Fic: Expendable
Pairing: Jim/Seb
Rating: PG-13+
Warnings: Swearing, vague mentions of violence, contemplation of suicide
Written for a prompt on the kink-meme.
***
Sebastian Moran stood at the edge of the building, toes curling over the edge. The setting sun turned London into a city of long arching shadows, shapes distorted on the concrete, and lights had started to flicker on, filtering yellow against the grey buildings standing silhouetted against the coral coloured sky.
The wind pushed against him, as if urging him to take that step.
Seb's life was pointless now. Discharged from the army in disgrace after nearly beating a fellow officer to death, Seb's connections meant he wasn't sent to jail, but he was set loose in London with nothing but a petty pension and the clothes on his back. His family, distinguished and grandiose in a way that had always twisted Seb's stomach, had disowned him. He had many acquaintances, but no true friends to turn to.
He spent his nights drinking, fucking and gambling away his meagre funds.
His face was bruised, lips split, after a fight with three men in the back alley outside a pub. One of them was now dead, the other two not much better. Seb was trained in hand-to-hand combat, his learned skills backed up with his naturally violent nature.
A drop of red from his lip fell, and plummeted off the roof into nothingness. Seb raised a foot, rotating his ankle, teasing himself.
Would he make that step?
"Is that really a good idea?"
Seb pulled himself backwards, whirling around to see a scrawny slip of a man with fine dark hair and pale skin that glowed sickly in the low sun. Seb could snap him in half with his bare hands, but there was something about the little man's poise that suggested a hidden venom, that if Seb were to try such a thing, he would end up regretting it.
"Step away from the edge, my dear," the man drawled.
Irish accent, and his loose lips formed odd vowels.
"Wouldn't want a nasty accident."
"Who the fuck are you?" Seb demanded, never one for inane conversation.
The man stepped closer. He had huge black eyes that seemed almost false, and his smile was stuffed with sharp white teeth. "Call me Jim. Jim Moriarty."
Seb moved towards him, circled him. Jim's head swivelled round to watch, expression unchanging. His movements were incredibly unnerving, like some sort of deranged doll. "What do you want, Jim? Can't a man dance with death in peace around here?"
"Not you," said Jim. "You're far too useful. No, I've come to offer you a job."
Seb stopped. "What sort of job? And how do you know about me?"
Jim waved his hand, ducking his head. "Don't ask such silly questions, dear. I'm looking for a killer, someone who isn't afraid to die. A bodyguard, a foot soldier, a thoroughly reliable agent."
"Someone expendable," Seb said, after a pause.
"And loyal," said Jim. "In return you can have … well, you can have whatever you want. I pay extremely well."
Those glinting white teeth.
Sebastian ended up accepting. This man intrigued him, and anyway, it was better than jumping off a building.
***
Life grew very exciting, and very dangerous, after that.
It turned out that Seb's first impression of Jim Moriarty was entirely accurate. The man had the brain of a supercomputer and sat happily at the head of a loosely linked criminal empire that spanned most of Europe. He worked nonstop, never pausing for breath, and Seb was inexorably pulled alongside him, playing his part in ingenious corruptions that often never saw the light of day.
Normal people really were so ignorant.
Jim's specialty lay in organising crime. He would sit at his computer and wreak havoc across the continent with the click of a mouse button.
Seb had always been a murderer, but not a very good one. With Jim organising his every move, Seb became ruthlessly efficient. His various identities crept up secret government wanted lists, but he was never found, never caught and prosecuted.
Jim found Seb's casual sadism entertaining. He had Seb question informants he wasn't particularly fond of, and videotaped their torment for later enjoyment, which Seb took as a sort of bizarre compliment.
But after a stint as acting as Jim's bodyguard, never leaving his side for a second, Seb was forced to re-evaluate how he saw his apparently invulnerable boss.
***
Jim sat at his computer, in one of his offices scattered around London. This one was a very secure location under the Thames, so Seb wasn't too worried about any assassination attempts, but he was worried about Jim's steadily deteriorating mental health in the cramped surroundings.
The man had always been on the dangerous side of unstable, but his constant mood-swings and increasingly violent outbursts were grating Seb's nerves. Jim often lashed out at the nearest person to him, which these days was invariably Seb, but what started out as amusing flailing had turned into what must be a cry for help.
Jim tapped away at the keyboard, fingers flying, black eyes flickering between his two monitors. Seb didn't understand the first thing about programming, but from Jim's expression, what he was doing was very difficult, and it was something he'd been working on for days.
"Goddamnit!" roared Jim, standing suddenly, smashing his little fist into the keyboard.
Seb reached forward to drag Jim away, rather taking weak hits now than a heated dressing down later for not saving the expensive equipment.
"Get the fuck off of me, you idiot!" Jim swore and twisted fiercely, scratching at Seb's throat. Seb batted his hands away easily, holding Jim close until he calmed down.
"What is your problem?" he muttered, pushing Jim back to hold him at arm's length.
Jim blinked slowly up at him, and drew a the back of his hand over his mouth. He'd bitten his own tongue, and the blood smeared over his knuckles.
"This isn't right," said Seb. "Jesus, boss, what's going on in that head of yours?"
"I'm the brains of this operation, Moran," snarled Jim, pushing the hand off. "You're the brawn. Don't question me."
Seb recognised what Jim was feeling. He'd felt it often himself, after the war, that sense of poignant uselessness when the universe never tipped anything in your favour.
Jim was destructive to stave of his loneliness.
"Look, boss," Seb murmured, moving back into Jim's personal space. He reached out, fingers skimming around the back of that narrow neck, pulling Jim close again but this time in an embrace, not a restrictive hold.
Jim's eyes dipped, darkened, his lids heavily. His gaze was intent on Seb's lips.
The only sex Jim ever had was with prostitutes that he had complete control over, or forced attempts on prisoners he was going to kill. He was the consummate sadist, and got his kicks from causing pain rather than getting pleasure.
But despite that, there was an innocence about him that had Seb yearning for him, that reinforced his protective instincts. Jim had never given himself up completely in his life, and he was utterly inept when it came to handling his own emotions.
Every action was carefully controlled, an imitation of what he saw other people do in similar situations.
And when Jim kissed him, teeth scraping Seb's lips, he could feel the fear under that passion, fear of his disguise coming undone.
The pretence irritated Seb, who pulled away. "You don't have to act around me," he said.
And like that, shutters came down behind Jim's expression. The heady dark gaze vanished, and Jim was replaced by Moriarty.
"Shut up," he said.
He pulled away, stalked back over to his computer, straightening his jacket.
"Shouldn't get involved with you anyway," he remarked, after a while, smirking thinly at Seb. His face was white under the glare of the computer, a thin sheen of sweat over his nose and brow. "You're supposed to be expendable. Can't have those niggling emotions getting in the way of my master plan."
"Yeah," Seb said slowly. He went to stand guard by the door.
***
One day, Seb saved Jim's life.
There was a massive explosion, and Seb hurled himself out of hiding to push Jim out of the way from the blast, using the bulk of his stronger, larger body as protection.
He felt burns scar up his back, and braced against falling concrete.
His last sight before passing out into blackness was Jim's horrified expression, the whites of his eyes, and his thin lips stretching out Seb's name. He couldn't hear anything over the roar of fire and the crack of shattered brick and mortar.
Then there was blessed silence.
***
He woke to skinny fingers grasping under his shoulders, and rubble scraping under his stomach.
He smelt blood, and bitumen, and chlorine.
Sound came back slowly, filtering through as though Seb was wearing bad earplugs.
"St ……… idiot …… didn't … when I …… and I told you … next time, if there even is … don't you fucking die on me, Seb, don't you dare."
He winced, and opened his eyes. Jim was crouching over him, slapping at his face.
The skinny sod had dragged Seb out from under the rubble. His face was dirtied, his suit ripped, but apart from that he seemed fine. In better shape than Seb was, certainly.
The dawn light spread out over the rubble, it's yellow rays casting Jim in an almost silhouette. Seb could still see his expression. It was genuine distress, mouth gaping, eyes huge with worry.
His small hands were shaking on Seb's cheek. He wasn't hitting anymore, just pressing there, touching.
"You're alive," Seb croaked, honestly thankful.
"You idiot," hissed Jim. "You could have died. You weren't meant to die."
Seb smiled crookedly. "I thought I was supposed to be expendable."
Jim's mouth opened and shut, momentarily wordless. His hand traced down Seb's chest, over his heart. "I was just saying that," he muttered eventually. "I never … I never meant it, okay? You lousy fuck, never do that again."
Seb nodded, the back of his head moving over broken concrete. "Whatever you say, boss."
"Don't call me that," Jim said. "I've got a fucking name, you know."
And he kissed him, lips harsh and desperate, emotions somehow clearer in the brilliant morning sun.
Rating: PG-13+
Warnings: Swearing, vague mentions of violence, contemplation of suicide
Written for a prompt on the kink-meme.
***
Sebastian Moran stood at the edge of the building, toes curling over the edge. The setting sun turned London into a city of long arching shadows, shapes distorted on the concrete, and lights had started to flicker on, filtering yellow against the grey buildings standing silhouetted against the coral coloured sky.
The wind pushed against him, as if urging him to take that step.
Seb's life was pointless now. Discharged from the army in disgrace after nearly beating a fellow officer to death, Seb's connections meant he wasn't sent to jail, but he was set loose in London with nothing but a petty pension and the clothes on his back. His family, distinguished and grandiose in a way that had always twisted Seb's stomach, had disowned him. He had many acquaintances, but no true friends to turn to.
He spent his nights drinking, fucking and gambling away his meagre funds.
His face was bruised, lips split, after a fight with three men in the back alley outside a pub. One of them was now dead, the other two not much better. Seb was trained in hand-to-hand combat, his learned skills backed up with his naturally violent nature.
A drop of red from his lip fell, and plummeted off the roof into nothingness. Seb raised a foot, rotating his ankle, teasing himself.
Would he make that step?
"Is that really a good idea?"
Seb pulled himself backwards, whirling around to see a scrawny slip of a man with fine dark hair and pale skin that glowed sickly in the low sun. Seb could snap him in half with his bare hands, but there was something about the little man's poise that suggested a hidden venom, that if Seb were to try such a thing, he would end up regretting it.
"Step away from the edge, my dear," the man drawled.
Irish accent, and his loose lips formed odd vowels.
"Wouldn't want a nasty accident."
"Who the fuck are you?" Seb demanded, never one for inane conversation.
The man stepped closer. He had huge black eyes that seemed almost false, and his smile was stuffed with sharp white teeth. "Call me Jim. Jim Moriarty."
Seb moved towards him, circled him. Jim's head swivelled round to watch, expression unchanging. His movements were incredibly unnerving, like some sort of deranged doll. "What do you want, Jim? Can't a man dance with death in peace around here?"
"Not you," said Jim. "You're far too useful. No, I've come to offer you a job."
Seb stopped. "What sort of job? And how do you know about me?"
Jim waved his hand, ducking his head. "Don't ask such silly questions, dear. I'm looking for a killer, someone who isn't afraid to die. A bodyguard, a foot soldier, a thoroughly reliable agent."
"Someone expendable," Seb said, after a pause.
"And loyal," said Jim. "In return you can have … well, you can have whatever you want. I pay extremely well."
Those glinting white teeth.
Sebastian ended up accepting. This man intrigued him, and anyway, it was better than jumping off a building.
***
Life grew very exciting, and very dangerous, after that.
It turned out that Seb's first impression of Jim Moriarty was entirely accurate. The man had the brain of a supercomputer and sat happily at the head of a loosely linked criminal empire that spanned most of Europe. He worked nonstop, never pausing for breath, and Seb was inexorably pulled alongside him, playing his part in ingenious corruptions that often never saw the light of day.
Normal people really were so ignorant.
Jim's specialty lay in organising crime. He would sit at his computer and wreak havoc across the continent with the click of a mouse button.
Seb had always been a murderer, but not a very good one. With Jim organising his every move, Seb became ruthlessly efficient. His various identities crept up secret government wanted lists, but he was never found, never caught and prosecuted.
Jim found Seb's casual sadism entertaining. He had Seb question informants he wasn't particularly fond of, and videotaped their torment for later enjoyment, which Seb took as a sort of bizarre compliment.
But after a stint as acting as Jim's bodyguard, never leaving his side for a second, Seb was forced to re-evaluate how he saw his apparently invulnerable boss.
***
Jim sat at his computer, in one of his offices scattered around London. This one was a very secure location under the Thames, so Seb wasn't too worried about any assassination attempts, but he was worried about Jim's steadily deteriorating mental health in the cramped surroundings.
The man had always been on the dangerous side of unstable, but his constant mood-swings and increasingly violent outbursts were grating Seb's nerves. Jim often lashed out at the nearest person to him, which these days was invariably Seb, but what started out as amusing flailing had turned into what must be a cry for help.
Jim tapped away at the keyboard, fingers flying, black eyes flickering between his two monitors. Seb didn't understand the first thing about programming, but from Jim's expression, what he was doing was very difficult, and it was something he'd been working on for days.
"Goddamnit!" roared Jim, standing suddenly, smashing his little fist into the keyboard.
Seb reached forward to drag Jim away, rather taking weak hits now than a heated dressing down later for not saving the expensive equipment.
"Get the fuck off of me, you idiot!" Jim swore and twisted fiercely, scratching at Seb's throat. Seb batted his hands away easily, holding Jim close until he calmed down.
"What is your problem?" he muttered, pushing Jim back to hold him at arm's length.
Jim blinked slowly up at him, and drew a the back of his hand over his mouth. He'd bitten his own tongue, and the blood smeared over his knuckles.
"This isn't right," said Seb. "Jesus, boss, what's going on in that head of yours?"
"I'm the brains of this operation, Moran," snarled Jim, pushing the hand off. "You're the brawn. Don't question me."
Seb recognised what Jim was feeling. He'd felt it often himself, after the war, that sense of poignant uselessness when the universe never tipped anything in your favour.
Jim was destructive to stave of his loneliness.
"Look, boss," Seb murmured, moving back into Jim's personal space. He reached out, fingers skimming around the back of that narrow neck, pulling Jim close again but this time in an embrace, not a restrictive hold.
Jim's eyes dipped, darkened, his lids heavily. His gaze was intent on Seb's lips.
The only sex Jim ever had was with prostitutes that he had complete control over, or forced attempts on prisoners he was going to kill. He was the consummate sadist, and got his kicks from causing pain rather than getting pleasure.
But despite that, there was an innocence about him that had Seb yearning for him, that reinforced his protective instincts. Jim had never given himself up completely in his life, and he was utterly inept when it came to handling his own emotions.
Every action was carefully controlled, an imitation of what he saw other people do in similar situations.
And when Jim kissed him, teeth scraping Seb's lips, he could feel the fear under that passion, fear of his disguise coming undone.
The pretence irritated Seb, who pulled away. "You don't have to act around me," he said.
And like that, shutters came down behind Jim's expression. The heady dark gaze vanished, and Jim was replaced by Moriarty.
"Shut up," he said.
He pulled away, stalked back over to his computer, straightening his jacket.
"Shouldn't get involved with you anyway," he remarked, after a while, smirking thinly at Seb. His face was white under the glare of the computer, a thin sheen of sweat over his nose and brow. "You're supposed to be expendable. Can't have those niggling emotions getting in the way of my master plan."
"Yeah," Seb said slowly. He went to stand guard by the door.
***
One day, Seb saved Jim's life.
There was a massive explosion, and Seb hurled himself out of hiding to push Jim out of the way from the blast, using the bulk of his stronger, larger body as protection.
He felt burns scar up his back, and braced against falling concrete.
His last sight before passing out into blackness was Jim's horrified expression, the whites of his eyes, and his thin lips stretching out Seb's name. He couldn't hear anything over the roar of fire and the crack of shattered brick and mortar.
Then there was blessed silence.
***
He woke to skinny fingers grasping under his shoulders, and rubble scraping under his stomach.
He smelt blood, and bitumen, and chlorine.
Sound came back slowly, filtering through as though Seb was wearing bad earplugs.
"St ……… idiot …… didn't … when I …… and I told you … next time, if there even is … don't you fucking die on me, Seb, don't you dare."
He winced, and opened his eyes. Jim was crouching over him, slapping at his face.
The skinny sod had dragged Seb out from under the rubble. His face was dirtied, his suit ripped, but apart from that he seemed fine. In better shape than Seb was, certainly.
The dawn light spread out over the rubble, it's yellow rays casting Jim in an almost silhouette. Seb could still see his expression. It was genuine distress, mouth gaping, eyes huge with worry.
His small hands were shaking on Seb's cheek. He wasn't hitting anymore, just pressing there, touching.
"You're alive," Seb croaked, honestly thankful.
"You idiot," hissed Jim. "You could have died. You weren't meant to die."
Seb smiled crookedly. "I thought I was supposed to be expendable."
Jim's mouth opened and shut, momentarily wordless. His hand traced down Seb's chest, over his heart. "I was just saying that," he muttered eventually. "I never … I never meant it, okay? You lousy fuck, never do that again."
Seb nodded, the back of his head moving over broken concrete. "Whatever you say, boss."
"Don't call me that," Jim said. "I've got a fucking name, you know."
And he kissed him, lips harsh and desperate, emotions somehow clearer in the brilliant morning sun.