“Is this the part,” his face remains impassive, as if he’s about to ask after the amount of eggs they have in the refrigerator, “where you confess that you’re in love with me?” He doesn’t roll over, or even open his eyes, content instead to smack at his lips.
The hand in his hair stills, as if frozen in fear, fingers no longer dragging their way through his locks.
“Or the one where you lie and say it simply isn’t true?”
Sebastian has to swallow, the back of his throat dry and painful, pushing towards accepting that Jim knows. “How did you-”
“I always knew.”
“I- I see.” Of course he knew. Things like that don’t slip past him. But there was always something that made Sebastian think that he had a chance, that Jim wouldn’t notice, or would never rat him out about it.
“…nothing to say for yourself?” Jim asks, after a pause. His tone is remarkably absent of mocking. Neither vicious nor caring; and he truly doesn’t seem to care about the answer. Even though Sebastian knows that he does, in some small way, or he would never have asked. “No apologies? excuses? Not going to tell me that I have it all wrong?”
“Mm, that’s one thing in your favour, I suppose.”
Jim rolls over, until he’s on his stomach, staring up at Sebastian. He’s entirely unclothed, body only covered by the sheet that’s mostly hanging off the bed, but there’s something painfully nonsexual about it. Sebastian isn’t drawn to trace the curve of Jim’s skin with his eyes, and relive moments of kissing along it, of scratching his nails down the man’s back.
“Is it?” he’s proud of himself, of how steady his voice is. It feels like it should be shaking, but it stays true to him.
“Do you think I’m going to kill you for it, dear?” Jim’s voice slides through the air like a sharpened blade cutting through silk, and he has to suck in a breath, catch himself.
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Would you like me to kill you for it?” he seems to revise his question, the corners of his mouth tugging up, into what could easily be either a sneer or a smirk.
“Would you stop me?”
He hesitates, thinking about the gun under his pillow. The one in the drawer of the bedside table. The knife taped to the back of the headboard. “No, sir.”
“Good boy,” he murmurs, and he reaches out, for a second making Sebastian think that he’s reaching for him. But he snags the pillow tucked behind Sebastian’s back instead, pulling it out from him to tug it closer, wrap his arms around it. “Go back to your bed,” he orders, shutting his eyes. “It’s time to sleep now.”
The bed shifts, and he hesitates, before padding softly across the floor, feet cold.
“Do it.” It’s an order. In his own way, everything that comes out of Jim’s mouth is an order. But this isn’t the usual type of order. He’s not demanding, he’s not whining, or aggressive. He says it simply. Just two words, softly spoken, perfectly coherent.
“Why would you want me to-” Sebastian doesn’t finish, doesn’t want to look, and suddenly the palms of his hand feel too cold.
“Darling,” and Jim’s voice has grown softer, more understanding. He reaches up, petting the back of Sebastian’s head, breathing in his ear. His eyes are closed. “Just do it. Don’t think about it. Don’t argue with me about it.”
“And if I don’t- if I don’t want to?”
Jim laughs, and he squeezes Sebastian tighter, clinging to the man’s body. “You’ll do it anyway. Because I asked you to.”
“I don’t- I don’t always listen to you.” His breath comes out ragged, and he turns his head, tucking his nose into Jim’s hair. Breathing in the smell of him, his shampoo, the products he puts into his hair.
He can feel the way Jim smiles, the way his touches grow more gentle, nuzzling against him. “You do when it matters,” he whispers, and there’s a certain finality in his tone.
“Jim- I-” he pulls back, moving his head to catch Jim’s lips against his, to rub their mouths together. They breathe between each other’s lips, hot air, slick and groaning. “Don’t ask me to-”
Jim’s tongue slides across his lips, dancing along his tongue, and he shudders, pulling the man as close as he can. His hand shakes.
“Sebastian,” the man murmurs into his mouth, and he seems to fit himself everywhere all at once. In the space between every pore, between his fingers, underneath his skin. All he can feel is Jim.
“Be a good boy,” Jim tells him, “be a good boy for me. Be the best. Be it for me.”
“No, I-” he shuts his eyes tightly, rubbing his mouth harder against Jim’s, until their lips feel like they might bruise. He raises his hand on instinct, unable to hold out any longer against the order. “I should-” he swallows, and Jim licks at his tongue, kittenish as he purrs.
He presses the steel against the side of Jim’s head, near dry sobbing into the man’s mouth. He doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to let go, but he has to do it.
His finger squeezes the trigger.
Jodie: don’t go.
Jodie: Okay what?
Mark: Okay, I’ll stay.