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Sep. 24th, 2012 10:47 pmFriday nights. That was his night off, the arrangement with James Moriarty for four months now. He went out, no questions asked where he went. Though, with all the GPS of his phone and car, he was sure Moriarty had checked in on him at least once. Probably more often. Every Friday night, his car and cellphone spent an hour in the same place.
Grosvenor Chapel.
He did not go out of any religious conviction, no. The last time he'd set foot in any establishment for the purpose of religion had been before his first tour, before the war.
Jim had to know why he went. It wasn't a secret. Sure, Sebastian never mentioned it, but they both knew James knew about his troubles with alcohol. About the accidents that had led him to counselling. Which had failed. But the meetings helped. At least a bit. Gave him an hour a week where he didn't have to pretend nothing was wrong, didn't have to just wave away a drink but could actually talk about it.
Not that he usually did. He preferred to listen. But sometimes, like tonight, he talked. Talked about his job -- as far as anyone there knew. About being security for the president of a bank and the high-class clientèle he would entertain at parties. The expensive liquor that the hosts would pour and that he'd have to blissfully ignore. Nothing soured moods more, he'd found, than the truth of why he wasn't drinking, so he never mentioned it.
And it was true... His boss just didn't run a bank.
Tonight, he even felt good enough that he didn't immediately reach for his cigarettes. Those, he used less than booze, when he'd used to have it on him. It took him a month to go through a pack, three weeks if life was rough. Better than three bottles a day of hard liquor. More if he had people around to encourage him to drink.
Jim would probably laugh, Sebastian knew. If he knew about this good mood, the feeling of accomplishment. Cold turkey, six months sober. A stupid little chip to show for it. That's all Jim would probably see. Sebastian? Sebastian knew what he had to show for it. He had a life. He was still alive, he had a job, and he could hold a gun steady. Just before the accident, he hadn't even been able to sight with a scope, his hands would shake too bad without a drink and his sight would blur too much without one.
So, yeah, a stupid little chip, he thought as he walked across the parking lot to his car. But damned if he wasn't happy to have it.
Grosvenor Chapel.
He did not go out of any religious conviction, no. The last time he'd set foot in any establishment for the purpose of religion had been before his first tour, before the war.
Jim had to know why he went. It wasn't a secret. Sure, Sebastian never mentioned it, but they both knew James knew about his troubles with alcohol. About the accidents that had led him to counselling. Which had failed. But the meetings helped. At least a bit. Gave him an hour a week where he didn't have to pretend nothing was wrong, didn't have to just wave away a drink but could actually talk about it.
Not that he usually did. He preferred to listen. But sometimes, like tonight, he talked. Talked about his job -- as far as anyone there knew. About being security for the president of a bank and the high-class clientèle he would entertain at parties. The expensive liquor that the hosts would pour and that he'd have to blissfully ignore. Nothing soured moods more, he'd found, than the truth of why he wasn't drinking, so he never mentioned it.
And it was true... His boss just didn't run a bank.
Tonight, he even felt good enough that he didn't immediately reach for his cigarettes. Those, he used less than booze, when he'd used to have it on him. It took him a month to go through a pack, three weeks if life was rough. Better than three bottles a day of hard liquor. More if he had people around to encourage him to drink.
Jim would probably laugh, Sebastian knew. If he knew about this good mood, the feeling of accomplishment. Cold turkey, six months sober. A stupid little chip to show for it. That's all Jim would probably see. Sebastian? Sebastian knew what he had to show for it. He had a life. He was still alive, he had a job, and he could hold a gun steady. Just before the accident, he hadn't even been able to sight with a scope, his hands would shake too bad without a drink and his sight would blur too much without one.
So, yeah, a stupid little chip, he thought as he walked across the parking lot to his car. But damned if he wasn't happy to have it.
