Col. Sebastian Moran (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scopedconduit) wrote2012-09-24 10:47 pm
scopedconduit) wrote2012-09-24 10:47 pm
(no subject)
Friday 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.
no subject
Social interaction beyond Sebastian and clients was a trial in and of itself, he rarely left his home beyond business and eating. So just...leaving the penthouse for no reason wasn't going to work either...
He was going stir crazy.
...Perhaps more than a little as he now found himself following his body guard. GPS just wouldn't cut it for him anymore and he liked watching the man act normal. It was incredibly convincing but Jim knew better, not that it mattered to him. Right now he wanted to play a game, he worried his bottom lip just thinking about it.
He hid (not so discreetly) in the shadows a few rows down near another car. Acting as if he'd misplaced his keys or dropped them. Just to pretend to avoid actively attempting to gain Sebastian's attention.
no subject
Step Two. One of tonight's main talking points, for all those new to the meetings. A few who wouldn't come back for a few weeks just because of it. Because they refused to rethink everything they'd decided on religion.
And were too stupid to think of it in any other way.
Wouldn't that stroke Jim's ego? To know Moran had accepted that his Step Two was surrendering to the will of Jim Moriarty. A power greater than himself, something stronger than he would ever be. The spider's web was vast, he was but a string in it, and Jim had the power to remove anyone at any time, with or without his help. But it had helped. What Moriarty decreed was law, and that man had made sure he knew he wasn't supposed to have a drink.
He's been too long a soldier to miss the man. It's dark enough that he can't see who it is, but it's no one who was at the meeting. Every sense is on high alert, and he reaches under his jacket, toward his back --
When a hand touches his other arm. He tenses, turns --
And sees a girl. Too young. He'd thought it in the meeting. Twenty-two, she'd said when she introduced herself. Vi. Twenty-two. In and out of three different rehabs. At least she'd caught it early. And had parents who cared enough to try and send her here. A long way from recovery, though. Still thought she could go out with friends and have "just one" shot for their birthday. She hadn't yet committed to getting rid of it entirely, of accepting that total abstinence had to be the norm for a long, long time before she considered moderation.
But she was too young to listen to someone who knew better.
"Hi!" She smiled. "Hey. I was thinkin'. I didn't eat before I came, and my dad won't expect me home for another hour or two. Want to get something real quick?"
Sebastian chuckled without immediately replying. I'm way too old for you was on his lips, though. And he hadn't forgotten about the man he'd seen. Could be nothing. Just someone who'd used the lot. But Jim had enemies, and those enemies were his enemies. Right now, Vi was a witness or collateral. A good assassin would want neither, and a thug would already be on him.
For now, she was a good shield.