again, his voice is low and pleading. “Sebastian…”
Sebastian takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if they’ll let me call again.”
“I’ll – I’ll write.”
“Don’t. They’d open them.” Another long silence. Sebastian rests his forehead
against the wall, shuts his eyes, tries to send himself home to Jim with the
sheer force of how badly he wants it. “I don’t know how to say goodbye. Jim…”
As soon as it leaves his lips his heart stops. Jim hisses, angry, and this one
Sebastian hears clearly over the line. “Ssst -!”
The line is bugged, and I’ve given Holmes his name.
Something shatters in Sebastian’s heart, and it rings in his ears like an
explosion. He laughs, this time with real amusement instead of holding back
tears.
Failed you again. Stupid, ordinary kitten after all.
Self-hatred in his stomach gives him strength and he pushes himself off the
wall. “Fuck. Good thing you've a common name. Right, then. Last thing I say to
you in four years and it's a mistake. Perfect. Just another fuck up. Well, if
you can replace me, Jim -”
“No- “
Sebastian suddenly doesn’t want to hear it. Before Jim can start the next word,
he puts the phone back on the wall. It settles with a click like a coffin nail.
He stares at it for a breath. Then he straightens his shoulders, adjusts his
shirt, and walks smartly out to be processed. He is expressionless, completely
calm, and only a little pale.
Inside his head, he is screaming.
Chapter End Notes
     Okay sorry that was bad I know *hugs you* It's okay don't have feels
     it'll all be over soon although it might get way sadder first
     Look I even drew you a thing to make up for how sad this is about to
     be
     [Link]
     basically it is how I see our boys okay sorry again kay bye
     now if you fuckers don't comment I will get someone to hold my flower
     you understand me
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sebastian and Jim are finally reunited. I may have lied when I said
     it would get happier.
Chapter Notes
     Please please please read the end notes! We have some important
     ground to cover down there <3 But spoilers, too. <3 So I'll meet you
     when you're done reading.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                               Five Years Later
Sebastian Moran steps off the plane, settles his bag a little more comfortably
on his shoulder, and walks across the hot tarmac of the military airport
without a pause. Around him, soldiers reunite with family and friends, tearful,
hugging and cupping each other’s faces in relieved joy.
You came home, look how much you’ve grown, look how tanned you are.
With each step, his dog-tags tap the standard-issue green t-shirt he’s wearing
stretched tight across the new muscles on his chest. At eighteen, Sebastian had
been lean muscle and golden hair, had moved like a cat and grinned when he
thought people could see. Twenty-three suits him better. He’s filled out,
packed on mass when there was nothing better to do in his off time than
exercise and sleep. His tour has left a series of fine scars over his arms and
several thicker ones on his ribs, burned a farmer’s tan into his skin and faded
his short-cropped hair to nearly white. His expression is so guarded as to be
blank.
He moves like a tiger, now.
When he’s cleared all the checkpoints and started out across the civilian road
beside the base, a car rolls up to him; black, with chrome detailing that looks
understated, elegant and outrageously expensive. The window rolls down.
Sebastian leans over.
“Whose car?” he asks. His voice has gone scratchy, rough from disuse. Sebastian
Moran was not popular in Afghanistan.
“My boss said you’d know to get in,” comes the response.
“Did he now.” There’s a click as the doors unlock. Sebastian slides into the
back seat, tossing his bag down beside him, and the car pulls away from the
curb. The driver has curly brown hair that froths on his neck and tense
shoulders. He looks like a rabbit with his back to a hawk. Sebastian lets the
silence draw out for the pleasure of watching those bony shoulders creep
nervously upwards. It’s a good ten minutes before he speaks again. “What’s he
like?”
“W-Who, sir?”
“It’s Moran. No sir. And I mean your boss.”
A nervous laugh. The driver’s neck is near buried in his shoulders. “He’s
terrifying, he is.”
“Is he. Tell me about him.”
“I – I can’t. Sir. Moran. It’s – it’s his rules, I – “ Sebastian considers
this. The man seems genuinely afraid.
Of Jim?
My Jim.
Scaring people.
Sebastian smiles to himself.
“If you’re not going to be useful,” he grunts at the driver, “Just wake me when
we get there.”
He props his shoes obnoxiously against the back of the chair, tucks his chin in
to his chest, and rapidly falls asleep.
                                ---------------
Sebastian jerks back awake as they grind to a stop on a dirt road. The sun has
started to fade outside the windows, although there’s nothing visible but sky
and fields and the faint glow of the city against the horizon.
The middle of fucking nowhere.
He pushes himself upright. The driver is stammering something about his
instructions, how he’s to leave Moran here. Moran ignores him, hauls his bag
out of the back seat and drops it into the dirt. A small puff of dust plumes
upwards, and Sebastian gives a curt nod of dismissal to the driver that
forestalls any more attempts to explain what’s going on.
Jim is doing whatever he wants.
Save your explanation.
He didn’t explain to me before and it never changed anything.
He digs in his pocket for a cigarette and stares out over the grass as he
lights it. There’s a cloud of dirt rising in the distance, someone driving
closer even as the car that brought him here kicks up gravel pulling away.
Sebastian watches the new vehicle close the distance. Another expensive black
car, with tinted windows and shining chrome dulled by the dust of the road.
He takes a drag, sees the ember light up his knuckles in warm orange that
highlights a scar on his forefinger. The approaching car is going recklessly
fast, even for a deserted road. Sebastian notices with calm detachment that his
hands are shaking.
120 k. Easily.
It’s you.
Isn’t it?
He snubs the cigarette at his feet without finishing it.
The car rolls up, finally, and dust flies into the air. Sebastian is finding it
hard to breathe, although that might not entirely be the fault of air quality.
After a long pause, there’s an electronic whir, and the driver’s side window
creeps downwards. Jim is grinning. His mirrored aviators have slid down his
nose so his eyes are just barely visible, raking up and down Sebastian
hungrily.
Sebastian’s heart stops.
Jim is older. There are fine lines forming on the edges of his mouth and across
his brow, where he’s scowled too often and earned himself creases. His jaw is
thinner, cheekbones starkly defined in a gaunter, narrower face. Through the
open window, Sebastian can see the hard lines of muscle in his shoulders – a
swimmers body, lean and strong like a whip or the edge of a knife. James
Moriarty looks like a killer.
But his eyes are the same. Large, dark, and almost incandescent in the
otherwise unremarkable world, framed in a thick haze of indecently long lashes.
“Oh hello, handsome,” he sings. “Do get in.”
Sebastian doesn’t hesitate even long enough to speak. On his way around the car
to the passenger side he slams his bag in the trunk. When he settles in his
seat, Jim twists to look at him and opens his mouth like he’s going to say
something.
I don’t think so.
Not after so long, not now, I can’t.
Not another fucking delay.
“Shut up,” Sebastian growls, voice rough and hard. There’s a thin, barely-there
undercurrent of honest desperation. An average observer wouldn’t hear it under
the hostility of his tone, but if anybody’s going to catch how long he’s been
wanting, it’s Jim. He reaches over, grabs a handful of Jim’s soft cotton shirt
and drags him across to the passenger seat. He gets a bare glimpse of Jim’s
eyes, widening, and then their lips are crushed together.
Jim tastes of coffee and sugar. Sebastian kisses him hard and fast, violating
Jim’s mouth with his tongue in ruthless thrusts that leave no room for
disagreement. The bruising pressure of their meeting makes his heart start back
up again, racing instantly. Jim is pushing back, tongue slick and darting like
he’s relearning Sebastian’s mouth again by feel.
He pulls away altogether too soon, but Sebastian is gratified to see Jim’s
chest heave on the intake as he pants.
“I missed you,” Sebastian tells Jim, what he thinks is softly.
“All the more reason for us to leave, darling. Now.”
Sebastian forces himself to relax back into his chair. If he was hoping for
more from their first meeting back, he’s not going to be the first to show it.
There’s a grating noise as the tires work against the gravel, then the car
starts off down the road again. Sebastian spares a glance at the speedometer.
They’re going nearly 130 now. He can feel Jim glancing at him at odd intervals,
the prickling on his skin of being watched like a caress. He wants to look
back. Sebastian wants to stare, just drink Jim in after so long a drought, but
he’s not really sure if he’s allowed. Jim’s presence feels new and strange on
his skin. When he tries to speak the words dry up in his mouth and he can’t
seem to push them past his teeth. It’s lucky they’re not going far. There’s a
drive only a few miles down that Jim takes a sharp reckless right into, then
his manor is swelling in the windshield.
It’s a large, sprawling house, surprisingly modern for the rural setting. It
looks like the country home of a southern cotton farmer as lived in by an evil
dictator; classic white paint and columns contrasting with the thick gleaming
metal rims of the windows and the tell-tale dullness of bullet-proof glass.
Sebastian loves it immediately. From the front and the placement of the eves,
he can tell it’s defensible from all sides, offering clear views of the
sweeping lawns interrupted by only a few decorative trees. Two snipers in this
building could hold off an army.
“I SAID you could pick,” Jim grins as they pull up, “But I just couldn’t wait.
You understand.” A beat, not nearly long enough for Sebastian to reply, and
Jim’s face falls. “We can always buy another one.”
Sebastian barks out a laugh and it surprises him as much as Jim. It’s been a
while since something as simple as words made him laugh. The car squeals to a
halt and he unfolds out of the passenger seat, looking at the house. More
selling points pop up in a concentrated scan – security, cameras, everything
short of murder holes on the porch. Despite the slender columns and intricate
woodwork, the house is a fortress.
Sebastian shifts his duffel bag over his shoulder, suddenly nervous. He stares
up at the door, and wonders if he’ll be allowed to go in without knocking.
“Well don’t just stand there then,” Jim calls, leaving the car in the middle of
the driveway and sliding over the hood. He’s up the porch to the door, taking
the steps two at a time, before Sebastian can blink. “Come in.”
                               ----------------
The house is just as eclectic inside as outside. The same thin veneer of
civility has been applied to the interior design; it’s only after looking at a
very traditionally decorated dining room for a moment that Sebastian realizes
the chandelier is adorned with human skulls. In all the rooms, a conservative
and elegant sense of design has been put at guerilla war with a madman.
Tasteful burgundy wallpaper is patterned subtly with anatomical hearts; the
living room couch has a short leg propped up by what looks like a femur;
there’s a collection of pinned spiders on the wall of the office; and of
course, a very large gun cage on the main floor that Jim flings open to display
with all the flair of a ringmaster.
“Very nice,” Sebastian says finally, as they’re looking out from the back porch
over the yard. “But I seem to remember something about a bed.” They haven’t
spoken much. Neither of them seems entirely comfortable, yet. Sebastian is
half-convinced that if Jim’s nails weren’t manicured he’d be biting them.
At Sebastian’s mention of a bed, though, Jim’s face splits in a wide grin and
he throws himself off the railing back towards the house. Without an inch of
hesitation, he reaches his hand back for Sebastian. Sebastian grabs it eagerly,
grip tight, squeezing in nervous excitement.
When you have something for a long time, you stop thinking about it. People who
wear glasses don’t see the frames in the corners of their vision. A wedding
ring ceases to be noticeable at all when you’ve been married twenty years. The
stereo you never use fades back into the wall.
Sebastian has forgotten the callouses left by years of gripping his rifle, but
when Jim’s smooth hands press against his, he remembers. Fear stops the haze of
bedroom thoughts like a snap, and he’s not alone in that. Jim’s already paused.
With his heart pressed against the back of his tongue Sebastian sees Jim push
his sunglasses up into his hair and pull Sebastian’s palm closer.
He bends over it, and there’s a fragility to the moment that Sebastian hates.
He hates the way Jim’s eyelashes flutter half closed in concentration, he hates
the way Jim is tracing his callouses with gentle fingertips, he hates the way
the pad of Jim’s thumb pauses over a scar on the outside of his index finger.
Most of all he hates the hollow fear in his chest and the little voice that’s
whispering, I wonder if I had calloused hands in your nightmare. Now that Jim
is looking Sebastian remembers all his blemishes with painful insecurity –
nicks on his fingers that filled with sand and healed wrong, scrapes over his
tendons that traced his hands in white where they’re not tanned from working in
the hot sun. His knuckles have gotten awkward and large from cracking them in
the mornings, fingernails sharply squared off according to military tradition.
Jim turns his hand over and back again, then wraps his slender fingers around
Sebastian’s wrist without another word and pulls him towards the bedroom.
“Have my hands passed inspection?” Sebastian asks, just inside the door. Jim
lets his wrist go and shoves him forwards, towards the bed.
“I’m learning,” he says.
I don’t want you to, Sebastian thinks, and I want us to not have changed. But
he’s beginning to wonder if there’s anything that’s the same.
He strips his t-shirt off over his head, drops it on the floor. Jim steps
forward, places his hands on Sebastian’s wrists, and slides them up Sebastian’s
arms. His palms are hot and dry and he is perfectly expressionless. Sebastian
can feel the pull of his skin every time Jim finds the tight lines of scars, a
reminder of the way the war has marked him.
Don’t let this change anything.
If you don’t want me now I don’t know what I’ll do.
“You know me already,” Sebastian tells him, with just a fluttering edge of
panic.
“You’re different now,” Jim replies, and Sebastian feels those fingers on his
scars like they’re stirring bleak horror into his heart.
“No,” Sebastian whispers, and he’s pleading.
Jim’s hands cup his face, gentle and sad, like he’s made of spun glass. Or
maybe like he’s already shattered, and Jim is trying to hold him together. “Oh,
you are,” he says, unwontedly soft. His thumb strokes along Sebastian’s
cheekbone, and he looks – he looks like he is mourning. “Look at your eyes.
Struggle and hardship, Tiger. Reaction conditioning. Pain... Longing…”
“Don’t forget death,” Sebastian tells him, bitter.
“I wouldn’t forget that.”
Sebastian grasps desperately at straws. “It was experience. I'll be capable of
working for you now.”
His voice, hard and flat to hide his panic, sounds a long way off from the
fragile school boy begging for a chance to not be alone. Jim’s hands leave his
face, slide palm flat down his bare chest.  He isn’t meeting Sebastian’s eyes.
“Jim,” Sebastian starts again, and that fluttering fear like butterfly wings is
edging closer in. It feels claustrophobic, and Sebastian’s hands are shaking as
he places them over Jims. “Don't look at me like that,” he tries, and his voice
is uneven. Jim bows his head and says nothing. “Don't look at me like I'm
already dead!”
“Aren't you though?” Jim shoots back, his voice quiet and expressionless. “Go
on, tell me that you aren’t all numb and broken. Poor Tiger.”
Sebastian’s grip goes tight on Jim’s hands. He knows he’s hurting him, but he
can’t bring himself to care.
How could you?
“I fought through. For you. I did whatever I had to do to come home alive and
in one piece and all of it, all of it was for you.” Jim doesn’t say anything.
His brows raise, mocking, and Sebastian snarls at him. “After all that, you
don't think I'm me.”
“Now, what did you want from me, Sebastian? I told you, and told you, you
shouldn't have gone. Maybe if you weren’t so stupid –“
Sebastian’s voice goes dark and deadly calm. “I went to war for you,” he says,
wanting the weight of guilt to settle back on Jim’s shoulders. “I dragged
myself through hell thinking about how we'd be when I got back. And my reward
is - this.” He gestures derisively, encompassing Jim, encompassing his steady
refusal to really look at Sebastian.
“Your reward is that I kept my promises.  I’m still here, you know. Don't
expect everything to be perfectand oh-so-honey-wonderfulas if you'd never
LEFT!”
Sebastian doesn’t appreciate the sudden jump in Jim’s voice the way he used to.
Before it was a reminder of Jim’s unpredictable perfection and now it’s a slap
in the face.
Manic, erratic, changeable Jim.
How could I think you’d wait for me?
For just a fleeting moment, Sebastian looks helpless and alone. His expression
is vulnerable in a way that it hasn’t been in years. He doesn’t realize, but he
looks eighteen again. Jim’s eyes widen. But it’s only a moment, and then
Sebastian’s jaw sets, and he’s the tanned soldier instead of the lost child.
“You kept your promises for an idealised version of me at eighteen and now that
I've come back older you no longer want me. Was your emotion that fragile?”
“When did I EVER say I didn't-“ He breaks off to glare. Sebastian wants
desperately for him to finish, but he doesn’t. Instead, he raises his chin and
steps a little closer, yanking his hands back angrily. “Never assume, Moran.
You’re not terribly good at guessing.”
Sebastian wonders how many times his heart can stop in the space of a day
before it becomes seriously unhealthy.
In the dream, in the dream –
I was neverMoran to you.
“Since when do you call me by my last name?”
“Since you piss me off!”
There’s a breathless pause. Jim looks like he’s sucking on sour candy. His face
twists, and Sebastian wonders what he wishes he could take back.
All of it.
Six years.
Meeting me?
They stare at each other in betrayed silence. Together, they could have been
anything. With Jim at his shoulder and the war in his trigger finger, Sebastian
could have been the second most dangerous man in London and lover to the first.
But they’re not shoulder to shoulder, now, not chest to chest, not locked in a
desperate embrace or tied together in sweetness. Now they’re facing each other
across six inches, five years. It feels like a mile. “Fine,” Sebastian says,
“Fine.” Without bothering to grab his t-shirt, he heads for the door.
He pauses once.
Just to grab his duffle.
“Where do you think you're going?” Jim asks, voice breaking. At the last, he is
weak. He sounds like something is strangling him, and maybe something is.
“I'm not your Sebastian anymore. You look at me, you see your stupid dream.
Moran. This house was a shared fantasy, and you shared it with a dead man.” He
walks out of the house the same way he’d walked to the war; calm, and steady,
and wounded.
Chapter End Notes
     Okay! /So./ Thank you so much for reading! Oh my god. I can't thank
     you enough. And just so you know, every /single/ comment and kudo
     means /so much/ to me and I didn't even think I could finish this
     until you people started responding. That's wonderful. Keep that up.
     First of all I want to direct you to /this/ - because if you're not
     crying yet, you will be - I_Will_Follow_You_Into_The_Dark_(MorMor
     Edition).
     Secondly, I need to give some thanks - both my lovely betas Cia and
     Mie, of course, but mostly Miescha,who gave voice to Jim far better
     than I ever could. Darling. This was wonderful. Thank you for
     everything.
     Thirdly, /THIS IS NOT THE END OF THIS STORY./
     Wait, what?
     Yes! Twist and Growl ends here because it makes narrative sense. But
     there is a second, and almost as long, fic coming for this version of
     Jim and Sebastian. The break is here because honestly I didn't want
     to write a longer fic at once.
     THANKS FOR READING THIS HUGE NOTES THING OKAY ILU LISTEN TO THE SONG
     THAT'S ALL I THINK OKAY THANKS AGAIN OMG OKAY WELL HERE'S A FLOWER
     YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL *PATS YOUR HEAD*
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