Sebastian looked down at Jim. The shorter man was curled up on the sofa, his head on Sebastian’s lap as he lazily watched the news. The sniper was rubbing his back in long, languid strokes and every now and then he paused, only to be reminded of his ‘duty’ by Jim arching slightly and whining.
He’d never say it to his face, but on lazy days like these, when Jim wasn’t planning a murder or throwing a lamp at Sebastian’s head, the consulting criminal was almost cute. ‘Heck’, Sebastian thought to himself, running his fingers softly through Jim’s short hair, ‘he’s fucking adorable’.
Sebastian was in no way a coward, but even he knew that saying such things aloud to Jim Moriarty’s face, or even behind his back, was suicide. The kind of suicide in which you subject yourself to long and painful torture before actually doing the deed. Sebastian wasn’t sure if that type of suicide existed, but if it did, it was the equivalent to calling Jim cute.
So when he leaned forward and muttered into Jim’s ear, he just assumed that he imagined the: “You’re so cute like this”. Clearly, his imagination and thoughts must have mingled with reality, distorting his recollection of events.
He expected a lashing out from Jim, for the shorter man to jump out of his lap and slap him. Or get out a riding crop and prove to Sebastian just how un-cute he could be. In fact, Sebastian didn’t think he’d mind that too much.
As it was, Jim just mumbled something incoherent and nuzzled closer to Sebastian’s lap, his eyes half-lidded from drowsiness. Sebastian gave a short sigh of relief, continuing to pet the back of Jim’s neck soothingly.
He still had no idea whether or not Jim had actually processed what he’d said, but he decided it was best not to try his luck again.
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