scopedconduit | (no subject)

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."

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"Sounds awful," he simpered. For he was inside and warm and didn't need to go outdoors for anything at all, and he'd be smug about it until Sebastian was as well. Then it wouldn't be of importance.

"How did it go?" For he was constantly anxious to know how Sebastian dispatched of whoever he sent him after. His own personal assassin: it was so very convenient. He should have started doing this ages ago instead of just a year or so. Shame on him.

He had no problem carrying on a conversation with Moran while he defrosted; clothed or not. Nudity wasn't exciting or strange by itself and while Moran was plenty handsome it was exceedingly rare that Jim was driven to the point of distraction by it....if ever.

He padded inside the rather large bathroom and seated himself on the toilet lid, drawing a leg up to hook it under his knee for comfort - he looked so normal.

"One bullet to the head. Right between the eyes." Like every shot he made. He didn't take the shot unless he knew he'd make it and it would kill. The man who'd promoted him from bodyguard to assassin had wanted the best, and Sebastian Moran believed in delivering. "Body probably won't be found until morning. Snow's supposed to last two or three more hours."

Which meant that every footprint and kneel spot and tripod arrangement and tire tread would be wiped away before anyone even knew the man was dead.

He turned off the water, pushed down his boxers, and climbed in the tub. There was a pained but satisfied hiss as he sank down to his shoulders in the tub. He leaned back, letting himself submerge fully before coming up. That felt better already. At least it felt like his blood was flowing again. He was still cold, but hypothermia was no longer on the list of "things to worry about." Which was good. Because that was long enough now, really.

Sebastian breathed out, settling his back against the inside of the tub. "Bank title should pass into your holding company's possession in about four days, five if they're slow on paperwork."

Jim sneered on 'paperwork' and rolled his eyes.

"So many hands to pass through," he trailed off, displeased with the legalities of things that were oddly necessary for his work. Jim's empire was a finely oiled machine, and if anything broke, he had several 'mechanics' to sort it out. Sebastian, however, was not a mechanic- he was, as Jim termed it, his cosseted little weapon, only used several times a year. When not killing high profile targets Sebastian mainly functioned as a bodyguard or sounding board. The rare few times he was bought in to interact with Jim's other hirelings, it's to act as muscle. Jim delighted in watching Sebastian physically break down a man until the only sounds that spilled out of him were whimpers of pain and truths.

It was inspiring, so he said.

"No matter. Your part is done in it." He sighed, knitting his brow and sealing his eyes shut for a moment. Either exhaustion or one of his more manic moods was eating at him. His world may have been like clockwork, but sometimes his brain was so teeming with ideas that he needed to sit back and let it clear itself. Sex fixed that sometimes but Sebastian was cranky and it was - admittedly - much too cold for anything without clothes at the moment.

Or so he felt.

"Shame about it being so damn cold." It was the most roundabout way of apologizing for sending him out in the so-called 'weather' that he could think of at the moment.

But he knew Sebastian spoke fluent Jim.

"At least you keep this place warm."

Sebastian had learned to understand what Jim meant. More than that, he'd learned to read the body language of his employer. Inspired or manic looked quite alike, all things considered. Either way, he knew what would bring that mind in line. If Jim was interested tonight.

"Did like his bank, though," he murmured. His smirk was impossible to miss for someone who knew how to look. "Friendly staff."

Sebastian had worked for four months as the head of security. Under the name Simon Lowell, former lieutenant in the Royal Navy. For once, it had been Sebastian's role that had been key, accessing the sensitive material through entirely legal means. Then, two months in, the boss had hired a good-looking intern, Jamie Monroe. Jamie had resisted the advances of the man, stating again and again that he was not gay. Louis, the man in charge, had made it clear that if Jamie wanted to advance, he'd give in. Simon had noticed Jamie, too. Of course, he'd been even more direct. Coming behind him in the bathroom, rubbing against him, even narrating explicit fantasies right in his ear.

Then, just three weeks ago, he'd dragged Jamie, working late, into his office. He'd pushed the younger, smaller man to his knees in front of his chair and not let him get up until he'd gotten head, come deep in the intern's throat.

Rather than fleeing, though, Jamie had crawled into his lap and rutted against him. Simon had worked Jamie -- never letting him get off, though -- until he was hard again. Then, he'd turned him around and fucked him until Jamie couldn't form a coherent sentence. He'd even gotten him to beg for more.

Of course, the very next day had brought a row heard throughout the bank. Louis fired them both after reviewing the security footage and seeing what had happened in Simon's office. Simon, without regard for the mortified intern still in the room, had only laughed. 'You're just jealous I got to fuck him and you didn't.' By then, though, he'd had all the information he needed.

Simon Lowell and Jamie Monroe had both vanished. Back at the penthouse, James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran had planned to get rid of the man now in their way.

Which was done, despite the hours, cold, and snow. And feeling had finally returned to his fingers and face. Sebastian knew it was probably the last direct.job he'd have for months. Some muscle work, probably, but nothing else with a rifle unless someone got really stupid. They didn't usually. Especially not the ones who required his skill to remove.

Sebastian chuckled to himself, already imagining what Jim's next act would be and wondering how much he'd get to fuck that role. The thought was enough to arouse him. Jim wouldn't see, not across the room and with the tub's ledge, but that didn't stop Sebastian from starting to stroke himself, his pale eyes remaining focused on the man across the room. "Got anything else lined up, Boss?"

If the oh-so casual reminder of the undercover job he'd just happened to sit in on affected Jim, he barely twitched a muscle. He was careful that way, if he wanted you to know he was feeling anything he'd let it show in a precise fashion. All his expressions were slightly artificial because he corrected himself according to who he was or who he was with at the moment. Sebastian Moran wasn't privy to the same kind of expressions that Mycroft Holmes was, for instance. He adjusted; adapted to suit his purpose.

Sebastian was the only one who saw the blank slate. Not the empty, endless look that he sometimes got that made it look like something else was peering out of his eyes. Just..blank. Easily changed.

"Not for a week, no."

He could feel Sebastian's gaze boring into him as he said it but he remained still. Perhaps he wanted to see what would happen?

"Such a long time."

Sebastian Slipped beneath the water briefly, wetting his hair and face, though he doesn't begin to wash in earnest. Not yet. The warm water is too settling, too comfortable. It's nice. Especially after the cold of the kill. Too cold to even have fun with it. To even enjoy it.

It was slightly teasing, that remark. But, then, Jim hated to be idle, to do nothing. And watching his schemes come off and the money roll in without him having to touch a thing felt, to Jim, like nothing.