It was hardly a variation of routine. All it took was a gentle murmur, a press of lips against sensitive skin, and a firm embrace around his quivering body.

Even when he was continents away, Sebastian would still wake up at four in the morning. Still fumble for his phone to call the criminal, make sure he was alright. He'd talk until Jim fell back asleep, phone in hand - and then he'd fall asleep, too, still on the line. They still panicked when they couldn't reach each other the next morning - forgetting that one or the other's phones was bound to be dead.

When he was at home, Sebastian would wake up at the slightest rustle of sheets, suddenly attentive to the man sharing the bed. He would hug him close, sing lullabies and old Irish ballads in the hope that the nightmares would recede and Jim would stay in a peaceful sleep.

It never happened, though. Jim would wake up, cold sweat peppered along his forehead, night-shirt clinging to his skin. Sebastian would sooth him, lure him back to sleep, and hold him even closer than the last time.

It was hardly a variation of routine.