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Sep. 21st, 2012 02:04 amFuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
He hated snow. He hated cold. He hated London.
Fuck.
Really, as he bolted the three-lock door of the penthouse behind him, there was exceedingly little that Sebastian Moran did not hate. He set down his "briefcase" with the barest of noise, handling it gently.
At least Jim had the heat on.
It still didn't feel warm enough to be stripping, but that was exactly what the former soldier was doing as he walked through the hall. First the thick jacket -- hung on a hook near the door. Next, the boots. Discarded three steps past said door, on the mat for them. First layer of trousers were off before he reached the table for mail. Second jacket two steps after that. Then, he pulled off his muffler and leather gloves -- fingerless. His exposed skin -- face and fingers -- were bright pink with cold.
Off came the thick jumper he wore. Then his belt. He didn't care that he was leaving a trail of clothes. Jim would bitch, he'd pick them up in an hour. He didn't even look around the penthouse to see if the mastermind was home. Probably was, shut up in that computer room of his, watching the security feeds. Alert of someone would have brought the front camera to the fore, even with his access code, digital key, and physical key.
All he cared about was his destination: the bathroom.
After eight hours of kneeling of a frozen rooftop in a steady falling snow, he was taking over that room, filling the huge tub -- seriously, he still thought it would serve more effective as a hot tub than for bathing -- with almost scalding water, and staying in it until he felt at least partially human again.
His belt came off at the bathroom door, socks the moment after he crossed the threshold. Stepping on the tile made him swear out loud.
"Fuck."
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
He hated snow. He hated cold. He hated London.
Fuck.
Really, as he bolted the three-lock door of the penthouse behind him, there was exceedingly little that Sebastian Moran did not hate. He set down his "briefcase" with the barest of noise, handling it gently.
At least Jim had the heat on.
It still didn't feel warm enough to be stripping, but that was exactly what the former soldier was doing as he walked through the hall. First the thick jacket -- hung on a hook near the door. Next, the boots. Discarded three steps past said door, on the mat for them. First layer of trousers were off before he reached the table for mail. Second jacket two steps after that. Then, he pulled off his muffler and leather gloves -- fingerless. His exposed skin -- face and fingers -- were bright pink with cold.
Off came the thick jumper he wore. Then his belt. He didn't care that he was leaving a trail of clothes. Jim would bitch, he'd pick them up in an hour. He didn't even look around the penthouse to see if the mastermind was home. Probably was, shut up in that computer room of his, watching the security feeds. Alert of someone would have brought the front camera to the fore, even with his access code, digital key, and physical key.
All he cared about was his destination: the bathroom.
After eight hours of kneeling of a frozen rooftop in a steady falling snow, he was taking over that room, filling the huge tub -- seriously, he still thought it would serve more effective as a hot tub than for bathing -- with almost scalding water, and staying in it until he felt at least partially human again.
His belt came off at the bathroom door, socks the moment after he crossed the threshold. Stepping on the tile made him swear out loud.
"Fuck."
