Mormor - 3 Acts

2.

Jim

IX. symphony d-moll op. 125

Your favourite piece by Beethoven. It calms you down and that's a rare thing. You can count the things that calm you on one hand.

A knock on the door and you like the hesitant  sound of it. You don't open your eyes. The violins don't stop.

"What?"

The door swings open and the sounds make it easy to picture him in your mind; his usual light steps are heavy, he tries to restrain his breath.

"Aren't you supposed to be on a job?" you ask, pointedly calm, your hands folded over your stomach. 

"Boss..."

But you interrupt him: "Fuck off, Moran. I don't have time for you now." And you return to the violins. But the door doesn't close. A moment of silence. You can feel his presence in the room, the tension comes off him in waves, like heat. Or light.

"...Jim."

His voice isn't urgent but the use of your name is. He barely calls you that, not in situations like this, at least. Not during business.

You open one eye and the violins fade away.

He smells of sweat and cigarettes and blood, a scent you found intoxicating a few days ago when he pressed you against a wall with a crooked smile, the blood still on his hands, and you kissed his wrists, his shoulders, his chest, every part of him you could reach. The memory is enough to distract you and you frown, because you're Jim Moriarty and you're never distracted.

The blood covers Sebastian's hands, his grey t-shirt is soaked with it. There's also some on his chin and cheeks but you doubt that all of that is his own. Your tiger has claws for a reason.

You raise a brow. "So?"

He manages to flash you a weak version of his usual smirk, baring his teeth. You can see the edge of a love bite you left on his neck a few hours ago, half covered by his shirt.

"What, Moran?"

"I think I could do with some help here" he murmurs and steps closer. You eye the hand he has pressed against his side, just below his ribs.

You let him stand and he actually stands, his knees shaking with the effort but he won't sit down without permission until he passes out. You lazily look him over.

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

The sniper chokes out a bitter laugh and runs his free hand through his hair, the blond smeared with dirt and blood.

"In a few weeks it should be four and a half years, Sir."

"And what do I always tell you when you come home from a mission injured?"

He huffs quietly. "That I'm useless and replaceable if I keep on fucking up jobs, Sir?"

You raise a brow at that, knowing that everybody else would already be crawling. Sebastian isn't everybody else and the annoying part is that he knows it.

"No. I tell you not to bleed on my carpet, it is worth your head a few times. Sit down, for god sake."

Sebastian doesn't reply, what is unusual. You look up just to see him sit down on the chair in front of your desk, not exactly majestic, with gritted teeth and blowing out air through his nose. You look down at the folder in front of you for a moment before you close it and fold your hands over your stomach again.