Also, I have a penchant for expensive cookware and poetry. Everyone needs at least three obsessions in his life. You can guess at my third.
(RP blog for BBC Sherlock super villain Jim Moriarty. This blog is rather often NSFW. Sorry, but because of my canon storylines, I don't play any parent!lock.)
“Black’s a little bit Reservoir Dogs, you twat,” Nick laughed, though he was already laughing at Jim’s mimicry of his accent. Since living in the UK, he found himself much more used to saying words like ‘twat’ and ‘cunt,’ which both seemed to be applied much more casually than at home. At home, ‘cunt’ want very high on the insult echelon, almost to the point of being too taboo to use; here, men seemed to use it near constantly. Affectionately.
He shook his head as they walked, reaching over to tug his friend out of the way of a woman with an oversized handbag.
“I was thinking dark gray or navy. I’m too fucking pasty for black. I like gray though. Maybe a dark gray that tends toward blue.”
Feeling suddenly self-conscious for his enthusiasm, he laughed. Even though he considered Jim his other half, he truly thought him to be the better half. Even now, there were times that he waited for Jim’s judgments, though none had ever really been pronounced.
“But whatever.”
Jim watched Nick as he spoke, didn’t interupt, though his eyebrows were very eloquent as he listened. That was it, that was what would take them to the very top, those bursts of almost frantic enthusiasm Nick displayed at times. He was so calm, really, so in control of his emotions and his temper and meeting the entire world with that very slight smile on his full lips at all times. And Jim had come to depend on that, really; they were both boys in love with maths, but Nicky really played the numbers game, the proofs and logic and statistics of every situation, drawing out the chances as though the world was a poker game, a horse race, a game of chance that was less chance that appeared once Nicky had spun out every digit.
But the flashes were the bits that matched Jim, flashes of hot summer fire that consumed but didn’t warm exactly.
“No, no, not whatever! I was thinking navy for you too.” He looked down at himself; he was dressed in all black as usual, not minding that it washed out his pale skin and gave him a slightly funereal appearance. The skeleton hoodie pushed it from ‘slightly’ to ‘very,’ and he still liked that.
He turned to actually walk beside his friend.
“I think I’ll go black. A good black, not that ‘I’ve been through the wash thrice’ blacks.” He grinned wickedly, leaning his head back and smiling at the grey sky above them. “A properly Grim Reaper black.”
Nick followed after him as he walked out into the hallway, reflexively closing the door behind them and checking to make sure that the lock had caught. It wasn’t necessary with their security system (which Jim was arming from his mobile even now), but it was a habit he’d picked up at home before he’d moved out. College, particularly the theft of several hundred dollars of text books that occurred while he was rooming with a dull-witted pothead his freshman year, had also taught him to make sure that he was the one to lock the door.
He locked a lot of things that probably didn’t need to be locked.
As they walked through the narrow hallway to the slightly rickety stairs, he bumped his hip lightly against his friend’s. Most displays of affection stopped as soon as they left the privacy of their flat; while neither of them held any disdain for homosexuality, both were aware that any deviance from “normal” would be perceived by weakness by Jim’s future subordinates. As such, they acted almost like siblings in public, keeping frequent contact through jostling or prodding the other.
They could both read and understand that.
He smirked at his friend, tucking an errant piece of dark hair behind his ear, “You know everything, huh? What am I thinking right now?”
Jim laughed as they walked, closing his phone and putting it into his jacket pocket before closing his eyes and putting a finger to each temple. He trusted his friend to keep him from tripping over drunks, small dogs, or children.
“You’re thinking…wait, hold on, let me find the network…you’re thinking that I’m being an arse. No wait!” He opened his dark eyes suddenly, turning them to his friend, wide and wicked. “I’m being an ‘ass hole.’” He gave the words a particularly nasal tone, mimicking (mostly fondly) his friend’s New York City inflections. The young criminal laughed again as they stepped out onto the street, loudly, stridently, not caring who turned to look at them as they walked. It didn’t matter. Let them look. Let them be jealous of the only two real human beings in London.
“So…this suit of yours…” His mind was working on at least ten different things, cycling and picking up bits that were interesting and filing things that were for later. The index cards in his mind fluttered when new ideas happened, re-organizing themselves and re-filing after edits. “You won’t get it in black, will you?”
Nick made a face at him, “You still haven’t decided what you want. I want something that has a flavor beyond the oil it was fried in or the cigarette the cook was smoking.”
He watched Jim thoughtfully, hooking his index finger his friend’s belt loop and dragging him closer toward him for a moment. He grinned at him, his expression mirroring his friend’s occasionally manic grins, “You think you know everything, so you decide. We’ll eat, we’ll talk suits. Or god, anything. Talking to my thesis advisor makes me want to fucking kill things.”
It was strange to think that since knowing Jim, he’d made his first kill.
“A sandwich,” Jim said simply. “How about that? What goes in between the bread doesn’t matter to me so much; I may just pull it all out and just eat the bread. That’s what sounds good to me.”
He wrinkled his nose and laughed, pulling away from his friend with a quick shove at his chest, hard enough to move him but in no way looking to actually hurt or knock him.
“I bet you’re in the mood for salad. And I don’t think I know everything, I just do. And the things I don’t know, I’ll know soon enough.” It was an airy, mocking statement, said to make Nick smile, but there was some sort of granite subfloor to the sentence, a metal lining to his voice. He grabbed a light jacket off the back of a chair and pulled it on as he walked to the door, walking back to grab his keys and wallet off the kitchen counter.
“Come on then!”
“I’ll take your advice, long as it’s better than your early advice about my hair,” Nick replied, pulling on his coat.
When they’d met, Nick’s hair had been too long. He’d said it was a fashion thing (and it partly was), but it was largely that he was rather broke and couldn’t afford a good haircut. Jim had insisted that he cut his hair, and cut it short. It had been too short for Nick’s taste, though thankfully it grew quickly. Jim still nagged him occasionally about his slightly too-long hair, but they’d agreed that the length that seemed to work best for professionalism and aesthetics was just above the round of his shirt collar with the front coming to just around his eyebrow.
Their views on fashion did not always align exactly; some of it could be explained by differences in social class, some could be explained by differences in national origin, some could be explained by differences in body type. Jim favored Italian suits for his narrower shoulders and softer waist; Nick generally liked American suits because their sharp lines neatly shaped his shoulders and narrow hips.
Moved by the same sporadic affection as his non-romantic soulmate, he caught Jim’s face in both hands and kissed him back. It was a little more lingering, a little less forceful, but very much his version of the same mood.
“And we can go whenever. They just said to call first to make sure someone’s there.”
Jim laughed brightly as he pulled back from the kiss, even as Nick was still holding his face. He reached up behind his friend’s head and brushed all his hair forward with his fingers.
“My advice on your hair was some of the soundest advice you’ve ever received, Nicky,” he said, still half laughing. “What were you trying to do with that hair? Being called ‘miss’ once wasn’t enough for you?”
In fairness, they’d been at a pub very late at night and all involved had been drinking fairly heavily. None more so than the young American, though already he held his liquor better than many of their elder colleagues. In truth, Nick had impressed many of the other criminals they worked with solely on the fact that he drank so damnably well. As though this skill surpassed his planning or his way of predicting the outcome of an event with mathematical logic. Jim Moriarty was a good drinker (he was Irish and determined), but there came a point when he knew he’d had too much and stopped himself when they were in public. Any more could lead to trouble, and he was too careful for that. Nicky didn’t have that stopping point, didn’t have a lever to switch off and put the glass down. It really was a blessing that he could outlast nearly everyone, otherwise he could have been putting himself in serious danger.
He pulled back and smoothed his own hair, looking at his friend’s mussed brown hair.
“Well, call for any time then. You know my schedule as well as you know your own, and I’m game. But for the Lord’s sake, Nicky, let’s get food. You can tell me all about your suit leanings while we’re out, and then I can tell you if I’ll allow it or make a better choice for you.” Jim grabbed his keys from the counter. “Don’t forget to set the alarm.” The two had built it, and were rather proud. Really, two uni students should not have had much worth stealing, but the two fledgling criminals had plenty that required more than a simple lock and key to keep safe.
“Sure do,” Nick replied, grinning at him, “They’re not… well, they’re not the top. But we can get bespoke suits for around £1000 each, which would be a definite step up from what we’ve got.”
They each had one or two suits that could be considered “nice.” Early on, they had each bought a decent suit on consignment, then had it tailored to fit. The important thing, they’d decided, was the fabric and fit. Buying a used suit in an older cut meant that they could afford a finer fabric; taking it to a decent tailor meant that they could update the cut slightly and have it pulled in to fit their admittedly thinner frames.
Their best shoes were much the same - beat-up designer shoes that they had paid to have resoled and redressed. While the fee for the restoration had not been cheap, it meant that Nick had acquired a beautiful pair of Stefano Bemer dress shoes for under £100.
At this point, though, Nick felt as though they had graduated to the next stage; he wanted to return to New York to start his career in a suit that he had fitted with his best friend. He wanted them to coordinate somehow; not match, but to outwardly show some of the commonality that they shared.
Jim stood up and neatened the legs of his jeans as he did. The look on his friend’s face was one he knew well; while they didn’t share any similar features, it was like looking into a mirror. There was something in the smile, in the slight raise to the eyebrows, something to the way their eyes were somehow lighter. His friend, his only friend. He was pretty sure there was another word, a better word, but he didn’t know what it was.
“Excellent.” He walked over to the American and grabbed his chin. “I think we’re ready for it too. When did you plan this out? You didn’t even tell me!”
The Irishman darted forward to kiss Nick, fondly and just slightly violently. He pulled back and looked his friend over, then smoothed Nick’s hair, then smoothed his own. As though he was looking at a mirror.
“And when are we going down for this?” Jim found himself stupidly enthusiastic. He’d had new suits made for him before, but Nicky clearly hadn’t. And the building anticipation in his friend’s pale eyes seemed catching. “And are you going to take my advice when we go?”
“Yeah, yeah…” Nick replied, rolling to his feet. He walked lazily through the living room, looping haphazardly as he tried to remember where he had taken off his own shoes.
“It’s cash coming by courier. Should be here tonight by five.”He leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom, stepping into his sneakers. He glanced over at his friend, noting that his hair was more consistent in length lately, less of a gothy fauxhawk than it had been when they’d met. In general, the Irish criminal had turned more professional, less outwardly vivid. Both had. Both young men had turned down some of their color in order to blend in with their surroundings. They had intentions to eventually step forward again, oh yes they’d talked about preconceptions and the good old boys club, and how they would bring in a new order. But for now, they were both clean-shaven and sharply dressed.
“I was thinking, maybe we could get fitted for good suits.”
Jim was sitting on the floor in the small front hallway, one leg tucked underneath his body as he tied the other trainer. He glanced over towards the bedroom as he pulled the laces tight.
“Good suits?” He laughed a little. “What’s our working definition of ‘good’ in this context, Nicky?”
He knew how to dress up; his father had insisted on it. That was one of the reasons he had chosen not to, the professor’s angry looks and glowering brow reward enough for the black nail varnish and fishnet undershirts.
The professor had been dead for a few years now. While his tendency towards black glossy things and skull patterns hadn’t dulled, the need to hide behind a ragged sweater for the sake of its grunge street cred had definitely faded. While being poorly dressed was armour against his father’s judgement, a well-cut suit was armour against the world’s.
“I know of a few good tailors in Dublin, but I’m not sure where to start in London. By your expression, I’d say you have a lead?” He smiled and hopped up, hunting for his other shoe.
I think we have a winner.
it’ll be ready when you are.
Then I think we should close up shop early.
I think maybe you should try something else.
hot cocoa with schnapps?
I think we have a winner.
Should you be inclined, I suppose you could try a joke. A bit of good news.
A ribald line of thought. Something like that.
i’m not considered much of a funny man, boss.
i could send you a picture of an otter. frankly they’re rather adorable.
I think maybe you should try something else.
If you manage to survive Christmas with my mum, maybe this will be in your stocking. Not to mention what you might find in your bed.
that so?
sounds like incentive to me.
‘Tis the season. Sometimes I like giving you a reason to look forward to holidays.
jiminwestwood replied to your photo: Dagger and sheath, Dagestani, 1861. (x)
Christmas is coming. Have you been good?good enough, i think.
I’ll put in a good word for you with Saint Nicholas. I think he probably owes me a favour.
i’d rather just get it from you.
If you manage to survive Christmas with my mum, maybe this will be in your stocking. Not to mention what you might find in your bed.
Christmas is coming. Have you been good?good enough, i think.
I’ll put in a good word for you with Saint Nicholas. I think he probably owes me a favour.
If you were so inclined, yes.
let’s say i am inclined.
Should you be inclined, I suppose you could try a joke. A bit of good news.
A ribald line of thought. Something like that.
That’s only half a smile. You’ll have to try a little harder for the full deal.do i?
huh.
If you were so inclined, yes.
@ 06:16pm
tagged as
■ governmentsanctionedbrollies
■ jiminwestwood
■ nickkenning
■ theimpossibleeccentric
■ tigerjaw
■ misskittyriley
■ and the ever wonderful
■ askanthea
■ i am so so sorry
■ not really
■ but yes
jiminwestwood said: Looks like Miss Anthea’s finally learned to turn the other cheek.
Yeah, merry ChristmASS. :D
Please stop.
Yes please.
Sorry, I shouldn’t make a crack at someone else’s expense.
Yeah, Nicky. You’re making an arse of yourself.
Alright, this has gone far enough. No ifs, ands, or butts.
Come, now. You really shouldn’t make Anthea the butt of all these jokes.
You are all children.
Sorry. I guess it was a bit assinine.
nothing wrong with being a bit of a smart ass now and then.
Anthea, I’m so sorry you have to put up with all this cheek. What a bunch of smart asses.
i figured we should all get at least one crack at it.
We’re all just bumming around a bit, having some fun.
I think we’ve hit rock bottom.
on the contrary, i feel as if one simply needs to find the right entrance.
I’m just sitting here waiting for the next pun to rear its ugly head.
I’m personally astounded at how they keep coming on end to end, without anyone falling behind.
Everyone’s quite committed, aren’t they? Yet to hear anything half-assed.
I have to say I don’t even know how all of this started.
But I think you’re all on crack.
