Mormor - 3 Acts

1.

Sebastian

The flat is basically what you expected it to be: Fitting.
While calling it a flat already feels like a sacrilege​, your whole apartment would fit into the living room.

But it kind of fits your boss from everything you know about him by now. It looks like it could come straight out of a magazine, everything is expensive looking and fits together perfectly.

Except the parts that don't. The painting over the chimney that you're very sure is an original Manet is covered in some weird diagram in fucking neon pink spray paint. There's a beautiful Bösendorfer standing at the opposite wall; it's majesty just a tad disturbed by the machete leaning against it, and something that looks like the blueprints of a military basis is draped across the coffee table.
It's easy to compare these  malpractices to your bosses nervous little ticks, the ones only you seem to recognise, the head tilt or the air-piano playing when he's thinking.

"Don't touch anything."

The cold snarl almost makes you jump. Almost. You turn around with a lazy smile, pointedly relaxed. "Wasn't going to."

"Oh yes, you were." Moriarty snaps his fingers without stepping into the light. "Come here."

You bite back a snappy comment and step closer. Your boss is leaning in the doorframe and looks you over annoyingly slowly. You don't know anybody who has ever been invited into Moriartys flat. No one who could tell his story afterwards, at least. But against all basic instincts to survive you're not afraid.

"How long have you been working for me now, Moran?"

You unconsciously fold your hands behind your back like a schoolboy and clear your throat.

"Next week it's four months, Sir."

You can see his teeth shining, a smirk, the head tilt, he looks you over again.

"At ease, soldier. If I wanted to kill you I wouldn't do it here. You'd ruin the parquet. And you're certainly not important enough for me to do it myself."

You raise a brow, not sure if you should be relieved or offended. Both, probably.

"I admire your work, Moran, I really do. You're good at what you're doing."

"Thank you, Sir."

Careful now. Don't let your guard down just because he's being nice to you. You've heard the stories about Moriarty and even though you've had an eye on the man from the moment you saw him you won't let your feelings overpower your instincts.

The man in front of you seems to know everything that's going through your head right now, he's smirking again and uncrosses his arms.

"Distrusting fella, aren't you?"

"You pay me to be, Sir."

"Good answer." He tilts his head to the other side. "I like you, Moran. I don't like impertinence. Am I clear?"

You swallow. "Totally, Sir."

"Good." And he smirks again. It's going on your nerves, this mixture of kindness and danger.

"...bedroom. Chop chop."

You look up, your throat suddenly dry. Surely you must have misheard. He returns your look perfectly serious.

"...Sir?"

The silence stretches out painfully long and you go tense. Finally he raises an eyebrow.

"I really pay you for the pawn, not the brain, don't I? Bedroom." He helpfully points at a door and rolls his eyes. "There's a suit waiting for you. Get changed. We have work to do."