“Sir, I think you’ve drunk enough,” Sebastian said, eyeing his boss warily.
“Shut up, Seb,” Jim slurred, clutching the glass of wine. He was completely disheveled, his tie undone, hanging around his shoulders, shirt slightly unbuttoned, coat rumpled
“I really think you should—”
Jim sighed, leaning against the mantlepiece. “Seb, I want you to drink with me. Drink with me as if this is the last night we have on Earth.”
Seb rolled his eyes. “But it’s not.”
“Pretend it is, then.”
“Since when were you one for sentiment?”
Jim paused for a moment, his dark eyes glinting. “Is that what it is?”
“Looks like it.”
Jim stumbled forward and draped himself around the sniper. “Besentimentalwithmesebbie,” he drawled, his words running together in one long wine scented stream.
“I don’t do sentiment, boss,” he replied, peeling Jim off of him and taking a step back. This was too close for comfort. If Jim came any closer, especially in the state he was in now, Sebastian would lose control.
Jim watched his right hand man, a small flicker of…something behind the black eyes. If he didn’t know any better, Sebastian would have sworn that it was a flicker of sadness, but knowing Jim it was probably just a trick of the light.
“Of course you don’t,” Jim said, his voice slightly more steady. He walked toward his chair, swaying slightly, and sat down, gazing down at the dark red liquid in the glass. “You can go,” he said.
“Good bye, Sebastian.”
The following day, Sebastian waited in the building for the text from the boss.
But it never came.
WHY DON’T YOU JUST TAKE A PEN AND STAB IT INTO MY EYE
IT WOULD HURT LESS