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surprise-did-you-miss-me · 5 years

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He Understands, He Just Doesn’t Care

This is my first MorMor fic (as well as my first fanfic ever how exciting) and I’d love it if any of you had time to check it out!

Read it here or on Archive of Our Own (I am spinningwheel on ao3) “https://archiveofourown.org/works/17307629/″

Summary: Sebastian Moran doesn't know what to do with himself when he's not spending all day as Jim Moriarty's shadow - shooting bad guys (and good guys) and making sure his boss's criminal web remains as impeccable as ever.

But, after Moriarty is a no-show for days, Sebastian decides to indulge in some self care. That is, until an intruder interrupts his peaceful shower.

Sebastian doesn’t hear anything from him for seven days. Not that that’s particularly unusual, but it still sets him on edge, in more ways than one.

He feels sort of like a dog forgotten by its owner in the house for a few days. Expected to sit around and be good until the owner decides to grace them with their presence again. God forbid the dog acts out. It kind of makes sense to him now why dogs shit on the couch or something – anything for the attention.

Sebastian fiddles with his phone absently, tossing it from side to side like he wouldn’t even care if it fell and broke. He already gave up yelling at the phone. Turns out inanimate objects can’t make things happen.

All that there’s left to do is get on with his life unless he actually wants to spend eternity on the couch, head turning every time there’s a slight sound by the door or something that kind of sounds like his ringtone playing from his phone.

Since when did he become so pathetic?

Muttering obscenities to himself, Sebastian tosses the phone onto the bed carelessly. He rips his jacket and shirt off with much more vigor than necessary. The clothes didn’t do him any wrong.

There is more than enough time to shower. Fuck it if the second he gets in, he gets the call.

Sebastian pads into the bathroom, bare feet on cold tile, as he undoes his belt, meeting his expression in the mirror. He looks like shit. Unsurprising. His stubble has grown considerably, giving him a rough look worsened by the dark bags accenting his eyes.

He hates the rugged vagrant look. Prefers Sebastian clean-shaven in one of his hand-picked tailored suits, with eyes bright and alert enough to detect the slightest motion toward a possible concealed weapon.

Tough luck, the bossman can’t have what he wants if he isn’t here right?

The water is cold, the spout screaming in protest as it attempts to dredge up hot water. Boss had offered Sebastian a nicer place, with utilities that actually function properly, but Sebastian declined because he’s not a whore and he’s not his sugar daddy – he is his boss, and Sebastian is his right-hand, an extension of himself, his own personal hired gun attuned to his looks and mannerisms to know from just a slight curve of his lips whether or not to pull the trigger on some poor bastard.

There are just some lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

No way would Sebastian accept some million-pound apartment in Knightsbridge with a million strings attached. He left that life long ago, preferring a comfortable old bed in a shoddy flat, windows open to the sounds of real people, nestled next to a good shag to life in some doll-house where the people always wear masks and have no idea what the word genuine means, probably thinking it to be the name of some perfume brand.

The cold water, gradually warming up, provides relief against Sebastian’s throbbing spine. His body is still sore from last week’s mission where that brute had slammed him up against the wall a few times, pummeling his body like Sebastian was one of those inflatable punching bags that keep on popping back up after each hit. Purple welts line his skin looking sort of like the grape juice stains he embedded into the carpet of the sitting room all those years ago before he left for school, much to his father’s chagrin.

Sebastian’s hair is gross; it’s a tangled rat’s nest up there. It’s longer than it’s ever been, he’s hardly able to find the time to leave the flat for a quick haircut. It has been jobs all day, day after day, ever since he ended up working for the bossman. And this week, the sudden lull, the busyness of his days coming to a screeching halt, the last thing on his mind was keeping up appearances.

The shampoo feels good though. Alleviates some of the tension in his scalp, at the base of his neck. He sighs.

As the soap rains down his back, some of the white shampoo looks tainted with red, leaving pink mush to rush down the drain. Perhaps Sebastian is more beaten up than he thought. Side effects of the job. He doesn’t really mind much as long as his injuries are kept to a minimum so that any potential bed partners aren’t discouraged.

He allows himself a derisive laugh in honor of the absolutely ludicrous turn his life has taken, and then he freezes. Because it almost sounds like movement outside the bathroom door.

Swallowing hard, Sebastian reflexively backs up against the wall, reaching for something – anything, really – that he can use to bludgeon the intruder. It may have been several months since he actually served in the army, but his new position as right-hand surely hasn’t let his senses dull. In fact, it’s probably enhanced them. There’s certainly someone here, and they’re going to get a bristled brush to the face. Repeatedly.

Sebastian hardly notices that he’s holding in a breath, thoroughly aware of how fucked he is if the intruder has a gun, but nevertheless is ready to pounce. Stark naked and ready to kick ass. He hopes.

He doesn’t hear any more footsteps, but the door to the bathroom opens up with a brief whine, careless and abrupt.

Leaving Sebastian face to face with him.

Sebastian releases the breath he is holding in with a frustrated growl and curses his stupid heart for beating so fast. As if he should even be surprised.

Jim Moriarty walks into the bathroom for all the world like he owns it which, in a way, he does, as all of London is packaged neatly for him to take out and play with as he pleases.

Moriarty’s face doesn’t falter for a second even though he’s looking right at Sebastian. All of Sebastian. He just stands there, several-hundred-pound shoes on the lightly wet tile, in a suit probably worth more than Sebastian’s rent. He has that carefree, crooked grin on his face and that glint in his eyes that never really fails to make Sebastian uneasy even after months of building a resistance to it. His fingers are curled around a cream manila file.

Moriarty looks amused, eyes falling on the brush. “What were you going to do? Scrub the intruder to death? I’m shaking.” He asks in that playful Irish lilt of his, tinged with mocking.

Annoyed, but broken from his reverie, Sebastian drops the brush with a clang and grabs part of the shower curtain to cover the lower half of himself, leveling Moriarty with his best glare that utterly deflates under the scrutiny of his gaze.

He’s laughing at Sebastian with his eyes.

Then, he chuckles audibly, clear and bright. “No need to bother with preserving your modesty. I’ve already seen everything.” He waves his hand dismissively before flipping open the file, not even giving Sebastian the chance to begin to wonder what he could possibly mean by that.

“I’m sending you to Manchester,” Moriarty continues without missing a beat, effectively ignoring him by flipping through the contents of the file, rattling off some details that Sebastian is sure are important but can’t be bothered to listen to, senses overwhelmed. He’s not quite able to move past the fact that Moriarty is not only in his flat, but that he is naked and less than an arm’s length from him.

It’s like the start to a really bad porno. Sebastian chastises himself for even thinking that way and instead focuses on the water still running, mere annoying white noise that clashes with the sound of his boss’s voice.

“Jesus Christ” Sebastian moans, cutting him off, as he brushes the hair out of his eyes. “Why are you in my flat? How the fuck did you even get in here?” He asks stupidly because he honestly can’t think of anything else to say.

“Are those really questions you can’t answer yourself?” Moriarty blinks innocently.

Sebastian can’t figure out exactly what’s going to happen here, but he’s pretty sure Moriarty won’t react well to a punch in the face. If anyone deserves to be punched, it’s probably Sebastian for asking obvious questions.

Moriarty goes wherever he wants when he wants, he’s obviously scoped this place out before if Sebastian is his “employee.” Moriarty runs a tight ship and much prefers the role of puppeteer, making sure he is the only one pulling the strings. God forbid there are any loose ones.

“You give me nothing for a week? Thought I fucked up, was waiting for my brains to be blown out at a supermarket or something.” Sebastian continues to ramble in an effort to distract himself from thinking about Moriarty in his flat. Maybe he should look for cameras. There have got to be cameras in his place. Either that or Moriarty came to the flat himself to check it out and –

“Our relationship, dear Sebastian, goes where you report to me, and not the other way around.” Moriarty’s voice loses some of its joking tone, so Sebastian grits his teeth and forces himself not growl a retort even though it goes against his very nature.

“I’d kill you myself though if it ever came to that!” Moriarty adds cheerfully, his whole face lighting up as if he was delivering good news. “I also wouldn’t be so boring as to use a gun,” he clicks his tongue, “And here I thought you were getting to know me, Sebastian.”

“Gee, thanks, you’re so kind,” Sebastian grumbles, still holding onto the shower curtain. If Moriarty finds blowing people’s heads off to be a boring way to go, Sebastian isn’t sure he wants to know what the criminal finds interesting.

Sebastian sighs, avoiding his gaze. “Give me five minutes to finish up in here and then I’ll hear about your damn job.”

“Sebastian!” Moriarty admonishes, almost singing his name like a song. “Did a week away from me make you forget your place?”

Moriarty’s tone shifts to that playful crooning that always comes when he knows he has the upper hand and is going to make whatever poor sod he’s torturing pay. Sebastian knows he should back off, because he probably has a revolver tucked away somewhere – if he’s smart, which he is, because there’s no way he could physically outmatch Sebastian – or at least that knife he always likes to show off by flipping around, but he just can’t help pouring more gas on the fire.

Sebastian tells himself he hates the constant invasions of his privacy, the fact that Moriarty can literally break into any part of his life with just a snap of his fingers, but if he’s honest with himself, there’s just something intriguing about it. Intriguing about him. No one’s ever cared enough about Sebastian to look so deeply and learn so much about him. Sebastian isn’t stupid, he realizes how fucked up it is, but it doesn’t change the fact that Sebastian’s base brain is just screaming about how hot this all is.

How this shit that’s happening right now is ripped straight from one of Sebastian’s dreams.

Instead of letting his mind wander to the dark places it enjoys frequenting late at night, when he allows himself a modicum of pleasure, envisioning Moriarty on top of him, he continues, “I’m in the shower. You broke into my flat. And barged into my damn bathroom.”

Somehow, ridiculously, Sebastian even finds it in him to laugh at him. “You just don’t understand boundaries, do you?” Sebastian is surprised by the venom in his voice and his reckless audacity to talk to a man he’s literally seen shoot a subordinate for looking at him like Sebastian has some kind of authority here.

Moriarty cocks his head to the side, studying Sebastian as a predator does their prey, only difference being that he aims to make Sebastian scared before he goes in for the kill. Moriarty revels in the fear he can inspire in others with just a look, with just his mere presence.

Sebastian has seen sods taken in for interrogation acting like tough shit, like they won’t break under him or for anything reduced to small quivering messes at the sight of a slight man in a fine Westwood suit, dress shoes tapping elegantly against the cement floor of a warehouse.

Sebastian won’t move, he tells himself, even though he doesn’t exactly enjoy watching Moriarty tear him apart with his eyes – or maybe some part of Sebastian does like it. Why else does he still have this job? He ought to be crazy, putting up with this all the time.

Moriarty grins, lips pulled back in a lopsided smile that could be endearing in a different scenario.

Abruptly, he rips the shower curtain out of Sebastian’s hand, along with his last shred of dignity, and aggressively swings it to the side. He steps over the side of the tub with purpose, firmly planting two leather shoes on the sleek tub floor as if the sound of soles smacking against the water is supposed to make its own point.

The water wastes no time seeping into his suit and flattening his hair. The water dripping down his face does nothing to douse the fire in his dark eyes.

“Boundaries?” Moriarty asks with an exaggerated surprised tone, brows furrowing. “I don’t understand boundaries? No, darling, I just don’t care about them.”

Sebastian finds it difficult to look at him, the pet-name darling reverberating in his mind, every bone in his body practically screaming at him to run before Sebastian either pushes him away or, worse, pulls him close. The bastard has the audacity to lick his lips, never breaking eye contact.

Whatever this is, whatever intent is in his eyes this time, Sebastian will just have to ride it out.

“Because, you see, you gave yourself to me that day when you were drooling at my feet, begging me for a job,” Moriarty speaks almost wistfully, as unabashed and bold as ever, the power dynamic between the two never expressed in so ambiguous a fashion. Sure, they’ve been in close proximity before, but Sebastian is sure there’s something else here besides threat.

Even though Sebastian is about a head taller, Moriarty is able to make him feel like no more than an insect on the daily, always at risk of being crushed. Sebastian always literally looks down at him, but no one ever really looks down on Jim Moriarty, do they?

Soft beads of water form on his dark hair and dot his eyelashes. Moriarty hardly blinks as he reaches out and cups Sebastian’s jaw, hand pulling his face down. Moriarty continues with the voice of an exhausted professor, resigned to having to repeat the same lesson over-and-over. “So,” He sighs, “I own you, Sebastian. You’re mine.”

Moriarty’s words are matter-of-fact, and Sebastian will be damned if he argues with him. His grip isn’t harsh, but it isn’t gentle either. Sebastian is hyper-aware of the feeling of his fingers on his cheek.

Again, Sebastian futilely tries to pay attention to the now freezing water that is pouring down on them instead of acknowledging that Moriarty is dragging his thumb lightly across his lips, in the way that Sebastian has pictured countless times, right before their mouths meet.

If he moves any closer or does anything else, Sebastian will probably lose it.

The pressure on his cheek changes to an uncomfortable grip like he intends to leave a mark. “What are you?” He asks harshly, inky eyes scanning his face like there are some words on it to read.

Sebastian swallows hard, trying to kill his fantasies before they escape, and Moriarty really does kill him for them. It would be so easy to overpower the man; all Sebastian would have to do is remove his hand from his cheek, push him back against the shower wall, holding him steady in place and finally figure out what Jim Moriarty tastes like.

But Sebastian rather fancies his tongue and would prefer to keep it in his mouth as it should be.

And, in any case, Sebastian has seen this before. It’s what Moriarty does. What he likes to do. Mix pleasure with pain. Make people think he’s not a real threat because oh, a breeze could topple that cute little Irish sod, he couldn’t possibly be the Moriarty. He plays nice. Shakes people’s hands. Compliments them. Flirts with them. Sometimes even gives them a gift to build the trust, sustain the illusion that he is nothing but a lackey before ending their lives simply like he did no more than turn off the television.

Moriarty clears his throat, eyebrows raising with expectation of an answer. He grips Sebastian’s face harder. To the point of being painful. Sebastian hopes he won’t have his handprint permanently etched on his face.

He asked a question. Right.

“Y-ours.” It comes off more broken and rugged than Sebastian had hoped, so he quickly covers it up with a cough.

The flash of mischief in his eyes tells Sebastian that he doesn’t fool him for a second.

But, in a rare act of mercy, Moriarty removes his hand and shuts off the water. He eyes the shower head with the sort of contempt Sebastian thought was reserved exclusively for old ladies of the aristocracy who frown upon, well, everything.

“Your shower is atrocious.” He points out disdainfully, nose wrinkled with disgust.

“My shower apologizes for offending you,” Sebastian mumbles in response, waiting for him to make the first move since it seems unlikely that the encounter is over. Moriarty does not tend to let people talk back to him without exacting some sort of punishment.

Sebastian looks at him expectantly, hoping he will get out of the shower first. Not because Sebastian’s modest, not even close, he was in the army for Gods’ sakes, more guys have seen Sebastian in his birthday suit than he can count. He’s just not exactly eager for his boss to see his ass and give him any more ammunition than he already has.

Although Moriarty implied that he has already seen everything. Sebastian makes a note to ask about that another time when Moriarty is in a good mood, when he might get an actual answer.

He turns his head, giving Sebastian a laugh, eyes sparkling. Evidently back to good spirits, then. Maybe he said the right thing.

To Sebastian’s relief, Moriarty steps out of the bathtub onto the floor mat, sopping wet suit effectively drowning both the mat and the floor. Perhaps sensing Sebastian’s apprehension, he hands him a towel, not without a cheeky smirk, which Sebastian quickly wraps around his waist.

Sebastian brushes past Moriarty, because of course the little fucker can’t take a step back to give him space, and goes to the closet in the hallway where he keeps a couple spare towels. He grabs one and scrambles to find some dry clothes from his room for Moriarty to wear – naturally his boss would expect a change of clothes instead of sloshing around his place in a drenched suit.

Moriarty cracks a wicked grin when Sebastian comes back. In response, Sebastian pointedly throws the towels at his face, grumbling at him to get out of the damned suit.

“Yes, sir,” Moriarty drawls sarcastically, complete with a mock salute but, amazingly, does as he is told.

As Sebastian’s boss changes in the bathroom, he hustles to clean up the bedroom. Sebastian was too busy being bored, lounging on his couch like he was a part of it, watching Law & Order reruns while collecting different take-out containers to do any real upkeep around his place.

Sebastian is in the process of throwing old clothes into his already cluttered closet when the door to the bathroom opens, and Moriarty strides into his room, in his oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot, and drying his hair with a towel. A perfect picture of domesticity. It looks wrong. Feels even weirder.

Sebastian opens his mouth to suggest going into the living room when Moriarty falls back onto his bed as if he’s about to make a god damned snow angel. He closes his eyes and sighs in relief. “Your flat may be horrifying, but your bed isn’t.” He cozies into the covers like a child. “In fact, it’s rather comfortable.”

There are about 25 things that come to mind about what’s wrong with everything that’s happening, but Sebastian has no idea where to begin and doubts Moriarty would even care about any of his concerns. So, Sebastian sits down on the edge of the bed like he’s the one who doesn’t belong.

“Thanks.” He says dryly.

“Offer still stands to find you a place in my neighborhood” His voice takes on a sing-songy, teasing quality like he knows Sebastian won’t accept but enjoys bugging him anyway. “I certainly pay you enough for you to buy a place that is halfway presentable.”

“Response still stands that I work for you professionally, you’re my boss,” Sebastian says, looking away at the ugly cream walls with paint chipping that he should really get fixed instead of looking at him and the way he looks in his sweatpants, the way his white t-shirt clings to his still-wet skin.

“Yeah, you work for me” Moriarty adds a certain inflection to his sentence that causes a rush of blood to shoot straight down to Sebastian’s groin, painting his cheeks a light pink. Sebastian hopes (probably uselessly) that Moriarty doesn’t see in the lighting.

“The job, boss.” Sebastian swallows hard, willing the flush of red from his cheeks and attempting to muster the perfect look of seriousness and sincerity.

“Yes, the job, boring, Sebastian.” He sighs, turning to lay on his side facing Sebastian.

“What the fuck else would we talk about?” Sebastian snaps at him; his annoyance fueled by his embarrassment at being turned on by one fucking look. It’s hard to remember how dangerous Moriarty can be when he’s curled up on a bed like a cat. An incredibly feral cat.

“I can think of a few things” He teases, no, he blatantly flirts with Sebastian because the man really doesn’t care about boundaries.

“So, it’s in Manchester,” Sebastian repeats the one detail he can actually remember. He keeps his gaze hard, mouth a straight line, trying to mimic the cold bastard look his father had perfected over the years.

“Vernon Yates. Young heir to Yates enterprises. Weapons. Billion-dollar company. Why are they so successful?” Jim Moriarty changes moods like flipping a light switch. From flirtatious prick to some kind of mafia boss, callously reciting meticulous details for a hit. Sometimes Sebastian can hardly keep up.

Sebastian’s mind rifles through the endless names and files and emails and everything he’s read that deals with Moriarty’s vast number of exploits. He eventually remembers that Moriarty worked with Vernon’s father, Arnold Yates, to put a monopoly on weapons manufacturing. With the help of the consulting criminal, the senior Yates took down one company after another until Yates Enterprises was the only place to go for any and all weaponry.

Moriarty never mentioned exactly what Yates did for him in return.

Sebastian vaguely wonders if Moriarty didn’t mention any sort of repayment because there wasn’t any. Maybe that’s why he’s asking Sebastian to talk to Vernon and not Arnold...

“I thought Arnold Yates was the head of Yates Enterprises...” Even as Sebastian is saying it, he feels stupid because Moriarty is giving him that exasperated expression that he does when he doesn’t “catch up” fast enough.

“Unfortunate accident.” Moriarty shrugs, and judging by his tone, the man could not care less about the fate of the elder Yates. “Vernon Yates is more than capable of running the company. He’s a spoiled brat. He makes you look like a genius. Insufferable personality but he will do just fine.”

Sebastian knows Moriarty enough to decode his speech into what he was really saying: Arnold Yates did not follow my rules and made me quite unhappy. I was completely responsible for his death. Oops. Vernon Yates is a pitifully stupid pawn that I can more easily move around my chess board. So, he can stay alive. For now.

It’s scary sometimes, the Jim Moriarty that lives inside Sebastian’s head.

“What do I need to do?” Even though he can guess what sort of thing needs to be done, Sebastian learned the hard way that he needs Moriarty to be 100% specific and detailed about the job. There’s some room for improvisation, Moriarty enjoys seeing what Sebastian comes up with, but he tends not to stray too far from the path.

“Remind him to whom he should be thankful. A lesson in gratitude, if you will.” Moriarty rolls over, snatching one of the pillows to rest his chin on, laying on his stomach now and looking up at Sebastian with puppy-dog eyes. “Arnold had forgotten.” He sticks his lower lip out in a mock- pout. “Sad.”

“Yeah?” Sebastian can’t help but smirk. He loves every chance he gets to put rich, entitled bigots in their place. “How should I remind him then? Body part on his doorstep? Kidnap a lover? Push his stupid face into a brick wall, let his broken face be a reminder?”

“We are not savages, Sebastian!” Moriarty pretends to be affronted, eyes going wide like it’s ridiculous for Sebastian to suggest any of the things he just said (and has done in the past). “No, dear, no, this is a social call! You two are going to have a little chat. Over dinner.”

“A chat? About what? The weather? Stocks? Politics?” Sebastian mocks.

“Oh, well, those are all very fine topics, but I was thinking of letting him know what happens to people who step out of line. His daddy didn’t really understand.”

Moriarty’s eyes go dark, taking on that black quality that makes it seem like not even the sun could light them up. The way they look when he is not playing a persona, or, when he is playing his most important persona of all: James Moriarty.

Moriarty clasps his hands together, bringing his index fingers and thumbs together lightly as if to form a gun. Elbows on the bed, his fingers positioned just under his chin.

“Explain to him that Mr. Moriarty is not to be trifled with. Or else…” He trails off playfully, bringing his index fingers to his mouth, blowing lightly.

“Or else what?” Sebastian looks at him, transfixed by his utterly lethal expression and his lips, lightly pressed against his fingers.

“Or else you can ask him what his favorite shoes are made of! Leather? Foam? Synthetics? Rubber? I’m nothing if not accommodating with a dead man’s last wishes.” Moriarty grins, snickering softly, and radiating that always contradictory mix of happiness with thinly veiled menace and threat.

Sebastian realizes then that that’s why his life is so damn boring without Moriarty. He’s literally never met anyone so volatile, so dangerous, so exciting. It’s hypnotic to watch him. To learn just a little more day by day how his beautiful mind works.

Maybe there’s something wrong with Sebastian. Because his boss just threatened to make a young heir of a thriving company into shoes and all Sebastian can do is laugh right along with him.

#mormor fic #mormor fanfiction #jim moriarty #sebastian moran #moriarty #bbc sherlock #my writing

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