From across the small table for two, the cool man in grey swirled the tiny spoon in the tiny teacup, which made an awfully loud clatter of clinking and clanking to be such a small, delicate object. To his dismay, the sun was shining a bit too brightly along the Thames and it seemed so incredibly chipper out in the fresh air and spring afternoon that nothing, nothing could possibly go wrong.
It was fucking detestable.
The bright sunshine drew the pupils of the paler of the two men to a pinpoint precision, as small as the dot in the scope of the others favorite toy. Brown eyes, chestnut and smooth as the tie around his neck, glanced across the table at the tanned man in the simple clothes of a civilian: black shirt, jeans, plain watch and army-issued boots.
They had already completed half of the job interview, and the prospected employee had answered each question concise and clever with a glottal stop and cluck of his tongue that flecked between thinly pulled lips. Sebastian Moran had even poured some salt on the table to play with during the interview, fingertips swirling and making tiny pyramids before crushing them callously.
It was then that the tougher of the questions came with the flicker of the serpentine tongue between the lips of the interviewer. The man in the suit crossed his ankle over knee and leaned to prop an elbow on the table, palming his chin as he boringly drawled, Irish slur thick, “How do you feel about killing women and children?”
Poised, yet not ready for a question so strong, the sniper sideglanced in thought before he nodded a few times in response, his British accent matching the thickness of the Dublin purr, “I really don’t care for it, but why the fuck not?”
A curt nod came from the black haired man across the table, and he continued clanking his spoon in his teacup, not yet actually having drawn a sip of it. “And are you capable of following orders with no questions asked?” he followed, eyebrows arched and as he downcast his gaze to the tiny pyramid Sebastian had sculpted on the glass café table.
Moran’s index finger crushed the triangle of salt with the tapping of his middle finger’s callused pad, scattering grains as he made sure to hold eye contact with this answer, “Capable of following orders? Have you forgot how long I served? You don’t just start out as Colonel. I had many superiors. I know how to obey.”
Oh, that answer tickled the fancy of the man across the table, as the interviewer looked up from his milky tea and pulled his lips in a smile that showed rounded teeth under the pouted grin. “And what if you get caught?”
And there, there was the type of question Sebastian had prepared himself for. The man leaned down and puffed a breath at the scattered salt grains, blowing them in all directions, casting them over the edges of the table, before he rose from the stoop. Palms flat on the glass, he smirked slightly and wagged his head, “I don’t get caught.”
There was a moment of silence, a pause, as the interviewer swore he saw fangs showing from the man across the table. Excitement, was it? How delectable. Without so much as touching the tea, the man in the grey suit stood and smoothed this tie and jacket out, and twisted his cufflinks as he answered with a perky mock-British accent, “Congratulations, you’re hired. You’re either incredibly confident or cripplingly moronic, and since I cannot decipher which, I believe I’ll keep you around until I make up my mind.”
With a slide of the metal chair across cobblestone, Sebastian rose to meet his employer - and, suppressing a smirk when he realized just how short the other was - extended a hand with a twisted curl of a half-smile, “Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service, Mr. … can’t I at least know my employer’s name?” And, as the hand extended itself across the table, the interviewer looked at it with the same pitiful contempt that one may harbor when in a grocery store, and some spoiled brat is having a tantrum over not getting the sweets they want. That look of, ‘Christ, that’s pitiful, yet simultaneously obnoxious.’
Regardless, the upper corners of Jim’s lip curled into a smile that seemed to be a bastard child of a smirk and a look of disgust, as the Irishman charismatically slithered his introduction, “Moriarty. Jim Moriarty. It’s a pleasure, Colonel Moran. When can you start?”
(not my gifs, gifsource here)
JIM IS A PARTY GUY
NO ONE CAN TELL ME ANY DIFFERENT NOW
HE’S THAT ONE PERSON THAT ALWAYS GETS INVITED OUT BECAUSE HE’S FUN AND OK MAYBE SOMEONE DIES BUT HEY
THE PARTY WAS FUCKING GREAT BEFORE THAT
THE PARTY WAS FUCKING GREAT BEFORE THAT
Gonna go watch this and draw terrible terrible things now.
that just reminds me of..
WHY HELLO THERE
Someone is combining my two favorite things.
I just came.
Sebastian Moran has these in his closet for special events.
assignstruments.
oh no
mIGHTY NEED……..
Oh god Sherlock’s armoury has been found!
does anyone else ever suddenly get an overwhelming swell of affection for people they’ve only ever known online?
