MorMor short, set after S3 Ep3
Michael Fassbender as Sebastian Moran
As he stood outside the door to the penthouse, he hesitated. Adjusting his hood, and checking the time, he mentally prepared himself. The past three years had been more difficult than he had anticipated that they would be. Staring at the frosted glass, he sighed. Instead of his usually impeccable dress sense, Jim was wearing a hoodie, jeans and trainers; after all, he was practically famous, and presumed dead. After checking his watch â the only thing he had kept from the past three years, a gift from his sniper â one last time, he produced a silver key from his pocket, and snuck into his apartment like a rebellious teenager after curfew. The door closed silently behind him. A buzzing noise filled the hallway. Peeking around the corner, Jim saw him, his tousled blonde hair, a glass of what he presumed to be his own favourite whiskey in his hand. His back was towards Jim, a smoke grey shirt stretched across his muscular shoulders, the black straps of his gun holster running along his sides. His heart leapt in his chest. Moran was watching the news, and by watching, Jim knew it was merely background noise for his thoughts. Only two more minutes, he thought, turning away from Moran, and resting his head against the smooth white wall. The time seemed to drag, and Jim was tired of living in the shadows, he was bored of hiding and not existing. He had missed his Sebastian.
Sebastian Moran had been a puzzle to Jim, something to alleviate his boredom, someone he desperately wanted to unravel, to gain the satisfaction of knowing how to push all of his buttons, to know his mind like the lines on the palm of his own hand. He wanted to have total control over Sebastian, add him to his private collection. Something about him seemed to captivate Jim. It wasnât his looks, as much as he was devilishly handsome, nor was it his perfectly sculpted body. Perhaps it was the way that Sebastian had understood him. He knew what it felt like to grow bored; he understood the necessity for a little â or a lot of â chaos. Without blinking an eye, he would take out a target, or detonate a bomb, or fight in hand-to-hand combat, and make it look as graceful as a dance.
Everything about Sebastian screamed assassin: the rugged stubble along his jawline, his toned chest adorned with scars, the way his eyes just screamed danger, how he would pin Jim against the wall, the floor â really any surface â and claim Jimâs lips as his prize. Jim was entranced by Sebâs seductive smirk as he scolded him for his disobedience, reminding Moran that he was in charge.
âSorry Sir, but I know how much you enjoy it.â Was his usual witty response.
âDonât get too cocky, I can still have you killed if and whenever I choose.â
âYou know you love me too much; Iâm valuable to you. Plus, Iâm especially good in the bedroom.â He grinned wildly.
âThatâs not true. I tolerate you. The sex is remarkably good, but donât think for a second that youâre not irreplaceable.â The first part was of course a lie, but Jim wouldnât give Moran the satisfaction of an even larger ego then he already had.
After he faked his death, he went into hiding. As much as he wanted to, he couldnât tell Seb anything. He knew the whole of England would be watching and looking for any of his associates; he couldnât risk them getting to his Moran. Surprisingly, he felt guilty for not leaving a note or a message, something he had not expected to feel.
For those three years, he longed to see his lopsided maniacal grin, or to watch the muscles in his arms as he aimed and shot. He missed the dark sense of humour only the two shared, and he ached to run his fingers along any of Sebastianâs many scars, or the sharp lines of his jaw, the defined swell of muscle along his arms, his chest, anywhere. As far as Moran was concerned, Jim merely left one day, and never returned. He would have found out about his supposed death from the newspapers and the radio. Jim felt cruel.
His face flooded the screen. This was happening nationwide. Sebastian Moran sprung to his feet, the glass slipping through his hand, and shattering on the floor. A repeated melody echoed through the room, âDid you miss me?â
âWhat theâŚâ Moran whispered. Jim had forgotten how beautiful his deep, sultry Irish accent was. He grabbed the remote from the glass coffee table â Jim had been blessed with a finesse for choosing beautiful furniture as well as clothing. Changing the channel, Moran was met with the same image, the same words produced by the TV. This had taken months of planning, and the assistance from a former member of one secret service or another. Sebastian flicked from channel to channel, until eventually the broadcast had been intercepted. Removing his hoodie, revealing a clean, crisp white shirt underneath, he threw it onto the black sofa. Moran turned towards the hallway, his right hand reaching for his pistol. Stepping out into the light, Jim saw those icy blue eyes he had missed, and revelled in the mixture of confusion, anger and elation he saw cross over them.
âHi honey. Iâm home.â He dropped his duffel bag on the frosted white tiles, holding his hands outwards, gesturing like a statue or a powerful god or king. Sebastian took a shaky step forward, his pistol drawn and aimed with a swiftness only Moran could muster. His hands were steady, his breaths not so much. âNow, now. Thatâs not a very nice way to greet me! Iâm a tad offended.â
âYouâre really you? Youâre really here?â he asked, desperation piercing his tone. He placed his pistol down against the glass table, his hands trembling slightly, stepping around the sofa to stand before his former boss. He rectified his posture, standing up tall like the good soldier he was.
âCourse I am. Did you really think I was dead?â Jim asked sincerely.
âYou were gone for three tears, you left me no reason to think you were ever coming back. And then I saw the news, and they said you were dead. What was I supposed to believe, Jim? I had to bury you!â Sebastian spat bitterly.
âDarling, I couldnât leave you any clues, they wouldâve found you, and I couldnât lose my best marksman, now could I?â Jimâs guilt grew, seeping from every pore, yet he couldnât find the words to say he was sorry.
âAnd by that you mean you couldnât let me lead them to you.â
âWellâŚâ he paused, âEveryone becomes a traitor in the end, regardless of if they mean to be.â At this, Moran stormed forward, and Jim walked back, feeling smooth glass against his back. One of the main reasons that he chose this place was the fact that one whole wall was purely a window, nothing else, just a large pane of glass running along the length of the room. Many nights were spent looking out over the spectacular view of London, as Jim longed to have it all under his control. Moran would stand behind him, his bare chest pressed against his back, a cigarette in one hand, the other wrapped around Jim, and theyâd stare at his future empire.
âI would never have betrayed you. I was loyal for every single day of those three years whilst you were gone, I mourned, for three years, and you dare to question my sincerity?!â Moran yelled, slamming his fist against the glass just above Jimâs head, pinning him there.
âOh, Seb. I never questioned your loyalty.â Jim laughed, and Moran sighed.
âYou meanâŚâ He trailed off.
âI couldnât let them get you. Iâm not sorry though.â He whispered, tenderly kissing Sebâs neck. âI just,â He kissed his jaw now, âLike,â his cheek, âTo see you so,â the corner of his mouth. âFrustrated.â He placed a feather of a kiss onto Sebâs lips, barely even a touch, teasing him.
âYou bastard.â Moran laughed softly, as Jim pushed him back, turning around so now Seb was against the glass. âIâm glad youâre back. It was boring without you.â One of his hands rested on Jimâs hip, the other brushed at his fine, dark stubble.
âOf course it was, Iâm the life and soul of the party.â His hand trailed down Sebâs chest, feeling the firm muscles underneath his shirt. He had kept himself in good shape then. His hair was longer then it had been, his face leaner, itâs contours a little sharper; loss looked good on him.
âFuck, Iâve missed you.â Moran exclaimed, his bitter-sweet whiskey tainted breath washing over Jim.
âDid you cry for me?â he asked, seemingly out of the blue. âWhen you had to bury me.â Sebastian was astonished, insulted. Jim had to know, to understand.
âOf course I did. Who wouldnât? You were the only one who understood me. It wasnât just work with you, it was fun. You could have ruled the world, have it bow down before you, and you let me be a part of that.â Jim thought he looked nervous, his sky-blue eyes glassy, his breaths shallow.
âI didnât mean to put you though all of that. I didnât know that⌠I didnât know that I meant that much to you.â Jim kissed him, and it was lustful yet tender.
âDonât flatter yourself, Jim.â Moran laughed, licking his lips, his tone dripping with seduction. âGod,â he muttered, âI fucking love you.â He leant forward, claiming Jimâs lips with a ravenous hunger. Jim closed his eyed, relishing the feeling of being back with his Sebastian.
âI love fucking you.â Jim squeezed out between Moranâs rapid fire kisses. He tangled his hands in his soft hair
âI feel sorry for your bed, itâs been neglected these last three years.â Sebâs lips trailed along his skin, down his jaw, his neck, until he reached the collarbone. Jim let out a small gasp, heâd missed this. Moran smiled against his skin, planting soft kisses anywhere and everywhere he could.
âWell, Iâm sure it will be receiving some much-needed attention tonight.â Jim forced out reluctantly.
âWhy wait until tonight?â He tempted, biting softly at Jimâs skin, the way he used to. Now that his Jim was back, he wasnât going to let him go anywhere.
âBecause we have work to do right now.â As much as he wanted to continue, he stopped himself from giving in to Seb. His love made him high, but he needed a clear mind for now, this could wait until the sun went down.
âWhat work?â He pulled away, and the warmth Jim felt against his skin was replaced with iciness, but his hands, now on his sides, burned hotter than the flames of hell.
âRebuilding our empire.â Jim gave his usual smirk, and Moran looked surprised.
âOur?â He asked, questioning whether he heard properly.
âWell thereâs no point in me being your boss anymore, you just do as you please. I canât control you anymore, but youâre too good to let go.â
âItâs your own fault for being so lenient with me, boss.â Moran pulled Jim closer, kissing him again. His lips were soft, just as they used to be, and they worked together effortlessly.
Moran smelled like cigarette smoke and vanilla and that expensive cologne that Jim had brought for him; he hated having to smell the cheap stuff he would wear every day. His hands on his face were rough and calloused, covered in small cuts from knives and blades, and one long scar ran along the top of his left hand. Jim could remember watching Seb stitch it up himself, not even wincing.
Jim smelt different, Seb remembered, he looked different. Cheap shampoo and fairly basic clothes, nothing luxurious. The casual look suited him, the jeans and the button up shirt were sexy, he thought, he wanted to rip the shirt off him, to throw it across the room and watch it flutter gracefully towards the floor. He missed the suits though, he missed the snide remarks and the feeling of authority that he gave off when wearing them. It made Seb feel powerful just looking at him.
They pulled apart. Jim had returned, yet something was missing.
âIs everything where it should be?â He called over his shoulder as he headed towards his room.
âEnough with the âSirâ, sweetheart, I told you, weâre equals now.â Spinning so he was facing Moran, he continued walking backwards, smiling at him,
âPartners in crime.â Sebastian stepped forwards, hands in his pockets. He was overjoyed, but he attempted to not let it show. He thought of the mess they could make, the destruction they could create; he grinned.
âAbsolutely. Although, do clean up the awful mess youâve made. Donât want to ruin the rug now do we?ââ He disappeared through the door with his famous smirk.
As he grabbed the dustpan and brush, a record began playing from behind Jimâs closed door â "Guess whoâs back, back againâŚâ. Sebastian laughed to himself, Jim certainly had a sense of style. Thankfully, most of the glass had remained in one piece, and only small fragments had broken away. The more difficult task was attempting to remove the bright amber stain from the white rug. He could remove blood from any surface you wished with no problem; he could leave a crime scene cleaner than it was beforehand, but removing whiskey was a trickier task. He dabbed at it, then wiped, then scrubbed, yet it didnât seem to budge.
âIâll just buy a new one.â He said as he resigned from the task. Returning the cleaning tools back into the cupboard under the sink, he whistled to himself, feeling at ease for the first time in what felt like forever. Life was back to normality now, well as normal as you could get with a man hell-bent on taking power, and another with an addiction to pulling triggers.
The door clicked open, and out of it walked Moriarty. His hair was impeccably slicked back, the scruffy jeans and trainers traded for one of his favourite suits, and a pair of perfectly shined shoes. The music flowed freely into the room now, a different song, the Backstreet Boys, Everybody. Sebastian watched as he walked towards him, a figure of unstoppable power. He wasnât Jim at the moment, purely Moriarty, the criminal mastermind.
âIâm back.â He said. The menace in his eyes had returned, and it was glorious. He dripped sex appeal, and Seb had to refrain from storming across the room and taking him there and then.
âThe old look wasnât too bad.â He said, visibly gulping.
âReally darling? Three years of dreadful clothes. Iâm finally in something decent. We both know this is much better.â
âYouâre such a drama queen, the music, the clothes, making a big entrance-â
â-You wouldnât have me any other way.â Moriarty said, closing the distance between them. He pulled on Sebâs holster strap, bringing him down. âJust because weâre equals now, donât think you can disobey me. Youâre still mine. Donât make me regret trusting you.â
âYou wonât regret it.â Moran breathed, with the upmost sincerity, which seemed to please Moriarty. He crashed his lips against Sebastianâs. He was in control, his tongue exploring his mouth. It had been so long. Seb didnât dare run his hands through Moriartyâs hair, instead placing them against the small of his back, pressing him closer. He bit at Sebâs lips, the mixture of pain and pleasure intoxicating. He drew away slowly, leaving him high and dry.
Moriarty stalked across the room, stopping at the dining table and filling a glass with whiskey from the decanter, then standing before the window. Sebastian ran his fingers through his hair, before joining him.
âWhere do we start?â He asked. Moriarty sipped his drink, staring out at the city brimming with life.
âBy destroying Sherlock Holmes and his little pet Watson.â
