#drabble!meme

It’s funny how something so minor could turn a life upside down.

One month in and Sebastian could barely find the resolve to pick himself up, to gather the shards of himself scattered haphazardly across the floor, and piece them back together to form some semblance of the man he had been merely weeks ago. Without the tug of duty and the beckoning of work, he could barely find the discipline to drag himself out of bed, could barely justify the need to put the bottle of whiskey away.

He’d finally come full circle—fallen back into himself, his past as the desperate, lowly ex-soldier before Moriarty had appeared to offer him a job and a life.

How fitting that she’d be the one to take it away.

All sense of self-worth had been torn from him the day Jamie had fired him, banished him, and told him to not even consider coming back. Any inkling of purpose had diminished up to the point where it stood, pathetic and negligible, against the immense guilt that had come in its wake. Guilt and anger.

At himself. And the fucking agent.

It’s six weeks in before he manages to get himself an address, six weeks before he manages to set out to find the man with nothing but a gun holstered to his shoulder and one intention burned into the back of his mind.

He doesn’t expect to find the man, stumbling to the door, a weak, questioning, “Jamie,” falling from his lips as he tugs at a door stopped by a chain. The man looked as pathetic as he felt.

"Moran? What—”

"This is for the good of everybody, agent. Shut the fuck up."

A slight pause.

"You’re not looking too hot."

Coulson sees the gun against his forehead when it’s too late.

Had Sebastian known that Jamie had been planning to apologise some time in the coming week, he would have waited.

Without hesitation.

It’s two weeks before Christmas when the other Moran turns up on his doorstep. The grim expression is the first thing Sebastian notices, the way Bastian’s features bear the weight of the drink and and sleepless nights, the exact count of which had been lost after the first couple. The second thing he notices is the man’s damp hair, speckled with yet unmelted frost, and his nose, pink with the cold—

"Broke up with Basher," he offers, quiet.

—Or crying.

Sebastian ushers him in, offers him tea, and they talk about it, but when Sebastian fails to contribute anything useful to the discussion, they drop it. They sit for a long time in silence after that, enjoying the comfort and the warmth of the flat and each other’s company. 

Perhaps it was helping. Sebastian couldn’t be sure.

"Want to build a snowman?" He ventures.

It’s a childish suggestion, he knows, and he lets out a belated laugh once he realises. But, to be honest, it’s more likely going to turn into a snowball fight with double the competitive streak (it’s another Moran, after all); and that’s a good way to blow off steam if there ever was one.

When there’s no reply, he shrugs.

"Well, it’s snowing outside. Doesn’t have to be a snowman. Icy a good place to have a snowball fight."

It’s met with the slightest crack of a smile and a huff that has the potential to mean both yes and no at the same time. He can’t tell.

"Glad I amuse you, ma—" He lets out an undignified oof as his gloves hit him square in the face. Once he manages to pull himself upright once more, he stares into the face of the other Moran, looking just as tired and worn as he had when he’d walked in the door. Perhaps even more so.

But there’s a quirk of the corner of his lips and a chuckle.

"You’re going to get smashed, Sebbles."

It’s been a while since the professor had been brought down with something as ordinary as the common cold, as he puts it. The continuous cacophony of sneezes and of an excessively runny nose being blown into a tissue manages to fill the flat; although, thankfully, significantly diminishing in volume as it moves between the man’s bedroom and his office (a biologically safe distance away), where Sebastian had decided to babysit from. 

Everything from requests for chicken soup to ‘tea—yes i can have tea while I’m sick—get me tea, Moran' had been tossed at him in the past couple of days, and the man had begun to call Sebastian, rather croakily, to make requests with rapidly increasing frequency. And, if nothing, that was a sure sign of the man's increasing boredom and impatience with the whole matter.

Today, though, he calls Sebastian, in a voice that’s nasal as well as hoarse, barely two minutes after Sebastian’s settled down at his computer. Well, it’s not as though he expected to get any work done.

"Yes, boss?"

"I’ve written my next lecture. I’d like to test it out before presenting it, and since I’m unable to ask one of my students at the present time—"

Sebastian cocks an eyebrow, but he sits himself down nonetheless. Half a minute in and he’s lost, the confused expression in his eyes doing nothing to match the grin that’s curling his lips. It’s the voice; they way he can’t pronounce the ‘n’s due to his blocked nose while the rest comes out nasal, the way he struggles to keep his voice sounding professional when it’s hoarse and punctuated by refined coughs and rather sudden sneezes.

Sebastian is giggling.

"If you’re not going to listen, Moran, I’d rather you leave."

Ever the stern professor.

"I understand that you’re talking about co-ordinates, but I don’t see a point."

That earns him an astronomical eye roll.

"Maybe you should save your voice and teach me in sine language."

"Moran—" 

"I don’t know, boss, what you’re telling me just doesn’t add up in my head—"

"You and your sense of humour are undoubtedly weapons of math disruption, Moran."

Send me a prompt and I’ll write a 4-5 sentence drabble about it

New York was when he’d first noticed them; slipping in and out, from between close-pressed buildings and across busy streets— tails who weren’t just eyes of excessively paranoid clientele because they were way too fucking good for that.

Jim had noticed, too, of course— like Jim wasn’t going to notice being tailed— but he continued painting an illusion of the oblivious entrepreneur, all wild gestures and overenthusiastic speech about the most boring shit he could come up with.

It wasn’t long after that, Sebastian noticed the people falling away, retreating between buildings, underground. 

When he spun around, all he managed to catch was a glimpse of her sharp eyes and fiery red hair.

Jack’s in the middle of pouring them a drink when he hears it. Tony’s been here for all of five minutes, smiling that strained smile he always plasters all over his face whenever he wants you not to worry.

His hand shakes, and his hold on the bottle falters. He only just manages to put it back down, but it clatters audibly on the wooden surface. The bar is empty safe for them, and Jack wishes for a moment that he’d opened tonight. If only so he could’ve pretended not to hear those words. If only so the noise of unknown faces, carelessly drinking their lives away, could have drowned out Tony’s voice. If only so he couldn’t still hear his heart slow down to painfully and loudly stab ribcage with every pulse of blood.

If only.

"No—" Jack’s not looking at him, can’t look at him—won’t meet those brown eyes and see the truth he knows he’ll find in them. "No, you’re not."

But Tony’s talking of something the doctors missed, of shrapnel, and blood poisoning, and a bunch of technicalities and medical rambling that does nothing to stop Jack’s chest from constricting with every painful breath he takes.

"You said—" And he feels a hand on his back, and he hears Tony telling him to breathe, and he can only pathetically try to bat those calloused hands away before he falters and looks.