Fic: Recruiting
Title: Recruiting
Author: Jim_in_Westwood
Summary: Six years ago, Jim Moriarty was looking for applicants for head minion. Sebastian Moran was happy to apply.
Rating: R
Word Count: 6000
Warnings: Slash, Jim's bad language, James Joyce.
Pairings: Jim/ Sebastian
Disclaimer: The characters don’t belong to me, not a single one of them!
Author's note: Beta-ed and Brit-picked by the inestimable grassle . Also, this fits into my own twisted little world view of Jim Moriarty, started in "Jim from IT."
Sometimes I get a little contemplative. Yes, even me. I go through old texts, randomly Google online news from certain jobs of mine, and pull out puppy pictures of Truffle. Nostalgic, I suppose you would be forced to call it. It happens to the best of us. Frailty, thy name is Jim Moriarty.
Spring always makes me especially ridiculous. For example, just this evening I was sitting here on the sofa, licking the last of the mint chocolate ice cream off my spoon when I noticed that Sebastian had a bit of forgotten ice cream in his bowl. I held out my hand, not needing to say one single word, and he set the bowl in my hand without even looking away from his laptop screen. Such service! While I finished up his ice cream, I watched his profile. Somehow that bump that disrupts the smooth line of his nose made me remember how I met him in the first place.
I remember he was wearing one of the tightest shirts I’d ever seen on a supposedly straight man. That’s my first clear recollection of Sebastian Moran. Oh, wait, Colonel Sebastian Moran, as was made very clear to me when he was introduced. He was introduced in the sort of way one would snootily comment on one’s cologne when asked.
“Colonel Sebastian Moran, though I’m not sure if he’s allowed to really use that rank anymore.” The man snorted as he laughed, which is a trait I find particularly disgusting. I’m always nervous that the snort will turn into some sort of explosive nose thing, and if I’m standing right there…Well, these suits don’t just dry clean themselves!
This was six years ago, and I think I was wearing new shoes that I hadn’t intended to destroy in a dirty warehouse, but some criminal leaders seem to think that we all have to still meet up in places like sewers and back alleys as though we can’t rent hotel rooms. Should we all have heavy evil moustaches? Evil cackles that we practice facing mirrors? (Though, as a note, just because you don’t need to cultivate an evil laugh doesn’t mean you shouldn’t make sure you don’t have an annoying laugh that sounds like a goose honking, a girl sneezing, or a car engine backfiring. Oh, and don’t snort, either. Free tip.) So it smelled like shit, and I was about a half second from ordering one of my men down into the muck so I could stand on him and not risk the cuffs of my trousers.
“Glad to see you’ve got new muscle. You’re supposed to be paying me today, McGinty. I came in person because you’ve been so flighty the last few weeks.”
He laughed almost nervously. “Is that what your lads have been telling you?” I knew he was afraid of me but was determined not to be because of how much younger than him I was. “I hope you haven’t been getting the feeling that I wasn’t grateful?”
“I don’t care about your gratitude,” I said smoothly. That’s a cultivated tone; I visualize a hot knife through butter. It’s a little pornographic, oddly, but it gets the job done. I used to visualize a hot knife through flesh, but it changed the tone considerably. “I just want the money I was promised. You didn’t want to wire it, because you’re ‘old fashioned.’” I smiled, reaching over to tap his tiepin. “Cute.”
Moran’s eyes narrowed, and his muscles tensed. Hired muscles, tensing but not jumping to the big man’s defence. I raised my eyebrows at him. He raised his blond eyebrows back at me. Tall, I reflected. Cheeky.
“Don’t get cheeky,” fat little McGinty said, giggling nervously as he stepped back. He glanced up at Moran quickly as though wondering whether the big blond would really step in to save him. That told me lots.
“Don’t get my Irish up. I want my money.” I didn’t glance back at my own backup; I didn’t need to. There was nothing that would happen. The men McGinty could see were nothing compared to those who were hiding with their weapons trained on him. I’d promised bonuses, should it come to that, for the most creative wound. I smiled a bit, feeling a muscle in my cheek jump a bit. Running out of patience is a dangerous place for me.
“Look, Moriarty, I don’t have it yet! I’m waiting for a particular job…It’s taking longer than I thought it would!”
“The message you left for me didn’t mention that. Did it slip your mind? Should we have a look at your mind here on the cement?” I smiled again. He blanched but didn’t back up again. Moran’s arms tensed again, but he was looking a bit bored. It was the sort of expression that said ‘I’m standing here waiting to save your life, but jerking off would really fill the time more admirably.’
“No need for anything like that, Mr. Moriarty. Give me two days. On…what, Tuesday night, I’ll have your money.” He nodded eagerly. I was tempted to have someone shoot out his left knee. On the other hand, I was so very intrigued by Moran. Big, good looking, and so obviously bored. I could give him all manner of things to do. Every bad guy is always looking for new muscle. I happened to be in the market for good-looking muscle with some of accounting experience. Two out of three wasn’t bad. I could pick up a pocket-protecting accountant anywhere.
“Fine, you have until Tuesday night. I’ll meet you here, eleven on the dot.” I smiled. “A bit of déjà vu, and hopefully we’ll both leave in the condition we came in.” I looked over at Moran.
“It wasn’t the British army, was it, colonel?”
He looked surprised, but only for a second. He kept his face bland as I continued.
“Irish Republican Army. And you play cards…play to win, I expect.”
He laughed then, throwing back his head and exposing his throat without any fear.
“Everyone plays to win, acushla.” His exaggerated Belfast accent was so strong for a moment I almost felt myself blushing. That was uncomfortable and arousing.
“Indeed.” I looked at McGinty. “Tuesday. If I don’t have my money, it’ll be the worst Tuesday you’ve ever had. And remember that Tuesdays, on the whole, are dreadful days. Bad things always happen on Tuesdays. Free tip.” I gestured slightly and spun on my heel.
“See you Tuesday, fatty!” I called as I left, letting the heavy door slam behind me.
Monday night, I received an email, not from McGinty, but from the dashingly blond Moran.
Mr. Moriarty:
Mr. McGinty is feeling unwell and regrets he will not be able to see you tomorrow night as previously planned. Please respond with another time
and date.
Yours,
Seb. Moran
I could almost picture him, staring at the keys and willing the one he wanted to jump up and slap his fingertip rather than forcing him to hunt it down. The email was adorably brief. Granted, what else did he have to say? I read it all. He very well could be my Seb. Moran.
Dear Col. Moran:
Unfortunately I plan to be unwell at every time other than that upon which we’vealready agreed. Please inform Mr. Fatty that I expect to see him there at precisely 11, with a good deal of cash in his sweaty little hands.
Cheers,
J. M.
The answering email was lightning quick; I guessed that perhaps he wasn’t as bad at typing as I’d initially thought. Or he was making someone do it for him.
Dear Mr. Moriarty:
Mr. McGinty seems to be feeling much better. I’m quite pleased at the thought of
seeing your sweet arse. Oh, sorry. Mistyped. He’s quite pleased at the thought of a happy conclusion to your business. He’ll have the 35,000.
Yours,
Seb. Moran
I saved that email, just so you all know. When I feel a little low, I go and I read it. My response:
Dear Col. Moran:
Thank you for your most recent letter. However, being a bit clever at maths, I
realized I have a correction for you. I believe that the total sum was 70,000, of
which Mr. McGinty has paid me 15,000, leaving a difference of 55,000 to be paid
into my hands tomorrow night. You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, but all those sums
and fractions and things…well, I like them to be neat and tidy.
Cheers,
J.M.
Again, nearly immediate response. I stabbed a few pieces of pasta as I read. (It just popped into my head that I was eating some sort of cheese and pasta thing I’d concocted in a fit of boredom.)
Professor Moriarty:
My, but you are rather good at maths, aren’t you? Mr. McGinty is ever so pleased
you corrected my mistakes. I’m a sniper, and I know what I’m good at. Though
I’m always eager to improve myself. We will see you tomorrow with the
appropriate amount of cash. Take care.
Yours,
Seb. Moran
Embedded in the email was a little note. It didn’t take long to crack the code (one usually used for messages in the IRA, so it was rather obvious), and what did I suddenly have but Sebastian Moran’s phone number. Cheeky bastard had slipped me his number.
I called him the next morning right after my shower.
“I’m still naked, but I wanted to call you before you got too busy.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Moriarty. What can I do for you?” He was making no effort to hush his voice, so I knew he was alone.
“You play to win, hmm? Then I’m quite curious why you’re on the losing side.” I draped a towel over my wet head, walking to sit on my unmade bed. I like the blankets to be in one giant snarl, so I never let any room service touch my things.
“Networking, Mr. Moriarty. Somehow I seem to have gotten word McGinty was working with you.” Again, normal speaking voice. No attempt to be coy. I raised my eyebrows.
“You took a job with McGinty to get to meet me? I’m flattered. Shall I have you interview for a job?” I asked him, watching my own reflection in the window by the bed.
“I’m pretty sure I know what you need.” I could have touched myself with joy at that tone of voice. “Heard you were looking for a man who doesn’t miss. Also heard you were looking for a man to do your books. Funny enough, my maths aren’t as poor as you might have believed. Tell me what my salary looks like, and we’ll go from there.”
“Cocky, aren’t you? What makes you think you’re a good fit for my organization, Moran?”
“Well, boss, I don’t know about your organization, but I think I’m a good fit for you.”
The salary discussion went pretty well. I’d already done my research on him and knew I wanted him. I don’t necessarily collect assassins, but when they fling themselves directly into my path, it’s hard not to show a little mercy and take them on. Really, McGinty was paying him shit. I didn’t start him out in luxury, but I know that a man who likes guns needs a good allowance to play with. And the cash to buy those teensy little shirts he seemed to like to squeeze himself into. Should I deny him those simple pleasures? I’m a criminal, not a heartless bastard.
I dressed up for Tuesday night. I already knew exactly how it was going to go, and so I went with a dark blue suit and this stunning purple tie I was crazy in love with at the time. I honestly have no idea where it is now, which is a shame. It was this Robert Talbott seven fold that I never tired of. Well…obviously I did at some point. I should go and look for it. It was number 15 of 40.
Anyway, I arrived at 11:07, just enough time for McGinty to start to hope I wasn’t coming.
“Good evening, Mr. McGinty!” I called jovially as I carefully walked through the muck I’d abhorred a few days before. “Did I keep you waiting?” Pouty voice. Works wonders. His eyes were huge, the largest their little piggy lids would allow them.
“Mr. Moriarty,” he panted. Moran was a solid presence behind him, a pistol tucked into his belt rather casually. “I was starting to wonder -”
“If I was coming?” I laughed, shaking my head as I walked closer. I tucked my hands into my pockets. “Traffic is traffic, wherever you go.”
I made a big show of looking around.
“Well, it’s late. What do you say we get this taken care of so we can both get home and put our minions to bed?” I smiled, eyebrows raised. “It’s not like I don’t trust you. I’m not going to stand here and count it.”
Mr. McPiggy rooted through his pockets awkwardly.
“Now…Mr. Moriarty, I know there was a little mix-up. Sebastian was supposed to clear it up…”
“Oh, you mean where you were trying to cheat me out of 20k? I don’t think so. No trouble at all. I’ve already made up the difference.” I didn’t stop smiling for a moment.
“You…you have?” He blinked at me. His eyes were empty, the look of a man waiting to be fed an answer because not one single possibility occurred to him.
“As a matter of fact, it’s almost like getting paid twice.” I met Sebastian’s cold grey eyes. He smiled.
“I…what?” McGinty squinted at me.
Then Sebastian shot him in the head. I stood just outside the radius of nastiness, covering a yawn with my hand.
Sebastian fitted in rather quickly. I don’t trust easily, and he didn’t push me, but proved himself able to complete tasks, quickly took out any target assigned, and walk out of the shower in nothing but a short towel at appropriate moments. It was hard not to congratulate myself, so I gave in to temptation and did. You, Jim Moriarty, are a fucking genius. Why thank you, you’re too kind! Do you suppose, dearest Jim, that you could bounce a coin off that fit assassin’s arse? Why yes, yes I think I could!
He was easy to live with, and he became a bit of a personal guard. I had rotated them in the past, but he ended up a constant. True to his word, he could balance accounts as well as go and put the fear of God into those who weren’t paying up. He wouldn’t kill on Thursdays, which was an odd quirk, but it never interfered with my schedule, so I didn’t mind. He was also extremely keen on recycling. No idea how that fits in, but there you have it.
One of those shower mornings, I was sitting blearily on a sofa in my hotel room and taking sips of my tea every few minutes. The tea would have melted a cup with a lesser constitution. I seemed to forget this, and so was slowly killing my taste buds with fire. The night before had only ended a few hours ago, and the prospect of an early-morning phone meeting was physically painful.
Sebastian walked out of the shower at the perfect level of damp. A few stray drops rolling down his chest, dripping onto the back of his strong neck from his blond hair. The towel provided by the hotel was white and a bit coarse and was just barely doing its job as he held it up at his waist.
“Morning, boss.”
I looked over; he was no longer looking at me but out the window rather calculatingly. I looked at him for a moment.
“I hadn’t noticed your tattoo before,” I replied without regard for morning pleasantries. He glanced down at the mark on his upper right arm for a moment, a thick black circle with a black x creating four equal segments within.
“Ah…yeah, had that for quite a while now.”
I nodded, burning my tongue again.
“Bit of an X Men fan, then?” I snorted a little. He turned to look at me fully, blankly. A sort of realization dawned on him, and his expression seemed more the type he’d turn on me had he caught me with my trousers down around my knees and my hand wrapped around my cock while lounging against his grandmother’s headstone. Miscalculation, I reflected. Truth be told, he didn’t strike me as a comics fan. I sipped the tea and kept my mouth pursed into an amused smirk.
“Uh…no. It’s from ‘Ulysses.’ You know, Joyce? James Joyce?” He traced the circle and cross in the air as though I would suddenly be imbued with literary blessings. I nodded slowly.
“Ah…it’s also the ancient way of writing theta…you know, Greek maths. It’s the tensor product.” I shrugged, setting the tea down. He walked over, looking down at me. I could have reached out and grabbed his cock, right then. I didn’t. I also couldn’t feel my tongue.
“Tensor product?” he asked, raising one blond eyebrow.
I nodded, taking a deep breath. The man radiates heat like a furnace. I couldn’t feel my tongue, but I could feel the heat from his bare stomach on my face. It was an odd sensation. I almost leaned forward to bite him; there was just that sudden urge to feel his damp, clean skin between my teeth.
“Mmhmm,” I said, looking up to meet his eyes. I smiled slowly. “Representing the most basic bilinear operation.”
“The most basic?” he asked, smiling crookedly.
“Good thing Joyce knew all about monoidal categories.” I stood up, sliding against his body as I did. “Out of my way. I need to get dressed.”
I walked back into my bedroom, smiling to myself. Just as I closed the door, I could hear him say, “Yeah, boss…I love it when you talk dirty maths to me.”
I didn’t mention the tattoo again, though that doesn’t mean I didn’t watch his arms. Or his chest. Or how very callipygian he obviously was when he leaned over the car to give an order to someone. There was always something to look at.
He also never came home messy after any job. He wasn’t necessarily fit to present for dinner at a four-star restaurant, but I liked that his hands were clean when he told me how he’d shot a man through the eye. No splatter, nothing.
I could have fucked him at any time. It sort of hung in the air, like a really obscene soundtrack to everything we did in the same room. I didn’t though. I didn’t want him that close. I trusted him (otherwise I wouldn’t have hired him), and I wanted to know those thighs more intimately, but I hadn’t ever really tried his mettle, so to speak, and I had no trouble pacing myself. Those thighs weren’t going anywhere for a while.
I didn’t take him with me when I got a call about a fuck-up in one of my operations. Bigshot Anthony, a bloke I used to work with, had left an urgent voice mail while I was showering. He was one of three others who factored in as names in the underworld. I figured that within the next five years, I would be the only one left alive of us. As a matter of fact, I intended to be sure of it.
I headed out casually, taking Wilson with me, a big brute of a lad who’d been with me a few years and who I’d actually witnessed bite a man’s earlobe off and spit it at him. I figured he’d be fine to deal with any potential trouble, though I didn’t actually expect any. As we walked through the sitting room, I could hear the low rumblings of a talk show on the telly. I peered into the room, the blue glow of the screen illuminating Moran where he slept haphazardly on the sofa. His head was on a cushion, sort of near the centre of the sofa. One of his long legs was over the arm of the sofa, the other sort of hung off entirely, along with one of his arms. His fingers were curled slightly, hand palm-up where it lay on the carpet. The remote rested on his chest, abandoned. He was too big for the sofa in general, but I was rather charmed by his odd arrangement. His beloved Korth semiautomatic lay on his stomach; I could picture myself wrapping a hand around the grip with its SM engraved into the walnut and running the cold barrel down his abdomen. All in all, a very charming picture.
Did I neglect to mention that he wasn’t wearing any trousers?
Tragically, duty called, and with that really obnoxious high-pitched, whinging tone it so often uses. I walked out of the hotel, was immediately soaked through by the rain, and in twenty minutes was clear across town, attempting not to shiver. (Shivering will always be seen as a sign of weakness. Never shiver, even in Siberia, even in a meat locker, even when someone has trailed a riding crop up the inside of your bare left thigh. Free tip.) Wilson had driven as I’m not really that fond of it myself, and had seemed exceptionally dense about the address.
We walked in, me leading the way. The floor of the warehouse was, predictably, disgusting and slimy, because as I’ve said, most criminals forget that we don’t have to drag our knuckles in the underworld. I wrinkled my nose in the half light, turning my head to Wilson.
“Bloody cheek, this funny little man turning up late after his frantic insistence I get here right away.”
Wilson smiled, that slow stupid smile that showed the three upper teeth missing on the left side.
“Thanks for being here on time, Mr. Moriarty.” That was the last thing I heard because the great ape clubbed me in the head with his gun. I didn’t even have half a second to reflect on how my mind had been muddled by thinking about Sebastian Moran’s strong shoulders and tightly narrow waist and how that had walked me directly into a trap. Soaking wet. Which was ruining my silk tie. There was none of that poetic reflection. Mostly it was just a blast of red then fucking black.
Just a note here before anyone panics. Obviously I got away. Don’t get too worked up over it.
I woke up the way so many have woken up- pounding head, needing to piss, tied to a metal folding chair. Oh, right, try to make it seem like I’m the only one! I was alone in the room, which was, again extremely predictably, in a dank, dimly lit basement room that stank of mould and rotting cement. I was glad of the dark, frankly, because my head was pounding and I felt a bit like I’d throw up, given the right frame of mind.
Fucking Bigshot Anthony had poached Wilson right off me and was quite smug about it. Smug about how easy it is to punch an unarmed man in the gut and watch him wheeze. (Always talk about the shit being beaten out of yourself in the third person. Makes it easier to deal with. Another free tip.). Damnably cheerful about licking the blood off my bottom lip. Positively exuberant about the bit of ripping sound my 4000 quid suit made when he sliced it over my thigh.
Not quite so keen when I didn’t react except to get a bit of a hard-on. A little bit of playing rough makes it that much more fun. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me, or however that goes. He hadn’t expected that. Suppose he thought he’d scare me?
Blah, blah, then the talking started. Oh, he didn’t trust me. No one did, apparently. Oh, he would be the hero of London for taking me out. Oh, it was so easy to get Wilson to his side and set me up. Even that big IRA bloke was in on it. No one respected James Moriarty because no one really believes that a twentysomething in an expensive suit is all that smart or all that bad. I didn’t say anything, just sat there smiling a bit at him. One eye was sort of puffy and closed, and smiling with a split lip isn’t fun, but it served to shut him up. He left in a girly sort of huff, and I was alone in my glamorous cell once again.
Three fucking days. Bored. So bored. I’d resorted to rewriting the lyrics to ’90’s songs to relieve the boredom. The anger was below the boredom, just boiling impotently. The pain had also stopped being fun. My ribs hurt when I took a breath (which I do, every now and again), my head ached constantly, my left hand felt a bit crushed, as did my right ankle. Wilson really seemed to enjoy his work, I’ll say that for him. He hit harder when I smiled. He knew what that smile really meant. I don’t take being double-crossed lightly. One slip means death. Something like this? He was going to wish he’d died easily.
Anthony didn’t come by again until day three, when I finally asked him his plans. He laughed, shrugging uncomfortably.
“You don’t know what to do with me, do you?” I asked with a singsong inflection. “My, my…you’re afraid of someone. Is it me?”
He spat on the floor at my feet, missing my George Cleverley’s by just a bit. They were already a bit mucky about the soles, but I didn’t want his vile phlegm on those darling burgundy leather uppers.
“Afraid of you, you perverted little pikey! What should I be afraid of, with you tied up and pitiful? Wilson will probably break your arm next. I doubt that’ll get you off.”
“And when I get away?” I asked mildly. I hated the way my words were a little slurred. Take enough headshots and that’ll happen, even to the best of us.
“You will not be getting away!” Anthony spat, face suddenly purple and swollen with rage. I leant forward, smiling and raising my eyebrows. I could feel the left one not really responding, so I’m sure the expression was particularly ghoulish. Sometimes we are blessed in life by not having a mirror nearby.
“Then kill me, you silly cunt,” I said sweetly. “Are you hoping I’ll just wither away? I’m a spiteful creature. I don’t die easily. And judging by the look on your face, you’ll even feed me soon.” Truth be told, I was feeling rather peckish and light-headed. I like to at least have breakfast, you know? I at least need to have sucked someone off in the morning. Just something in my stomach!
“Oh, I will kill you, Moriarty.” He worked his mouth as though chewing up his next sentence. “I…will kill you.”
I laughed, shaking my head.
“You don’t have any idea what you should be doing with me. Leave me alive, and I will eventually get away. Surprise, you’re dead! Kill me, and then my lads will find out. And you’re dead. You’ve really backed yourself into a corner, my dear.”
He hit me himself, that time, finally angry enough. I enjoyed it, working him up to that point, even as my vision swam.
“Little bastard,” he hissed through clenched teeth. I smiled back at him, eyes half open.
“Dead man walking,” I whispered. Wilson jammed his gun against the back of my neck. My smile spread like an infection. “Mm, Wilson…do you hear your clock ticking?”
Granted, I was rather put out that no one had found me by this time. Three days? What the hell sort of minion corps doesn’t rush in with guns a-blazing after three days? Obviously, I didn’t let them know that. Seeing them sweat and worry, knowing that their stomachs churned at night-that was worth every bruise. I just had to keep smiling.
I must admit I don’t remember the next two days very clearly. There was something in the water, and Wilson seemed to find hitting me in the back of the head exceptionally humorous.
I had weird dreams, I remember that. There was this one about a flock of small sheep that were out in a field, and I was walking and trying not to step on them. They were making creepy guinea pig sounds, and the idea of any of them squashed on the sole of my shoe was really turning my stomach. I stepped carefully, but they ran with suicidal single-mindedness. Finally, one of them looked up at me, with a sort of good-natured annoyance. It spoke, obviously. Because animals do that in dreams.
“Boss?”
I opened my eyes blearily, and that son of a bitch Sebastian Moran was about three inches from my face.
“You breathing, boss?” His voice was quiet and hurried. I bared my teeth at him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I grated out. I hadn’t ever thought, as Anthony wanted me to, that Moran had been in on it. I’m not that stupid. But I was annoyed that I paid him that ENORMOUS SALARY and it had taken him FIVE DAYS TO FUCKING FIND ME. He laughed under his breath and brushed his thumb against my dry lips.
“Yeah, you’ll live.”
I bit his finger with all the strength I had. He didn’t blink the entire time, cool grey, vaguely amused, with a bit of the killer lurking just around the rims of the irises.
“Oi!” Wilson banged the door open, and Moran was standing, facing him, gun out, and had shot him with mathematical precision between the eyes. Suppressor wasn’t exactly going to keep the rest of them from being alerted. I slumped back in the uncomfortable chair (my arse felt completely flattened), feeling darkness sort of encroaching again. Blows to the head are not fun. It’s not a free tip; it’s a fact of life. Sebastian busied himself untying me, which I limply let him do, until he got to my right ankle.
“Ah! Fuck you, Moran! Gently! Gently!” My eyes were open and seeing swirling stars. Magical, absolutely magical. He grunted eloquently.
“Suppose you can’t run on that, then,” he said mostly to himself. “How many are there?” I answered with my eyes closed.
“Twenty, plus Bigshot Anthony. Maybe twenty-one, as one lad comes and goes. Think he’s Anthony’s nephew or something.” I could almost hear him nodding.
“Fine. I’ll take care of that, then, make it easier to leave without a hurry. Don’t want to rush you.”
When I opened my eyes, he was kneeling in front of me again and pressing something into my hand. I suppose it was sweet and meaningful, but my head was fucked. It hadn’t quite registered that the bloody fool anticipated taking out twenty-one men in the next ten minutes.
“See this, boss? That’s my ring. I promise I’ll be back for you. You just sit tight, yeah?”
Ha-ha, where the fuck would I go? I raised my eyebrows slowly, feeling bruised and bloody and weary and ready to go home. He nodded and walked out. Doesn’t waste words, Colonel Moran.
At the sound of the first gunshot, I looked down at the ring. He’d seriously left his ring with me. Honestly? It felt like I was in some pulp novel. I didn’t like the feel of it, the whole thing. Having to be rescued, being at someone else’s mercy, feeling the dried blood on the back of my neck. Never again, I vowed. Hands off completely, going forward, get the memo. And Sebastian Moran? I tended to treat my minions as though they were universally idiotic, and it’s true they weren’t precisely MENSA quality. But a minion who could be more than a minion could not be stupid. Some criminals like to be surrounded by big burly morons, enjoying the sense of superiority and unquestioning obedience. But a stupid person will always do stupid things. And if you want to be in the center of a ring of cretins with handguns, that’s your funeral. I am too bloody brilliant to have Neanderthal underlings. Moran was clearly not a stupid man. He had sought me out, and I had not been displeased for a moment that he had. I held the ring on my index finger, spinning it with my thumb. Squishy moments really aren’t my forte, and they’re certainly not my style. Remember, though, I had suffered head trauma. Any weepy, romantic-sounding musings were the result of a gun and a fist or three applied liberally to my cranium.
The ring was a thick silver band, with a stylized Celtic lion leading streamers of lines all cavorting with one another. Gaudy, sentimentalized Irish culture. Why did he wear the lion? Brian Boru? Was he big into mythology? The man read Joyce, for Christ’s sake! So what the hell was he doing here in general? Research only tells a man so much; there comes a point when files and records fail to reveal a man’s soul. Why was he shooting rival criminals for Jim Moriarty? The ring was too big on my finger, but I left it there anyway. Then promptly blacked out again. When you’re in that sort of state, even the crazed melee outside your cell door can’t keep you awake. And it’s a relief to get away from the idiotic musings.
I woke up to panicked hands on either side of my face, then one moving down to my limp wrist.
“Fuck you, Jim Moriarty, if you died while you were waiting!”
“Good morning to you too, baby doll,” I murmured hoarsely, opening my eyes. “Stop assuming I’m dead.”
He looked at me with wide eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was startled or pleased or annoyed.
The answer was D, none of the above.
He grabbed me by the back of the neck, not mindful of blood, bruises, or personal space, and kissed me with something akin to violence. It was extremely hot. I pulled back, breathless and light-headed. From what? Well, who could say precisely? It had been that kind of week. We didn’t say anything, though; there was none of that stupid throat clearing or blushing. Just two men, covered in blood, staring at each another in insane lust. Again, that kind of week. I sighed and closed my eyes.
“Fuck, Moran…take me home.”
Two hours later I was clean, fed, bandaged, medicated, lying on my sofa with clean socks on my feet. And clean, fed, smug Sebastian Moran sat with my feet in his lap, ridiculous ring on his finger, plaster rather stylishly arranged across his nose to cover his one cut from taking out nearly two-dozen men. He was rubbing my feet, and had I the energy, I would have come. Oh, God, his hands were strong! Still are, really. He was so gentle with the twisted right foot and vicious with his thumbs in the bottom of the left. The closest to heaven you can come without shagging. At that point, I decided I would really keep him.
Good thing I did.
He’s been rubbing my feet the whole time I’ve been writing this. Go on…pretend you’re not jealous. I’ll just sit here and sip this Midori sour (I felt like drinking something green tonight) and enjoy being me. P.S. In case you were wondering, the fucking came later. Lots and lots of it. (I would have loved to enjoy a pleasant rescue fuck at the time but I ached, was blitzed out of my mind on painkillers, and Moran seemed to think that this constituted “taking advantage of me.”) As a matter of fact, I think that once this drink is gone, I’ll go indulge myself in a little bit of nostalgic bedroom time. What better than to contemplate the very first time he made me scream? Xxxxxx
Author: Jim_in_Westwood
Summary: Six years ago, Jim Moriarty was looking for applicants for head minion. Sebastian Moran was happy to apply.
Rating: R
Word Count: 6000
Warnings: Slash, Jim's bad language, James Joyce.
Pairings: Jim/ Sebastian
Disclaimer: The characters don’t belong to me, not a single one of them!
Author's note: Beta-ed and Brit-picked by the inestimable grassle . Also, this fits into my own twisted little world view of Jim Moriarty, started in "Jim from IT."
Sometimes I get a little contemplative. Yes, even me. I go through old texts, randomly Google online news from certain jobs of mine, and pull out puppy pictures of Truffle. Nostalgic, I suppose you would be forced to call it. It happens to the best of us. Frailty, thy name is Jim Moriarty.
Spring always makes me especially ridiculous. For example, just this evening I was sitting here on the sofa, licking the last of the mint chocolate ice cream off my spoon when I noticed that Sebastian had a bit of forgotten ice cream in his bowl. I held out my hand, not needing to say one single word, and he set the bowl in my hand without even looking away from his laptop screen. Such service! While I finished up his ice cream, I watched his profile. Somehow that bump that disrupts the smooth line of his nose made me remember how I met him in the first place.
I remember he was wearing one of the tightest shirts I’d ever seen on a supposedly straight man. That’s my first clear recollection of Sebastian Moran. Oh, wait, Colonel Sebastian Moran, as was made very clear to me when he was introduced. He was introduced in the sort of way one would snootily comment on one’s cologne when asked.
“Colonel Sebastian Moran, though I’m not sure if he’s allowed to really use that rank anymore.” The man snorted as he laughed, which is a trait I find particularly disgusting. I’m always nervous that the snort will turn into some sort of explosive nose thing, and if I’m standing right there…Well, these suits don’t just dry clean themselves!
This was six years ago, and I think I was wearing new shoes that I hadn’t intended to destroy in a dirty warehouse, but some criminal leaders seem to think that we all have to still meet up in places like sewers and back alleys as though we can’t rent hotel rooms. Should we all have heavy evil moustaches? Evil cackles that we practice facing mirrors? (Though, as a note, just because you don’t need to cultivate an evil laugh doesn’t mean you shouldn’t make sure you don’t have an annoying laugh that sounds like a goose honking, a girl sneezing, or a car engine backfiring. Oh, and don’t snort, either. Free tip.) So it smelled like shit, and I was about a half second from ordering one of my men down into the muck so I could stand on him and not risk the cuffs of my trousers.
“Glad to see you’ve got new muscle. You’re supposed to be paying me today, McGinty. I came in person because you’ve been so flighty the last few weeks.”
He laughed almost nervously. “Is that what your lads have been telling you?” I knew he was afraid of me but was determined not to be because of how much younger than him I was. “I hope you haven’t been getting the feeling that I wasn’t grateful?”
“I don’t care about your gratitude,” I said smoothly. That’s a cultivated tone; I visualize a hot knife through butter. It’s a little pornographic, oddly, but it gets the job done. I used to visualize a hot knife through flesh, but it changed the tone considerably. “I just want the money I was promised. You didn’t want to wire it, because you’re ‘old fashioned.’” I smiled, reaching over to tap his tiepin. “Cute.”
Moran’s eyes narrowed, and his muscles tensed. Hired muscles, tensing but not jumping to the big man’s defence. I raised my eyebrows at him. He raised his blond eyebrows back at me. Tall, I reflected. Cheeky.
“Don’t get cheeky,” fat little McGinty said, giggling nervously as he stepped back. He glanced up at Moran quickly as though wondering whether the big blond would really step in to save him. That told me lots.
“Don’t get my Irish up. I want my money.” I didn’t glance back at my own backup; I didn’t need to. There was nothing that would happen. The men McGinty could see were nothing compared to those who were hiding with their weapons trained on him. I’d promised bonuses, should it come to that, for the most creative wound. I smiled a bit, feeling a muscle in my cheek jump a bit. Running out of patience is a dangerous place for me.
“Look, Moriarty, I don’t have it yet! I’m waiting for a particular job…It’s taking longer than I thought it would!”
“The message you left for me didn’t mention that. Did it slip your mind? Should we have a look at your mind here on the cement?” I smiled again. He blanched but didn’t back up again. Moran’s arms tensed again, but he was looking a bit bored. It was the sort of expression that said ‘I’m standing here waiting to save your life, but jerking off would really fill the time more admirably.’
“No need for anything like that, Mr. Moriarty. Give me two days. On…what, Tuesday night, I’ll have your money.” He nodded eagerly. I was tempted to have someone shoot out his left knee. On the other hand, I was so very intrigued by Moran. Big, good looking, and so obviously bored. I could give him all manner of things to do. Every bad guy is always looking for new muscle. I happened to be in the market for good-looking muscle with some of accounting experience. Two out of three wasn’t bad. I could pick up a pocket-protecting accountant anywhere.
“Fine, you have until Tuesday night. I’ll meet you here, eleven on the dot.” I smiled. “A bit of déjà vu, and hopefully we’ll both leave in the condition we came in.” I looked over at Moran.
“It wasn’t the British army, was it, colonel?”
He looked surprised, but only for a second. He kept his face bland as I continued.
“Irish Republican Army. And you play cards…play to win, I expect.”
He laughed then, throwing back his head and exposing his throat without any fear.
“Everyone plays to win, acushla.” His exaggerated Belfast accent was so strong for a moment I almost felt myself blushing. That was uncomfortable and arousing.
“Indeed.” I looked at McGinty. “Tuesday. If I don’t have my money, it’ll be the worst Tuesday you’ve ever had. And remember that Tuesdays, on the whole, are dreadful days. Bad things always happen on Tuesdays. Free tip.” I gestured slightly and spun on my heel.
“See you Tuesday, fatty!” I called as I left, letting the heavy door slam behind me.
Monday night, I received an email, not from McGinty, but from the dashingly blond Moran.
Mr. Moriarty:
Mr. McGinty is feeling unwell and regrets he will not be able to see you tomorrow night as previously planned. Please respond with another time
and date.
Yours,
Seb. Moran
I could almost picture him, staring at the keys and willing the one he wanted to jump up and slap his fingertip rather than forcing him to hunt it down. The email was adorably brief. Granted, what else did he have to say? I read it all. He very well could be my Seb. Moran.
Dear Col. Moran:
Unfortunately I plan to be unwell at every time other than that upon which we’vealready agreed. Please inform Mr. Fatty that I expect to see him there at precisely 11, with a good deal of cash in his sweaty little hands.
Cheers,
J. M.
The answering email was lightning quick; I guessed that perhaps he wasn’t as bad at typing as I’d initially thought. Or he was making someone do it for him.
Dear Mr. Moriarty:
Mr. McGinty seems to be feeling much better. I’m quite pleased at the thought of
seeing your sweet arse. Oh, sorry. Mistyped. He’s quite pleased at the thought of a happy conclusion to your business. He’ll have the 35,000.
Yours,
Seb. Moran
I saved that email, just so you all know. When I feel a little low, I go and I read it. My response:
Dear Col. Moran:
Thank you for your most recent letter. However, being a bit clever at maths, I
realized I have a correction for you. I believe that the total sum was 70,000, of
which Mr. McGinty has paid me 15,000, leaving a difference of 55,000 to be paid
into my hands tomorrow night. You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, but all those sums
and fractions and things…well, I like them to be neat and tidy.
Cheers,
J.M.
Again, nearly immediate response. I stabbed a few pieces of pasta as I read. (It just popped into my head that I was eating some sort of cheese and pasta thing I’d concocted in a fit of boredom.)
Professor Moriarty:
My, but you are rather good at maths, aren’t you? Mr. McGinty is ever so pleased
you corrected my mistakes. I’m a sniper, and I know what I’m good at. Though
I’m always eager to improve myself. We will see you tomorrow with the
appropriate amount of cash. Take care.
Yours,
Seb. Moran
Embedded in the email was a little note. It didn’t take long to crack the code (one usually used for messages in the IRA, so it was rather obvious), and what did I suddenly have but Sebastian Moran’s phone number. Cheeky bastard had slipped me his number.
I called him the next morning right after my shower.
“I’m still naked, but I wanted to call you before you got too busy.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Moriarty. What can I do for you?” He was making no effort to hush his voice, so I knew he was alone.
“You play to win, hmm? Then I’m quite curious why you’re on the losing side.” I draped a towel over my wet head, walking to sit on my unmade bed. I like the blankets to be in one giant snarl, so I never let any room service touch my things.
“Networking, Mr. Moriarty. Somehow I seem to have gotten word McGinty was working with you.” Again, normal speaking voice. No attempt to be coy. I raised my eyebrows.
“You took a job with McGinty to get to meet me? I’m flattered. Shall I have you interview for a job?” I asked him, watching my own reflection in the window by the bed.
“I’m pretty sure I know what you need.” I could have touched myself with joy at that tone of voice. “Heard you were looking for a man who doesn’t miss. Also heard you were looking for a man to do your books. Funny enough, my maths aren’t as poor as you might have believed. Tell me what my salary looks like, and we’ll go from there.”
“Cocky, aren’t you? What makes you think you’re a good fit for my organization, Moran?”
“Well, boss, I don’t know about your organization, but I think I’m a good fit for you.”
The salary discussion went pretty well. I’d already done my research on him and knew I wanted him. I don’t necessarily collect assassins, but when they fling themselves directly into my path, it’s hard not to show a little mercy and take them on. Really, McGinty was paying him shit. I didn’t start him out in luxury, but I know that a man who likes guns needs a good allowance to play with. And the cash to buy those teensy little shirts he seemed to like to squeeze himself into. Should I deny him those simple pleasures? I’m a criminal, not a heartless bastard.
I dressed up for Tuesday night. I already knew exactly how it was going to go, and so I went with a dark blue suit and this stunning purple tie I was crazy in love with at the time. I honestly have no idea where it is now, which is a shame. It was this Robert Talbott seven fold that I never tired of. Well…obviously I did at some point. I should go and look for it. It was number 15 of 40.
Anyway, I arrived at 11:07, just enough time for McGinty to start to hope I wasn’t coming.
“Good evening, Mr. McGinty!” I called jovially as I carefully walked through the muck I’d abhorred a few days before. “Did I keep you waiting?” Pouty voice. Works wonders. His eyes were huge, the largest their little piggy lids would allow them.
“Mr. Moriarty,” he panted. Moran was a solid presence behind him, a pistol tucked into his belt rather casually. “I was starting to wonder -”
“If I was coming?” I laughed, shaking my head as I walked closer. I tucked my hands into my pockets. “Traffic is traffic, wherever you go.”
I made a big show of looking around.
“Well, it’s late. What do you say we get this taken care of so we can both get home and put our minions to bed?” I smiled, eyebrows raised. “It’s not like I don’t trust you. I’m not going to stand here and count it.”
Mr. McPiggy rooted through his pockets awkwardly.
“Now…Mr. Moriarty, I know there was a little mix-up. Sebastian was supposed to clear it up…”
“Oh, you mean where you were trying to cheat me out of 20k? I don’t think so. No trouble at all. I’ve already made up the difference.” I didn’t stop smiling for a moment.
“You…you have?” He blinked at me. His eyes were empty, the look of a man waiting to be fed an answer because not one single possibility occurred to him.
“As a matter of fact, it’s almost like getting paid twice.” I met Sebastian’s cold grey eyes. He smiled.
“I…what?” McGinty squinted at me.
Then Sebastian shot him in the head. I stood just outside the radius of nastiness, covering a yawn with my hand.
Sebastian fitted in rather quickly. I don’t trust easily, and he didn’t push me, but proved himself able to complete tasks, quickly took out any target assigned, and walk out of the shower in nothing but a short towel at appropriate moments. It was hard not to congratulate myself, so I gave in to temptation and did. You, Jim Moriarty, are a fucking genius. Why thank you, you’re too kind! Do you suppose, dearest Jim, that you could bounce a coin off that fit assassin’s arse? Why yes, yes I think I could!
He was easy to live with, and he became a bit of a personal guard. I had rotated them in the past, but he ended up a constant. True to his word, he could balance accounts as well as go and put the fear of God into those who weren’t paying up. He wouldn’t kill on Thursdays, which was an odd quirk, but it never interfered with my schedule, so I didn’t mind. He was also extremely keen on recycling. No idea how that fits in, but there you have it.
One of those shower mornings, I was sitting blearily on a sofa in my hotel room and taking sips of my tea every few minutes. The tea would have melted a cup with a lesser constitution. I seemed to forget this, and so was slowly killing my taste buds with fire. The night before had only ended a few hours ago, and the prospect of an early-morning phone meeting was physically painful.
Sebastian walked out of the shower at the perfect level of damp. A few stray drops rolling down his chest, dripping onto the back of his strong neck from his blond hair. The towel provided by the hotel was white and a bit coarse and was just barely doing its job as he held it up at his waist.
“Morning, boss.”
I looked over; he was no longer looking at me but out the window rather calculatingly. I looked at him for a moment.
“I hadn’t noticed your tattoo before,” I replied without regard for morning pleasantries. He glanced down at the mark on his upper right arm for a moment, a thick black circle with a black x creating four equal segments within.
“Ah…yeah, had that for quite a while now.”
I nodded, burning my tongue again.
“Bit of an X Men fan, then?” I snorted a little. He turned to look at me fully, blankly. A sort of realization dawned on him, and his expression seemed more the type he’d turn on me had he caught me with my trousers down around my knees and my hand wrapped around my cock while lounging against his grandmother’s headstone. Miscalculation, I reflected. Truth be told, he didn’t strike me as a comics fan. I sipped the tea and kept my mouth pursed into an amused smirk.
“Uh…no. It’s from ‘Ulysses.’ You know, Joyce? James Joyce?” He traced the circle and cross in the air as though I would suddenly be imbued with literary blessings. I nodded slowly.
“Ah…it’s also the ancient way of writing theta…you know, Greek maths. It’s the tensor product.” I shrugged, setting the tea down. He walked over, looking down at me. I could have reached out and grabbed his cock, right then. I didn’t. I also couldn’t feel my tongue.
“Tensor product?” he asked, raising one blond eyebrow.
I nodded, taking a deep breath. The man radiates heat like a furnace. I couldn’t feel my tongue, but I could feel the heat from his bare stomach on my face. It was an odd sensation. I almost leaned forward to bite him; there was just that sudden urge to feel his damp, clean skin between my teeth.
“Mmhmm,” I said, looking up to meet his eyes. I smiled slowly. “Representing the most basic bilinear operation.”
“The most basic?” he asked, smiling crookedly.
“Good thing Joyce knew all about monoidal categories.” I stood up, sliding against his body as I did. “Out of my way. I need to get dressed.”
I walked back into my bedroom, smiling to myself. Just as I closed the door, I could hear him say, “Yeah, boss…I love it when you talk dirty maths to me.”
I didn’t mention the tattoo again, though that doesn’t mean I didn’t watch his arms. Or his chest. Or how very callipygian he obviously was when he leaned over the car to give an order to someone. There was always something to look at.
He also never came home messy after any job. He wasn’t necessarily fit to present for dinner at a four-star restaurant, but I liked that his hands were clean when he told me how he’d shot a man through the eye. No splatter, nothing.
I could have fucked him at any time. It sort of hung in the air, like a really obscene soundtrack to everything we did in the same room. I didn’t though. I didn’t want him that close. I trusted him (otherwise I wouldn’t have hired him), and I wanted to know those thighs more intimately, but I hadn’t ever really tried his mettle, so to speak, and I had no trouble pacing myself. Those thighs weren’t going anywhere for a while.
I didn’t take him with me when I got a call about a fuck-up in one of my operations. Bigshot Anthony, a bloke I used to work with, had left an urgent voice mail while I was showering. He was one of three others who factored in as names in the underworld. I figured that within the next five years, I would be the only one left alive of us. As a matter of fact, I intended to be sure of it.
I headed out casually, taking Wilson with me, a big brute of a lad who’d been with me a few years and who I’d actually witnessed bite a man’s earlobe off and spit it at him. I figured he’d be fine to deal with any potential trouble, though I didn’t actually expect any. As we walked through the sitting room, I could hear the low rumblings of a talk show on the telly. I peered into the room, the blue glow of the screen illuminating Moran where he slept haphazardly on the sofa. His head was on a cushion, sort of near the centre of the sofa. One of his long legs was over the arm of the sofa, the other sort of hung off entirely, along with one of his arms. His fingers were curled slightly, hand palm-up where it lay on the carpet. The remote rested on his chest, abandoned. He was too big for the sofa in general, but I was rather charmed by his odd arrangement. His beloved Korth semiautomatic lay on his stomach; I could picture myself wrapping a hand around the grip with its SM engraved into the walnut and running the cold barrel down his abdomen. All in all, a very charming picture.
Did I neglect to mention that he wasn’t wearing any trousers?
Tragically, duty called, and with that really obnoxious high-pitched, whinging tone it so often uses. I walked out of the hotel, was immediately soaked through by the rain, and in twenty minutes was clear across town, attempting not to shiver. (Shivering will always be seen as a sign of weakness. Never shiver, even in Siberia, even in a meat locker, even when someone has trailed a riding crop up the inside of your bare left thigh. Free tip.) Wilson had driven as I’m not really that fond of it myself, and had seemed exceptionally dense about the address.
We walked in, me leading the way. The floor of the warehouse was, predictably, disgusting and slimy, because as I’ve said, most criminals forget that we don’t have to drag our knuckles in the underworld. I wrinkled my nose in the half light, turning my head to Wilson.
“Bloody cheek, this funny little man turning up late after his frantic insistence I get here right away.”
Wilson smiled, that slow stupid smile that showed the three upper teeth missing on the left side.
“Thanks for being here on time, Mr. Moriarty.” That was the last thing I heard because the great ape clubbed me in the head with his gun. I didn’t even have half a second to reflect on how my mind had been muddled by thinking about Sebastian Moran’s strong shoulders and tightly narrow waist and how that had walked me directly into a trap. Soaking wet. Which was ruining my silk tie. There was none of that poetic reflection. Mostly it was just a blast of red then fucking black.
Just a note here before anyone panics. Obviously I got away. Don’t get too worked up over it.
I woke up the way so many have woken up- pounding head, needing to piss, tied to a metal folding chair. Oh, right, try to make it seem like I’m the only one! I was alone in the room, which was, again extremely predictably, in a dank, dimly lit basement room that stank of mould and rotting cement. I was glad of the dark, frankly, because my head was pounding and I felt a bit like I’d throw up, given the right frame of mind.
Fucking Bigshot Anthony had poached Wilson right off me and was quite smug about it. Smug about how easy it is to punch an unarmed man in the gut and watch him wheeze. (Always talk about the shit being beaten out of yourself in the third person. Makes it easier to deal with. Another free tip.). Damnably cheerful about licking the blood off my bottom lip. Positively exuberant about the bit of ripping sound my 4000 quid suit made when he sliced it over my thigh.
Not quite so keen when I didn’t react except to get a bit of a hard-on. A little bit of playing rough makes it that much more fun. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me, or however that goes. He hadn’t expected that. Suppose he thought he’d scare me?
Blah, blah, then the talking started. Oh, he didn’t trust me. No one did, apparently. Oh, he would be the hero of London for taking me out. Oh, it was so easy to get Wilson to his side and set me up. Even that big IRA bloke was in on it. No one respected James Moriarty because no one really believes that a twentysomething in an expensive suit is all that smart or all that bad. I didn’t say anything, just sat there smiling a bit at him. One eye was sort of puffy and closed, and smiling with a split lip isn’t fun, but it served to shut him up. He left in a girly sort of huff, and I was alone in my glamorous cell once again.
Three fucking days. Bored. So bored. I’d resorted to rewriting the lyrics to ’90’s songs to relieve the boredom. The anger was below the boredom, just boiling impotently. The pain had also stopped being fun. My ribs hurt when I took a breath (which I do, every now and again), my head ached constantly, my left hand felt a bit crushed, as did my right ankle. Wilson really seemed to enjoy his work, I’ll say that for him. He hit harder when I smiled. He knew what that smile really meant. I don’t take being double-crossed lightly. One slip means death. Something like this? He was going to wish he’d died easily.
Anthony didn’t come by again until day three, when I finally asked him his plans. He laughed, shrugging uncomfortably.
“You don’t know what to do with me, do you?” I asked with a singsong inflection. “My, my…you’re afraid of someone. Is it me?”
He spat on the floor at my feet, missing my George Cleverley’s by just a bit. They were already a bit mucky about the soles, but I didn’t want his vile phlegm on those darling burgundy leather uppers.
“Afraid of you, you perverted little pikey! What should I be afraid of, with you tied up and pitiful? Wilson will probably break your arm next. I doubt that’ll get you off.”
“And when I get away?” I asked mildly. I hated the way my words were a little slurred. Take enough headshots and that’ll happen, even to the best of us.
“You will not be getting away!” Anthony spat, face suddenly purple and swollen with rage. I leant forward, smiling and raising my eyebrows. I could feel the left one not really responding, so I’m sure the expression was particularly ghoulish. Sometimes we are blessed in life by not having a mirror nearby.
“Then kill me, you silly cunt,” I said sweetly. “Are you hoping I’ll just wither away? I’m a spiteful creature. I don’t die easily. And judging by the look on your face, you’ll even feed me soon.” Truth be told, I was feeling rather peckish and light-headed. I like to at least have breakfast, you know? I at least need to have sucked someone off in the morning. Just something in my stomach!
“Oh, I will kill you, Moriarty.” He worked his mouth as though chewing up his next sentence. “I…will kill you.”
I laughed, shaking my head.
“You don’t have any idea what you should be doing with me. Leave me alive, and I will eventually get away. Surprise, you’re dead! Kill me, and then my lads will find out. And you’re dead. You’ve really backed yourself into a corner, my dear.”
He hit me himself, that time, finally angry enough. I enjoyed it, working him up to that point, even as my vision swam.
“Little bastard,” he hissed through clenched teeth. I smiled back at him, eyes half open.
“Dead man walking,” I whispered. Wilson jammed his gun against the back of my neck. My smile spread like an infection. “Mm, Wilson…do you hear your clock ticking?”
Granted, I was rather put out that no one had found me by this time. Three days? What the hell sort of minion corps doesn’t rush in with guns a-blazing after three days? Obviously, I didn’t let them know that. Seeing them sweat and worry, knowing that their stomachs churned at night-that was worth every bruise. I just had to keep smiling.
I must admit I don’t remember the next two days very clearly. There was something in the water, and Wilson seemed to find hitting me in the back of the head exceptionally humorous.
I had weird dreams, I remember that. There was this one about a flock of small sheep that were out in a field, and I was walking and trying not to step on them. They were making creepy guinea pig sounds, and the idea of any of them squashed on the sole of my shoe was really turning my stomach. I stepped carefully, but they ran with suicidal single-mindedness. Finally, one of them looked up at me, with a sort of good-natured annoyance. It spoke, obviously. Because animals do that in dreams.
“Boss?”
I opened my eyes blearily, and that son of a bitch Sebastian Moran was about three inches from my face.
“You breathing, boss?” His voice was quiet and hurried. I bared my teeth at him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I grated out. I hadn’t ever thought, as Anthony wanted me to, that Moran had been in on it. I’m not that stupid. But I was annoyed that I paid him that ENORMOUS SALARY and it had taken him FIVE DAYS TO FUCKING FIND ME. He laughed under his breath and brushed his thumb against my dry lips.
“Yeah, you’ll live.”
I bit his finger with all the strength I had. He didn’t blink the entire time, cool grey, vaguely amused, with a bit of the killer lurking just around the rims of the irises.
“Oi!” Wilson banged the door open, and Moran was standing, facing him, gun out, and had shot him with mathematical precision between the eyes. Suppressor wasn’t exactly going to keep the rest of them from being alerted. I slumped back in the uncomfortable chair (my arse felt completely flattened), feeling darkness sort of encroaching again. Blows to the head are not fun. It’s not a free tip; it’s a fact of life. Sebastian busied himself untying me, which I limply let him do, until he got to my right ankle.
“Ah! Fuck you, Moran! Gently! Gently!” My eyes were open and seeing swirling stars. Magical, absolutely magical. He grunted eloquently.
“Suppose you can’t run on that, then,” he said mostly to himself. “How many are there?” I answered with my eyes closed.
“Twenty, plus Bigshot Anthony. Maybe twenty-one, as one lad comes and goes. Think he’s Anthony’s nephew or something.” I could almost hear him nodding.
“Fine. I’ll take care of that, then, make it easier to leave without a hurry. Don’t want to rush you.”
When I opened my eyes, he was kneeling in front of me again and pressing something into my hand. I suppose it was sweet and meaningful, but my head was fucked. It hadn’t quite registered that the bloody fool anticipated taking out twenty-one men in the next ten minutes.
“See this, boss? That’s my ring. I promise I’ll be back for you. You just sit tight, yeah?”
Ha-ha, where the fuck would I go? I raised my eyebrows slowly, feeling bruised and bloody and weary and ready to go home. He nodded and walked out. Doesn’t waste words, Colonel Moran.
At the sound of the first gunshot, I looked down at the ring. He’d seriously left his ring with me. Honestly? It felt like I was in some pulp novel. I didn’t like the feel of it, the whole thing. Having to be rescued, being at someone else’s mercy, feeling the dried blood on the back of my neck. Never again, I vowed. Hands off completely, going forward, get the memo. And Sebastian Moran? I tended to treat my minions as though they were universally idiotic, and it’s true they weren’t precisely MENSA quality. But a minion who could be more than a minion could not be stupid. Some criminals like to be surrounded by big burly morons, enjoying the sense of superiority and unquestioning obedience. But a stupid person will always do stupid things. And if you want to be in the center of a ring of cretins with handguns, that’s your funeral. I am too bloody brilliant to have Neanderthal underlings. Moran was clearly not a stupid man. He had sought me out, and I had not been displeased for a moment that he had. I held the ring on my index finger, spinning it with my thumb. Squishy moments really aren’t my forte, and they’re certainly not my style. Remember, though, I had suffered head trauma. Any weepy, romantic-sounding musings were the result of a gun and a fist or three applied liberally to my cranium.
The ring was a thick silver band, with a stylized Celtic lion leading streamers of lines all cavorting with one another. Gaudy, sentimentalized Irish culture. Why did he wear the lion? Brian Boru? Was he big into mythology? The man read Joyce, for Christ’s sake! So what the hell was he doing here in general? Research only tells a man so much; there comes a point when files and records fail to reveal a man’s soul. Why was he shooting rival criminals for Jim Moriarty? The ring was too big on my finger, but I left it there anyway. Then promptly blacked out again. When you’re in that sort of state, even the crazed melee outside your cell door can’t keep you awake. And it’s a relief to get away from the idiotic musings.
I woke up to panicked hands on either side of my face, then one moving down to my limp wrist.
“Fuck you, Jim Moriarty, if you died while you were waiting!”
“Good morning to you too, baby doll,” I murmured hoarsely, opening my eyes. “Stop assuming I’m dead.”
He looked at me with wide eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was startled or pleased or annoyed.
The answer was D, none of the above.
He grabbed me by the back of the neck, not mindful of blood, bruises, or personal space, and kissed me with something akin to violence. It was extremely hot. I pulled back, breathless and light-headed. From what? Well, who could say precisely? It had been that kind of week. We didn’t say anything, though; there was none of that stupid throat clearing or blushing. Just two men, covered in blood, staring at each another in insane lust. Again, that kind of week. I sighed and closed my eyes.
“Fuck, Moran…take me home.”
Two hours later I was clean, fed, bandaged, medicated, lying on my sofa with clean socks on my feet. And clean, fed, smug Sebastian Moran sat with my feet in his lap, ridiculous ring on his finger, plaster rather stylishly arranged across his nose to cover his one cut from taking out nearly two-dozen men. He was rubbing my feet, and had I the energy, I would have come. Oh, God, his hands were strong! Still are, really. He was so gentle with the twisted right foot and vicious with his thumbs in the bottom of the left. The closest to heaven you can come without shagging. At that point, I decided I would really keep him.
Good thing I did.
He’s been rubbing my feet the whole time I’ve been writing this. Go on…pretend you’re not jealous. I’ll just sit here and sip this Midori sour (I felt like drinking something green tonight) and enjoy being me. P.S. In case you were wondering, the fucking came later. Lots and lots of it. (I would have loved to enjoy a pleasant rescue fuck at the time but I ached, was blitzed out of my mind on painkillers, and Moran seemed to think that this constituted “taking advantage of me.”) As a matter of fact, I think that once this drink is gone, I’ll go indulge myself in a little bit of nostalgic bedroom time. What better than to contemplate the very first time he made me scream? Xxxxxx