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i just thought the themes i made for myself, @cleverterry, & @bombshellruby were aesthetically pleasing stacked on top of each other so...

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mosteffectiveagent:

        Harry has seen him in a number of different lights, a thought he mollifies himself with. He’s seen Solo in states of dress, of undress — seen him at the peak of his pleasure and then afterward when they’re a tangle of limbs and sheets, caressing every inch of skin in reach. Harry has seen him, in general, far more than anyone else has, but he’s never imagined it would come down to this. Vulnerability, uncertainty. He’s safe now, he tells himself through the haze in his head, but it has yet to really feel that way, even as he’s guided out of the warehouse. He’s safe now, but how long will it be until he’s here again? He can’t count on being rescued in time whenever this happens. He’s lucky tonight. He’s been lucky for a decade.

        Napoleon climbs into the car, all but pouring himself into the seat, and he tries not to make it apparent that he’d like to be close. He’s sure he’ll feel far better when the drugs wear off, but it’s the stuttering of his heart that bothers him. He can guess he’ll be prescribed something for the arrhythmia, dusted off, and be put to work again, the way he always is. He’ll weave a little tale for Sanders regarding the interval in which he had no contact with him, as he doubts the man would be very keen on being told his agent on a leash has been saved by the East End gangster he’s been canoodling with for the past few months. ❝ It’s not me that I’m worried about, ❞ he says, after a pause; it’s an admission. Despite what he’s endured, there’s undeniable concern there for the injuries Starks has sustained. A sigh, and he does his best to compose himself, halfheartedly reaching up to push his hair back into place. ❝ … Thank you. ❞

It’s hardly the worst that he’s had. Harry’s taken bullets in his time. He’s taken beatings. He’s taken some torture too. The thing about torture was that you learned by doing, but you also learned from the receiving end. And he didn’t get to be the EXPERT he was purely watching and serving it up. No, he knew what worked from some personal experience as well. He’d never been squeamish, NEVER would be, but seeing Napoleon in that chair and knowing what the man had most likely been through turned his stomach for another reason entirely. He’s attached now, he knows he is. Has been for a while. And it’s made him weak. He’d have taken more than a couple bullets if he’d had to, rushing in headlong.

“‘M fine.” And he is. For now, at least. Harry’s up right now. He’s riding a high and he doesn’t know how long it’ll last but as long as he’s up, he’ll be FINE. He barely feels his injuries, wouldn’t have even noticed if they hadn’t been pointed out to him. Doesn’t much matter either, not with Napoleon at his side in the state he’s in. Harry’s arm has long since wrapped around the other man, gently because he’s not sure exactly what bits of the other man are injured, and pulled him CLOSE. He uses his other arm to pull a fag from his pocket, wincing as his wound is jostled, and lights it. He takes a drag and turns to the younger man, leaning in to kiss him. “Don’ fuckin’ scare me like tha’ again.”

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mosteffectiveagent:

        It’s gotten to the point where his heists can easily fund an extraordinary purchase of a masterpiece at an auction. Napoleon, however, materialistic little thing that he is, finds that he’d rather save his bank; why, on earth, would he purchase something when he can easily make his way off with it under the cover of night? It’s painfully simple for a man of his caliber, unfortunate for any curators who have found a work under their care has gone missing. He flutters about Europe collecting historic works of art that date back centuries, selling most and hoarding others in a private collection, and apparently gifting few to one London gangster who’s been at the center of affections seemingly since the very first night they’d met.

        Proud, as he always is, it’s almost as though Solo straightens his shoulders, his smile this genuine, radiant thing just as he’s drawn in for a kiss. How terribly sentimental of him that he’s so appreciative of being held close like this, where it makes him feel cherished, and even safe. ❝ Absolutely, ❞ he replies, and the warmth of his smile broadens into a grin; naturally, Napoleon cannot boast about this on any other occasion, and in that regard Harry’s interest in his conquests gives him the opportunity to deliver a clever, riveting monologue about how he simply couldn’t resist, how it had been child’s play, really. ❝ I’m beginning to think you’re far more fond of my heists than of me, ❞ he teases, and as they enter the room, he begins divesting himself of his cufflinks, of his beloved signet ring. ❝ — Though, I can’t say I blame you, given how flawless they are. ❞

“Maybe I jus’ like ‘earin’ ya talk abou’ ‘em.” It’s more of an admission than it seems, really. Like admitting that he enjoys the man’s company as much as he does. Because he has gotten quite FOND of Napoleon. More than that. He hates the word smitten but the man came into his life suddenly and Harry can’t quite bring himself to consider the time before that. He’s become a part of the every day, a semi-permanent fixture that he finds he does want to make quite permanent, as much as the idea frightens him as well. Nothing in his life is permanent. Everything always changes, sometimes too quickly. It’s the NATURE of the businesses that he’s in. It’s the nature of the other man’s business as well, from what he can tell. They don’t share every detail but they each know enough to not be ignorant.

Harry watches as the other man starts to dissemble his outfit, doing the same starting with his tie pin and tie. It’s something he doesn’t really tire of, watching Napoleon. The man has the physique of a grecian statue, chiseled out of fucking marble. Not just his body, but his face as well. A face that men and women alike have SWOONED over, he’s seen it before. And Napoleon possesses all the charm that he himself does, simply utilizes in a different way. It’s a constant curiosity to him. “Mmmm, ya should watch that ego, eh?” He grins at the other man, starting to unbutton his shirt as he speaks. “Or no’.” He divests himself of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor and pushes the other man back onto the bed.

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mosteffectiveagent:

          John the Baptist was the subject of many a Caravaggio work; Baroque, a style of painting that thrived off of extravagant detail, off of movement of the forms, off of the stark contrast between light and dark and its distinct realism. Napoleon had hoarded one piece of the series in particular, hidden it among his collection of prized paintings and it had only now seen the light of day, peeled free of its protective wrapping and presented to a man who had long since been aware of Solo’s dreadful little habit of theft.

        Fortunate, of course, that Starks’ morals weren’t quite so aligned with that of those around him, and in that regard Solo had the distinct feeling that he might be rather appreciative of a Caravaggio in his possession, brought to him solely out of gratitude. Gratitude, as though it weren’t far more profound than that; what had blossomed between them was distinct, by now, but Napoleon hadn’t made an effort to pick it apart as he made a grand gesture with a wave of his hand toward the work in question, presenting it proudly, shamelessly.

         ❝ — I thought you might appreciate it. ❞

It’s almost certainly been stolen. Harry is well aware of the man’s penchant for thievery, and obvious skill at it. He also knows that Napoleon has a tendency towards fine art and this does fall under that. He doesn’t know NEARLY as much as the other man but he’s been learning via exposure if nothing else. And the finer details don’t even really matter because it’s a rather gorgeous painting of a mostly nude boy. Harry’s already thinking about how nice it’d look over his mantle. Matches the wallpaper too, which he’s certain Napoleon already took into account before gifting it.

“Oh, I do.” Harry takes the painting, studying it a few moments before turning his gaze back to the other man. He places it down carefully and closes the distance between himself and Napoleon, lithe fingers slipping around the other man’s tie and pulling him CLOSE for a kiss. His other arm wraps around the man and his hand settles on Napoleon’s lower back. When they part he smiles. “I love i’. An’ you’re gonna ‘afta tell me how ya go’ this one.” He is curious. As he always is. But he also just enjoys listening to the other man spin a tale. Napoleon has a gift for it. Something they share. “Maybe in the oth’a room.” He starts leading the man backwards towards the bedroom with a smirk.

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cleverterry:

Terry considered Harry’s words for a long while, his eyes focusing on the trail this fingers were making across the other’s skin. “I’ve got the world, don’t I? Right here beneath my fingertips.” He murmured in a gentle tone. They had their ups and downs, perhaps more extreme than others, but all the same, Terry really couldn’t imagine anything else. Maybe that was a problem. All he knew was Harry and this life that the man had brought him to. He’d only been on his own a few months when he happened to meet the man after all. He knew these things were thoughts that should be addressed, things he should talk to Harry, but it would only make things worse. He didn’t want to leave the man, but if he expressed doubts, he knew that was where the other’s mind would jump to. Best just to leave it. The feeling would pass, wouldn’t it? He moved slowly, carefully straddling Harry’s hips in order to press himself closer to the man, twisting his fingers in the dark hair. “I’ve got it all already. A lovely home, few mates to keep myself occupied, a bloody amazin’ boyfriend who keeps me well kept. What more could someone like me ask for?”

Harry laughs, grinning at the boy. “When’d ya get t’be such a fuckin’ romantic, ey?” It’s like some line out of the movies but then, Terry knows how much he enjoys a good picture. Romances and adventures especially. “There’s a whole WORLD ou’ there, Terry. Ya jus’ gotta grab i’.” It’s something he’s been trying to do since he’d been the boy’s age. Now he has his neighborhood, he has his CLUB. It might not be the whole world but it’s something. Still, not quite enough. He feels like he’s always reaching for something just beyond his fingertips. He’s not posh, never has been, but he yearns for high society, loves watching it and being in it but he’s never belonged. He wants to belong though. But they’re thoughts he doesn’t want to linger on so he doesn’t, shaking out of it and turning his gaze back to the beautiful boy that’s in his bed.

“Mmmm, well, when ya put i’ tha’ way...” He smiles and pulls the boy down to kiss him, teeth scraping at Terry’s lower lip and LINGERING a moment longer before parting again. “Guess you’ve go’ it all then.” He worries, sometimes, about not being enough. But hearing it from the boy’s lips- rosy red and beautifully swollen -is something to ponder.

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Reblog this if you’re a 1950s/1960s Rp Blog

Let this start by the order of Kray.

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mosteffectiveagent:

        He knows it’s a horrid lie. Beyond the fact that he’s aware he had woken uneasily, it’s safe to say that Harry knows him well enough, by this point, to be able to see through his falsehoods. And it’s not quite a star performance, tonight, anyway, the weight of the other man and the grip against his shoulders doing what it can to ground Solo. This has happened before, on the few occasions he’s stayed in bed with a lover. They would wake him, but not with the same determined reassurance as the other man has. He sighs, defeated, as the other moves off of him with the intention to prepare a cup of tea. Going the extra mile, Napoleon thinks, with some bitter amusement. He smiles ruefully at the thought when Starks leaves the room. When is the last time he’s been looked after like this, anyway?

        Shortly afterward, he returns, and the agent is still settled in bed; his breaths have evened out, but he feels an unpleasant flutter in his chest, anxious and wary, like the threat of captivity and torture is still very much there. Because it is, when he thinks about it — the next time he’s off on a mission, he might find himself in the very position he’s dreamed of, in the very position he’s been in a number of times in the past. He forces himself not to dwell on the thought, turning his gaze to Harry’s when his hand claims his own. ❝ It’s certainly one way to wake up, ❞ a dry try at humor, but the playfulness of his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts their hands, presses a kiss against Harry’s and lingers there, silent, until he pushes himself upright into a seated position. ❝ Not exactly how I’d hoped the night would pan out. ❞

He’s a little wired now, unwelcome worry for the other man flooding through him. Harry wonders when exactly started going so soft. Is it just Napoleon? Or is he starting to lose it? He finds he cares for the other man in a way he hasn’t cared for anyone in quite some time and it’s still a bit DISARMING sometimes. But it’s more than that as well, more than any romantic notions or carnal desires. He feels a kind of kinship with the other man. They’ve not talked about it but Harry’s seen Napoleon. Truly seen him. In the quiet moments when they’ve wrapped around each other and just spoken. “...’s alrigh’...” He’s not sure if the man needs to hear that or not but it seems like the right thing to say in the moment.

The kettle starts to whistle and Harry gives Napoleon’s hand a quick squeeze and gets up. “Wot kinda tea?” He turns off the stove and grabs two mugs, popping the tea bags in and filling them up. The man’s been over often enough that he REMEMBERS how he takes it, putting a bit of milk in for himself and then sorting Napoleon’s out. He’s in the doorway with the tea a couple minutes later. “Why don’ we sit on the couch?” He wonders if maybe getting up and moving a bit, getting a slight change of scenery, will help. It helps him sometimes. “Could ge’ a fire goin’.”

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mosteffectiveagent:

        He’s decidedly put-together, all things considered, like he hasn’t just been on the receiving end of a violent voltage and trapped in a makeshift bunker for an unknown number of hours. At this point, Solo can’t say what he expects will happen in these types of situations; he’ll either be found or he’ll die, but he’s not often preoccupied with either when he’s a little too focused on what’s being done to him, or by contrast, not focused at all with a cocktail of drugs deep in his system. He can say that he didn’t expect Harry, of all people, and his boys, to locate him — was certain he’d be in there for a day or two before he found an opportunity to slip free, if granted, or an extraction team was sent in to recover him.

        An almost inaudible hiss as the straps are undone, skin raw beneath them. He feels restless, needs to breathe, simply going as he’s drawn into Harry’s side with the aid of one arm keeping him steady. He only realizes there’s blood on him when the cuff of his sleeve comes away with it, and he can only guess he looks nothing like the composed gentleman Harry’s quite used to seeing; vulnerable, sagging, heavy-limbed and wanting little more than to rest and recover, the sort of passing trauma that results in Solo indulging in a few more drinks prior to his sleep for the sake of not waking throughout the night. ❝ … I suppose we got to have our rendezvous, after all, ❞ he comments, bitter humor in the situation, the inability to face it for what it is and utter need to demean his skeletons to leave them as powerless as he can. He’s tired, mostly. He also feels somewhat safer now. When he speaks up again, his voice is hushed, a little hoarse, ❝ You’re bleeding. ❞

He’s never seen Napoleon in a state like this. He can’t say he’s never seen the man anything but composed- they’ve fallen into bed far too often for that -but he’s never seen such fear and pain on the other man’s face. He doesn’t like it. And the men who’d done this are lucky he got to them before he even SAW Napoleon. He wouldn’t have done them so quickly if he had. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters now is getting the other man taken care of, getting him somewhere safe, and letting him recover. Because Harry may have him now but his heart is still pounding in his chest, in his ears, and there’s still such a FEAR thrumming in his chest at the thought of losing the other man. His nerves are alight and everything is heightened. It’s a feeling he’s familiar with and not one he trusts.

You’re bleeding. Harry’s only vaguely aware of his injuries but they’re of little consequence at the moment. They don’t matter right now. He’ll deal with them later. It’s Napoleon that takes priority. Harry’s had his fare share of WOUNDS from bullets and knives and a couple more don’t make much difference. The man’s comment does, however, draw his attention back a bit to his leg and he starts to limp a bit more as a result. “Doesn’ ma’er.” They’re out of the warehouse and his men are piling into their own cars. Harry helps Napoleon into his own and climbs in after the other man. “...Go’ a doctor waitin’ at ‘ome t’take a look atcha.”

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                                                         the best way to TAKE,                                                              in my experience,                                                                   is to GIVE.

                                                    independent characters from                                                      the long firm by jake arnott.

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mosteffectiveagent:

         ❝ i’ve got — nowhere else to be. ❞ halting and low; the arrhythmia he’s experiencing is a little overwhelming, at the moment, heart trying to find its proper rate. wait here, his savior had told him, like he has a choice; even if he weren’t secured to the system, solo is in no condition to immediately stand and sort himself out. he feels weak, numb in some places, buzzing in others, and the uncertain flutter of his heart jumping and then slowing is driving him to experience some measure of anxiety, in addition, with the impression that he has to fight to stabilize his breaths in time.

        he wants to crawl out of his thrumming skin, and knows that there are some electrical burns from his bindings, feels irritation with the slightest shift of his wrists and forehead, where they’re pressed against his skin. no more of that, he thinks distantly, cracking an eye to watch what the other might be fiddling with. well — no more of that unless they’ve no clue what they’re doing. he pushes past the daze, licks his lips.

         ❝ — i believe getting me out of this first would be the better alternative. ❞

He’s been driving himself crazy, not that that’s new. But it’s, perhaps, the first time he’s driven himself to this point WORRYING about someone. Napoleon had missed their date- and fuck if he isn’t lost on the man given how upset he got by the man’s tardiness -and he’d done some digging when he couldn’t get in contact with him. Harry’s glad he did because god knows when the man would’ve been found, if at ALL, otherwise. He’s brought some of the boys with him, biggest meanest ones he could find on hand, and they’ve cleared out the warehouse more or less. Georgie’s dead and Rich took one in the shoulder but altogether not bad losses considering.

The boys are waiting outside while he deals with Napoleon and they know better than to question what his relationship with the man is. Even through the pounding in his ears, adrenaline coursing hard through him- he can’t even feel the bullet lodged in his thigh, nor the knife wound to his arm -he HEARS one of the men on the ground stirring. “Wait here.” One quick shot to the head once he finds the man trying to drag himself towards a discarded weapon and it’s taken care of. He returns to Napoleon, getting the straps undone as quickly as he can, wrapping an arm under the other man’s to support him once he’s released. “Let’s get ya outta ‘ere.” He runs a hand through hair hanging loose, escaped from the usual pomade hold during the action, and rubs a bit of blood splatter off his face with his cuff before he starts to move.

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“And so, when a person meets the half that is his very own, whatever his orientation, whether it’s to young men or not, then something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their senses by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment.” ― Plato, The Symposium requested by anonymous 

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mosteffectiveagent:

        As far as New Years resolutions go, Napoleon always sets up a few simple ones for himself. Things that feel superficial: attend a showing of one of his favorite performances at a particular renowned theater, or acquire a work of art he’s had his eye on the year prior. He never settles on something profound. He tends to take life as it comes to him, these days. There’s never any telling when it’ll be cut short for him, anyway; there’s no point in setting long-term goals when Solo isn’t very certain he’ll return from his next assignment. The risks are all part of the job, and given his current little predicament, it isn’t as though he can weasel his way out of this one without serving the remainder of his pardon’s years. So this night is a bit of an epiphany in comparison. It’s not quite a resolution, but he’d like to see where this year takes him as long as he has this.

        It’s a nice thought.

        He likes that he’s been drawn closer. That he’s being held like a lover in a way that one can’t discern if they’ve freshly fallen into this affair, or if they’ve adored one another for years. Softly, he smiles to himself, warm with both liquor and Harry’s embrace, and while settling down has its appeal, he thinks he’d like to spend the better half of the early hours in the morning like this, absent swaying and amour he hadn’t been aware he even needed. He’s had a number of partners for a night, or for a few days. Or for some weeks, on occasion, while he’s found himself in one town or another between missions. They haven’t felt as good as this. He could laugh at it, really — the number of times he’s found himself coming to terms with something since he’s met Starks. ❝ Thank you, ❞ he says, quiet, after a moment of amiable silence. ❝ For this lovely start to the new year. ❞

Men like him don’t get this. Not for long, anyway. He’s always been one to fall hard and fast but love isn’t a word that he uses frequently. Love isn’t something he’s really considered since he was a boy, young and naive and had it RIPPED away from him. But he’d learned from it, learned not to say it. Because if he says it, that makes it real. And if it’s not real, he can’t be hurt as much when he’s left. Again. His boys always cycle in and out. They’re impermanent, like specters just floating through. He hasn’t loved many of them but he HAS loved. They never stay, whether they leave or he boots them for something. He’s accustomed to abandonment, something that started in his childhood with his own parents. Perhaps it’s easier to watch Napoleon leave because he knows the man travels for work. Still, there’s always an underlying fear that the man won’t return.

But none of it matters. Not now anyway. Because Napoleon is here, body warm against his own, voice soft and smooth in his ear, and Harry is enjoying himself. It’s a kind of joy he doesn’t trust because he can NEVER trust his own emotions. He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or mania or if it’s something he’s really feeling. He thinks it’s the latter. He hopes it is. He’s afraid it might not be. So, he ignores it. “Happy New Year...’ope it’ll be a good’un.” Harry smiles at the other man and catches the man’s mouth for a kiss, dragging his lips across Napoleon’s and leaning in slowly.

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mosteffectiveagent:

        For a moment, he begins to think he might possibly be on the right track. This feels vaguely like walking across a minefield, which he’s had to do on two separate occasions. Not a very cheerful endeavor, but he’s very much an agile, clever man who has gotten himself out of a number of dangerous situations, and he has all of the confidence in the world in being capable of doing the same thing here. Now — he had been told Harry could be unpredictable in these moods of his, so he had quickly learned to be careful. However, he only had a split second to brace himself for the impact of a swift strike across his cheek when he’d noticed the man lifting his hand, and there was such force behind it that he needed an instant to recover, lifting a hand of his own to touch the sting. It was important to note that he still did not seek to put any more distance between them, rooted in place. ❝ — That’s the word through the grapevine, ❞ he admits, after a moment. Were this any other situation, it could have gone in an entirely different direction, but he still feels the very familiar tingle of adrenaline creeping into his veins, as hard as he tries to sweep it aside. He’s heard the name, the title Starks earned himself, but has never ventured into asking for the details. In retrospect, perhaps he should have. His hand falls away from his face, and he exhales, a sigh barely heard. ❝ I’m certainly not here to be your enemy, you know. Believe it or not. ❞ He still sounds level, sure of himself, and he’s watching Harry fray at the edges. He dares a step closer, obstructs his path to keep him from pacing, raising his hands again; he means no harm, here. ❝ Maybe they don’t — I’ve never considered you crazy, but I consider you in need of a seat, and a drink — ❞ and he’s reaching out, slow, no sudden movements, to find his shoulders with his hands. ❝ — And consideration for the Stardust rather than working yourself up over what these ingrates might be saying. ❞

He’s been working himself up the entire day but his last meeting and talking to Napoleon has made his mood somewhat worse. He feels something building in his chest, something tight and painful like he’s been punched in the sternum. There’s a PRESSURE and it’s all itching just under his skin. There’s a voice at the back of his head whispering to him and he’s struggling to differentiate between his own thoughts and those intrusive, nagging, paranoid ramblings that tell him he can’t TRUST anyone. They’re all compromised. He wants to lash out, wants to hurt something or just hurt and hope that it might relieve the mad bloody itch under his skin. He knows it probably won’t but he’ll try anyway. He’s running a tense hand through his hair, fingers pulling at it, hard enough to take some strands with him, and when Napoleon speaks again he looks up to him with wide, WILD eyes, stopping in front of the man who’s blocked his way. “I’m no’ fuckin’ sitting!” He can’t. He needs to move. “I’ve go’ work t’do.” His body is itching and he shoves his way through the other man and starts out the door of his office. There are people to meet with, he has to figure out this Stardust situation, and he has to check in on Joey and the latest scheme. He has a snitch to suss out and threaten. It’s all buzzing through his head and he needs to get it done.

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themoderndaymerlin:

“Not James Bond…more like Q. I make the gadgets the agents go out with into the field.” Hamish smiles at his brother and laughs softly. “Sounds fake I know but, I promise you it’s real.” As a demonstration he shows his watch to Harry, revealing a small phone in it. “And well, let’s just say I know how to make any police case disappear, Harry.”

“You’re bein’ serious?” Harry isn’t sure whether Hamish is trying to string him along or whether he should be concerned about his brother. But even though they haven’t been particularly close since they were kids, he doesn’t really think Hamish is one for JOKES like this. He stares at the man’s watch and his brows shoot up when he realizes what he’s being shown. “How’s i’ work then?” He looks from the watch back to his brother when he speaks again. “...You’re no’ pullin’ my fuckin’ leg here, are ya?”

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themoderndaymerlin:

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Harry, but I am still trained to be a tailor.” He smiles at his brother, keeping the touch, a point of contact. “I just happen to design weapons and help sort intelligence for a secret intelligence service….I can make that case against you vanish.” It was an earnest offer to Harry, to help protect his brother from the people who’d send him to jail. “It’d be easy enough to erase any evidence.” Hamish smiles a little, confident in the extreme.

Harry furrowed his brow slightly, listening to his brother. Of course, the man lost him at some point. “...Wot like James bloody Bond?” He’d known his brother wouldn’t have been content as a tailor but that was a bit OUTLANDISH. “So y’wot? Operate outta a tailor shop? MI6 an’ all that?” He was still skeptical of it but the man didn’t seem to be pulling his leg. “...How come y’can ‘elp me then? Wha’ I do ain’t exactly legal.”

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mosteffectiveagent:

        It’s too vivid. Every time he finds himself having these sort of dreams, they’re too clear; it feels as though he’s reliving the moments without the reprieve of waking to interrupt them. He always comes to afterward, breathless and uncertain and in a cold sweat that leaves him desperate to bury himself beneath a number of blankets, to attempt to sweep aside what he’s faced even in his sleep. He should have expected this, that at some point Harry would be privy to his traumas, even if only witnessing him facing them in his sleep. It’s only natural. They’ve known each other for long enough, and both life and past experiences have a way of tormenting Napoleon Solo ages after he’s faced the worst of things.

        He doesn’t register the other man settling on top of him and shaking him at first, nor is he drawn out of his sleep as a hand taps against his cheek frantically. It takes that additional strength of being jarred that shocks Napoleon into a waking state, with a gasp and wide, searching eyes. He looks into Harry’s own for a moment before they dart around his surroundings, some desperate attempt to reassure himself that he hasn’t ended up captured in some way. When his anxiety finally begins to settle, when he gathers himself, he closes his eyes, a soft, shuddering exhale parting his lips, and he lifts both hands to place them over his face, then drag them through his hair. It’s telling; he feels shame, above all else, never given the proper opportunity to face his traumas, to be told that he has every reason to be as haunted as he is by them.

         ❝ … I didn’t mean to wake you. ❞ For all of the witty words he might normally have, he doesn’t know what else to say in this situation other than imply his apologies. He’s exhausted, and he’s shaken. ❝ — I’ll be alright. Give me a moment. ❞

The man finally wakes and Harry keeps the pressure on Napoleon’s shoulders until he’s certain that the man is properly lucid. He’s all too familiar with the confusion of waking after a nightmare but the man seems to RECOGNIZE where he is at least and Harry relaxes, though still over Napoleon. He’s unsure is he should slide off of him or stay but the for the moment, he doesn’t move as the man gathers himself. He doesn’t know if Napoleon wants to be comforted or left alone but he thinks the man will likely let him know.

Harry almost snorts at the man’s statement. “Bollocks.” I’ll be alright. He can’t say the man isn’t a good liar but it’s a really terrible lie. One he’s told before as well. He finally lifts his leg and gets off of the other man, sliding out of the bed. “I’m puttin’ the kettle on.” Wasn’t like he’d be sleeping now and there was nothing like a hot CUPPA to calm the nerves, really. He fills the kettle and gets the stove lit quickly, returning to the bedroom to the other man and sitting at the side. Harry slides his hand over Napoleon’s, curling his hand around the other man’s. There’s nothing to say. Comforting words would fall flat and he’s not going to ask. If Napoleon feels the need, he can talk about it. But Harry has a feeling he won’t.

[expertviolence-blog]

themoderndaymerlin:

 “And the cops aren’t shit, Harry.” Hamish drops some of the years of carefully cultivated persona, letting some of his past shine through. It was time to be honest to his brother, in a way he hadn’t been to anyone. “I’m not letting them put you away. And god knows you’re not goin’ back to that hospital. I won’t let them.” Hamish puts a hand on Harry, squeezing his shoulder tight. “Whatever case they have…it won’t be there long.” He looks around, and sighs. “I might’ve lied about being a tailor, Harry.”

He falters at his brother’s words of support. The hospital. It had been a low point in his life. Harry couldn’t even remember all of it fully, they’d had him so drugged up. But the worst bit was that not even their MUM would believe that he was ill. She’d thought he was faking it. Harry clenches his jaw, letting out a shaky breath before sucking it back in and regaining his composure. He narrows his eyes slightly as he looks back to his brother. “Yeah well, I fuckin’ knew you were too smart for this bollocks.”