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Jim Moriarty had done the one thing he'd promised Sebastian he would never do. They lived a life of high crime and couture and death and decadence but he'd drawn the line and Jim had crossed it. Sebastian believed, well rather knew that Jim did it to irritate him. In other cases he'd just pretend it didn't until Jim got bored but he couldn't.
The first sign was the late nights. Jim lay on the couch with his beloved laptop on his chest. As gratifying as it was to be allowed see Jim with a double chin, tapping away at his keyboard with Three arms, it still left Sebastian uneasy. His boss had been like that when he'd left this morning and seemingly hadn't moved. When Sebastian went to the bedroom to change and heard Jim's quiet conversation with himself he tried to ignore it. It was very queer, but queerer were to come.
And they did, as they always must, early next morning. The two were sprawled on the luxury king sized bed when at eight o'clock exactly (according to Jim's unerring internal clock) the smaller man sprang onto Sebastian’s chest. He in turn leapt up, his army days screaming danger in his ears. Jim laughed and kissed him softly, soothing him. Sebastian relaxed for a second.
“Come on snake, let's rattle.” said Jim, entirely too loud for the time of morning, and grinned while picking out a dark green shirt.
Sebastian buried him head in a pillow and groaned. He wondered what he did to deserve this.
….
That day was execution day, most were, but Sebastian felt that he might as assign some gravitas to it because it was undoubtedly a big deal to somebody. They walked arm to arm to the hit, their version of romance. However Sebastian’s heart wasn't in it. He was too busy trying to figure out where Jim had picked up this phrase and whether or not it would be a phase or a prolonged living nightmare.
This happened from time to time. Jim would fall in love with some strange slang and insert into into their lives with all the fervour of a themed Disney roller coaster. This situation could snowball into manic redecoration of the apartment and a radical wardrobe change. (Once literally, Sebastian remembers Jim's surfer dude week with chills.)
Before they entered the house of the damned with keys that definitely had not been given freely, Jim turned to Sebastian and smiled. It was one of those shared moments that he lived for. It was like he was in on the joke. So, he climbed out of his head and let Jim have his fun.
This became their routine on days when they went out to merrily do the Grim Reaper’s job for him. Jim would laugh and before leaving say,
“Come on snake, let's rattle”
Sebastian got used to it, it didn't interfere or get worse with time so he allowed it to continue. It became a strange ritual, which Jim usually opposed on principle but Sebastian found comforting so he was content in that at least.
That was until one evening, Jim said those fateful words as they went out. Sebastian knew no one was on the chopping block today so he was disquieted. But he followed like the obedient servant he had become, anxiety ringing his steps like a child who knew they were in trouble when they got home. Jim was in high spirits, dressed for clubbing, in a black shirt with two buttons open they drew the eye. They walked to Soho and entered a club. Sebastian was just thinking that a mass shooting wasn't their MO when he was dragged onto to the dance floor by his beloved.
Jim pulled his close and whispered in his ear.
“An invitation to dance or an invitation to die, honey”
Sebastian rolled his eyes and huffed.
“We are discussing this when we get home”
“Oh hush”