#;; this is my autograph. here in the songs i sing. ( drabbles )
Note
Hi Foxy! The drabble game is such a fun idea! Do you think you could write idol!jk with a fan? It could be him feeling attracted to her, or them hooking up, or maybe their first meeting... I really don't have any particular request, the stage is yours! I'm really curious about how you'd approach it because you have a talent for writing the cutest but also oddly realistic scenarios. I love you and happy anniversary!
I thought this would be a nice little fluffy tease for Valentine's Day to express my love back to you, I hope you enjoy it!
Characters: Idol Jungkook x Fan Y/N
Words: 3k
CW: none
You’re not surprised your friends bailed on you when the choice came up between Angel Tribute and Mavis McAdams, but you’re still disappointed. They knew the band –a deceptively named trio of three artists Mavis, Makena, and Adam– topped your list of favorite bands ever. But they were smaller than Angel Tribute, so when push came to shove, you were left on your own to see your favorite group. And you hated being alone.
Especially right now, when you are positive that Jeon Jungkook of BTS is standing right in front of you.
You didn’t think anything of him at first. He was just another body in the space around you where you’ve found a little area for yourself, not up in the pit but a little further back where there’s breathing room. It wasn’t so crowded back here, and you liked the flexibility of being able to stand or sit; there was only one row of seats in front of you before a small aisle, which kept you from feeling too trapped. But you were still close to the front, close enough to feel a part of the music, and you’d been happily swaying and singing along under your breath to the first song when he slid into the space directly in front of you, joining the man who had already been there.
The man you were now convinced was a bodyguard. Or maybe a manager? An assistant? You didn’t actually know how those things worked. Before you recognized him, neither man meant anything to you except that now you were annoyed that your view was blocked.
Just as you considered leaning forward and asking them to leave a little space for you to see through, the newly arrived man had looked to the side and– ok, you didn’t know which thing it was that had made you suspicious, but the combination of a few things had. The face mask and snapback hadn’t, there were plenty of people around these days in such attire, but the profile even with the mask had made you pause. The earrings in the ear –well, you were at a music festival, but regular guys didn’t usually have so many hoops. You wouldn’t even admit it on your deathbed but the freckle on the side of his neck made you start to suspect– and then the eyes. The eyes in the shadow between hat and mask had to be him, you were 98% sure of it.
Instantly you abandoned your idea of suggesting they move. They didn’t need to move. For just this moment, you were perfectly ok with Jeon Jungkook of BTS blocking your view as you mulled over your options. You could obviously ask for an autograph, but the thought of doing so flooded you with embarrassment. You certainly wouldn’t ask for a picture, even worse, but taking a sneaky photo to keep as a memento just seemed so creepy and invasive.
The other option, and the one that seemed best to you, was to pretend you did not know who he was and enjoy this moment of your life in which you were going to enjoy a Mavis McAdams concert staring at the back of Jungkook’s neck. He had a really nice neck. He must have had a haircut recently, the hairline was really neat. You missed the long hair but it seemed to grow quickly for him and he’d gone that route multiple times so probably it would be long again soon. It was good you weren’t seeing it long. That would be too much for you to stay chill about.
A new song started, an old favorite of yours, and you sang quietly along –much more quietly than you had a moment ago since the voice of a generation was standing in front of you. But it must have been loud enough to embarrassingly draw attention, or maybe it was the dance moves you couldn’t quite help because you just really loved this song. Your eyes were closed, you didn’t think you’d accidentally hit him, but when you opened your eyes you realized he was looking over his shoulder.
At you.
You bit back the squeak of surprise and tried to just casually lean around him to see the band, as if you didn’t notice him at all.
“You can’t see.”
Of course you didn’t assume he was talking to you, but when he said it again with a sort of flapping hand gesture in your direction, you realized he really was addressing you.
“Uh… well… no…”
He laughed and nudged the bodyguard, saying something rapidly in Korean that you couldn’t hope to follow with your handful of phrases. The bodyguard nodded and shifted over, leaving a clear space for you to see through.
“Oh, thank you.” You gave an awkward bow before regretting it; it felt like you’d just admitted you knew who he was and were familiar with Korean culture just because of liking K-pop and k-dramas. Which was the truth but god, embarrassing.
Jungkook and the bodyguard nodded and the next song starting grabbed their attention away from you.
It was definitely more enjoyable to actually be able to see the performance and you marveled at his thoughtfulness for even noticing. Even when more people packed into the seats, the bodyguard kept the space in between them clear for you. It was a little annoying though because while you were happy standing and dancing, the people around you were dancing a little more wildly and kept bumping into you, disrupting your enjoyment. You tried to ignore it but a particular hard jab in your back made your voice hitch as you were singing.
Jungkook glanced back at you, chin tilted up to see you under the brim of his hat. He beckoned with his hand like it was a rush and pointed down at the seat in between him and Bodyguard.
What the fuck.
In no world would you refuse to take him up on that though. With a mixture of relief and abject terror, you stepped over the back of the seat, flattered when the bodyguard held a hand up to steady you as if you were one of his charges. He asked Jungkook something that was dismissed with a shake of the head. Maybe an offer to switch seats? Jungkook didn’t think it was necessary? You didn’t care if you projected that all over them.
It was like fireworks going off in your head as you tried to play it cool and focus your enthusiasm on the music. There was more space to move here without bumping or getting bumped. Jungkook was vibing too, swaying and grinning, sometimes singing along. You tried not to look at him and be awkward but occasionally you’d feel his grin and glance at him. The eye contact made you both laugh. The singing together, the dancing, you were at this concert with him. The craziness of it didn’t quite fade away but it shifted into something more joyful and less shy. He wasn’t an idol right now, he was just another fan, and meeting someone else who knew all the lyrics to the B-sides was really exciting as a music lover.
“You like this song? You know it!” he beamed, like he was impressed by your knowledge, like he was thinking all the same things right now.
“I can’t sing well, sorry, don’t listen to me!”
“No, it’s good. You are good. It’s very cool.”
You didn’t think your singing was good nor cool, especially not to someone who sang like Jungkook, but it was kind of him to say so. It made you feel less self conscious about relaxing and enjoying yourself. Why not? Ok, your singing was fine, and it was all in good fun because you were just enjoying the music, just like he was. It wasn’t worth being nervous over.
The songs played out and before you knew it, they were announcing their last song. You couldn’t help the groan of disappointment.
“Are they your favorite band?” Jungkook asked you. “I like them so much.”
“They’re definitely one of them. I’ve seen them twice before but never at a festival like this. The first time was in this really small venue, it felt so intimate.” You broke off, realizing you were rambling, but how could you not?
“I love them too. I saw them one time. They opened for…” You couldn’t hear who he said over the surge of music and the crowd but nodded anyway. A fan. He was a fan and it was really cool to know that about him, for him to share that love with him.
Halfway through the song, he leaned around you to say something to the bodyguard, then pulled his mask up. You could tell instantly by his body language he was leaving, probably before the band finished and the crowd around you looked somewhere other than the stage. He might get swarmed. You understood but hated for everything to be wrapping up already.
You certainly didn’t expect him to nudge your arm and lean down to say, “Come on, let’s go.”
“Huh, what?”
He lifted his chin again to look at you and his eyes were sparkling and ok look, you weren’t going to tell him no. So you pulled your bag onto your shoulder and shoved your water bottle inside, checked your pocket for your phone, and followed Jungkook and his bodyguard.
Obviously you had no idea where you were going so you stuck close, fully expecting the bodyguard to shove you away at any second. Or someone else to materialize and do it, a manager or something. But no one did, and that’s how you wound up following Jeon Jungkook to the backstage area. The guards at the security checkpoint waved him through and you as well when Jungkook said,
“She’s with me, bro.”
God I wish.
He paused to look around and spoke with the bodyguard for a moment before leading the way to a tent behind the stage McMavis had just performed on. You could hear the crowd cheering for the encore as you followed but as much as you regretted missing it, you wouldn’t have missed this for the world. You looked around in surprise, recognizing a few other VIPs, but you didn’t want to get left behind and unceremoniously kicked out.
The bodyguard grabbed two waters from a cooler and handed them to you each and your Korean gamsahamnida made them both grin.
“You speak Korean?”
“No no, that’s all I know,” you quickly said.
“I will say ‘she is my translator.’”
“Your English is really good. You don’t need one, huh?”
He tugged his mask down so you could see his grin as he laughed, “Ok, thank you. It’s not very good but thank you.”
“I think it is.”
The bodyguard got his attention and you both looked over to see McMavis moving towards a tent further aware, bouncing around and amped from their show.
“Ah, ok. It is embarrassing if they say no,” he told you before setting off after them. Say no to what?
There wasn’t long to wait to find out. They’d just collapsed on the couches in their tent as a stage manager told them they had twenty minutes to decompress until their fan-meeting event; you could see and hear them through the gauzy curtains as Jungkook’s bodyguard said something to the woman by the entrance.
“Yes!” Mavis shouted. “I heard that! BTS? Someone from BTS is here?”
Jungkook gave you a nervous smile like he was nervous about meeting them. You just followed dumbly along as he ducked into the tent, nodding and bowing as Mavis, Makena, and Adam all jumped to their feet to greet him.
“She is my translator,” he said without forgetting you. “Also a fan. Me too. Your show is so great.”
“Yes it was really wonderful. You’re amazing live,” you gushed. Secretly praying no one was about to ask you to translate anything. Oh god. Would Jungkook play along if you had to speak fake Korean to him? Would you just give it up and confess? You thought he wasn’t capable of lying so why was he lying right now?! What the hell??
No one cared, clearly. They were too busy gushing over Jungkook, the artists all trading praise, talking about other acts at the festival. You felt simultaneously like a third wheel and perfectly at ease, because despite your expectations, no one was actually shooting out god-rays right now. If you didn’t know how talented and famous these people were, they were just people raving about music they liked, enjoying a beautiful day at a music festival. How could this seem so normal and so surreal at the same time?
Probably because he’d marked you as a translator you were mostly ignored, which was fine by you, but occasionally Jungkook would gesture to you as if prompting you to say something and include yourself. You mentioned the other shows you’d been to. You answered what your favorite song was and flustered when Jungkook nodded, “Me too. It’s mine too.”
All too soon, their manager was telling them they needed to get to their fan meeting. You leapt out of the way as the band members and Jungkook assembled for a photo without any prompting, like it was just something they were familiar with. You almost offered to take it but an assistant and Jungkook’s bodyguard had it covered.
Jungkook reached forward, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into the frame after they’d already taken a couple. You had half a second to wonder oh no am I going to get doxxed on the internet if these photos make it online before deciding you didn’t give a shit. That wasn’t real right now. What was real was that Jungkook had been thoughtful enough to include you.
Belatedly you realized you hadn’t taken one with your own phone but the band was already saying goodbye, their manager ushering them away. They hadn’t even really taken their break and there were other people lingering outside the tent trying to get their attention but it was obvious to you they had spent their time exactly how they wanted to. ARMY were everywhere, after all.
You, Jungkook, and the bodyguard moved out of the tent and you realized awkwardly you didn’t know what to do now. The obvious thing was to go but it’s not like you wanted to go.
“I have to go,” Jungkook said, looking at something on his phone. He thrust it towards you and you were confused enough to take it from him. He had it open to the New Message screen, cursor blinking in the “To:” field.
“I will send the picture.”
“Oh! Right.” Yes, of course, obviously that made sense. You typed your number in and handed it back.
“Ok, goodbye. I have to go but just wait, ok? I will send it.”
“Yeah, of course. Sure. And oh my god, thank you for bringing me back here and um, enjoy the rest of the festival!”
He was laughing and you didn’t quite know why but he smiled and nodded and pressed his hands together, “Yes. Thank you. Have fun too. Talk back to me.”
You nodded. He was gone so fast, bodyguard closing behind him as he set off. He did look like he had somewhere to be. You did not and your mind was blown about this whole thing. You were too flustered to even think about the fact you were unsupervised in the VIP backstage section right now.
Paranoid you were going to get kicked out since you didn’t have a lanyard anyway, you walked quickly out of security and didn’t stop until you’d found a place you could step out of the way and guzzle the water bottle. You pulled your phone out of your pocket to text your friends, or at least see if they’d texted you.
You did have messages, but not from your deadbeat friends. Already! You already had a message!
[unknown]: what is your name?
[y/n]: y/n
[JJK]: ok
[JJK]: [group photo]
[JJk]: thank you for hanging out
[y/n]: no thank you for taking me backstage with you! It was a dream come true to meet them. that was really thoughtful and cool of you even just to make sure I could see
[JJK]: the view is important at a concert so we both had a better view
You froze. You stared.
No. Was he… flirting?!!? Impossible. You must be misunderstanding. You had to be misunderstanding!
[y/n]: It was perfect
[y/n]: thank you for trusting me enough to message me the photo but also shouldn’t you not trust people you just met???
[JJK]: why not
[JJK]: my name is JK you can put it in your phone
Lord have mercy.
[JJK]: I do not give my phone number but it is nice to meet you so I did
[y/n]: Nice to meet you too JK thanks for hanging out
[your friend]: hey where are you? McMavis done? You ready to meet up?
You hesitated. Your original excitement to tell them about meeting Jungkook was still bubbling, but in light of the fact he had given you his phone number and was flirting you decided maybe you wouldn’t share that part of your day with them. Not yet anyway.
You told your friends where you’d meet them and looked at your phone again.
[JJK]: what bands do you like? Suggest music to me
[y/n]: ok you too
[y/n]: have you heard of…
Your stomach bubbled with anticipation as you went to meet your friends. Maybe this would be nothing. He’d stop texting you suddenly and that would be that. He’d get a new phone and lose your number. He’d text you for the rest of the festival but then block you and move on. You had zero expectations he would keep talking to you. Why would he?
But you hadn’t expected to see him. Or to sing and dance with him. Or to meet McMavis with him. Definitely not for him to take a photo with you –which you now had!-- and allow you access to his phone number. That gesture of faith meant so much to you. You wouldn’t disappoint him.
You held your phone with your secret close to your chest and went to meet your friends.
#idol jungkook#idol jk x oc#jeon jungkook x you#jungkook x reader#jungkook fanfic#jeon jungkook fluff#bts drabble#bts fanfic#jungkook ff#jungkook imagine#jungkook au
353 notes
·
View notes
Note
5 times the love - harry
SEND ‘5 TIMES THE LOVE’ FOR A DRABBLE ABOUT 5 TIMES MERLIN FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR MUSE
ONE: AUGUST 1996
He’s Merlin.
His mentor has stepped down and retired to the countryside. He finds it ironic that the old goat has quite literally been led out to PASTURE but as amusing as that is he does hold a great respect for the man. He’s been training under his predecessor for almost two years now and it doesn’t matter whether or not he feels ready because he has been GIVEN the alias. Gone is Emrys. He’s Merlin now. And if he’d had any doubts, the title fits like a glove, like he was meant for it. It feels more comfortable than Hamish ever has.
It’s not his first mission handling Galahad. It is, however, his first time as primary handler, the only one on comms, and as Merlin. He’s ready. He’s trained. He knows his job well and he’s fully PREPARED. He’s had enough experience both from his time in the army, the SAS, and the past couple years with Kingsman. Still, there’s a part of him that’s anxious. But there has never been any room to entertain FEAR in his line of work, before or after he was recruited by Kingsman, and he’s neatly packed it away as usual.
They’re two weeks in, and he loses communication with Harry. It’s brief but any break in contact is worrying. The man has made contact with his mark again, the third time in the past two weeks. Bugs have been planted in the man’s OFFICE and now that they’ve recorded the information that they need to intercept the illegal shipment of arms, Harry only needs to retrieve the bugs and they’ll regroup. But he loses contact, video feed going to static and audio cutting out.
He doesn’t need to know what’s going on to know that Harry has likely been compromised. He opens a line of communication with Harry’s backup in the vicinity and orders them to the man’s location but to wait for his signal before breaching the building. The AUDIO feed has filtered back in and he makes a note to work on anti-interference measures in the glasses. Gunshots are the first things he hears and the next is Harry’s ragged breathing.
“Galahad, can ye hear me? I’ve lost visual. What’s going on?”
“Cover blown…Did you know that these suits don’t stop armor piercing rounds? Highly inconsiderate of Mr. Quinlan, really. This one was barely worn in and-”
“Galahad what is your medical status?”
“A mere flesh wound, old boy.”
The lump that forms quickly in his throat is inconvenient and highly inappropriate. Merlin swallows it down quickly, fingers flying across the keyboard as he works to hack into the security cameras of the building, FINALLY getting a decent visual on what’s happening. he brings up the blueprints on another screen.
“Backup is en route, Galahad. Let’s get ye te yer extraction point. First door te yer left. Unlocking in 3…2…1…”
Harry comes away with some standard bumps and bruises and a bullet to the abdomen, highly undersold via comms. Merlin gives him a thorough tongue lashing once he’s in medical for skirting around the truth but when Harry gives him a wide GRIN and is promptly knocked out by the drugs he’s been given, the anger flushes right out of his system.
He stays a little bit longer, sitting at the man’s bedside, tablet out so he can send the feeds from the mission down to Vivienne. When he stands, Merlin takes another look down at the other man, brow furrowed slightly. He’s RELIEVED. Overwhelmingly so. They’ve grown close in the past couple years, through Harry’s sheer stubbornness more than anything else. But he’s come to care for the man who he can now call a friend.
And if he feels something more he won’t allow himself to consider it.
TWO: JANUARY 1998
He’s fairly pissed.
They’re at Harry’s flat. It’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence though free time does seem to be a rarity where Kingsman is concerned. The drinks they share are more frequently taken in an office at central or the shop because going to the pub is a COMMITMENT involving a full night and time spent at home is used for rest and caring for the dogs. But they’re off assignment, another SUCCESSFUL mission, and somehow the both of them have mandatory leave at the same time. If Merlin wasn’t aware of Arthur’s badly concealed distaste for him he might’ve thought it was done purposefully.
He’s nowhere to be the next day, Nymue handling the one ongoing assignment. It’s nothing particularly difficult and he trusts his co-worker to be able to take care of it. It’s not often that Merlin ventures into the field but sometimes his particular skill set is needed on site, as was the case. He’s always paired with Harry. They work WELL together. Seamlessly. He trusts the other man with his life and Merlin is certain that trust is returned. He’s also well aware of how their closeness grates on Arthur’s nerves and while he’d never encourage it in front of the man, it does give him secret pleasure knowing that the prat can’t refuse to pair them because even he can’t deny that they’re a force to be reckoned with.
They’re each well into the shared alcohol. Merlin’s switched from beer to the scotch he brought because really, when does he even get the chance to relax and drink it? The football match is on. He made Harry put it on though he knows his friend isn’t much for sport. Not football at any rate. Harry always INDULGES him when the match is on and Merlin’s grateful. He does rarely get to watch them live. They talk throughout, his attention half on the match and half on his friend, occasionally letting out his disappointment in a string of curses aimed at the telly. During the commercials he turns his full attention to Harry.
By the time the match has ended it’s late. Not particularly late by his standards given he’s generally working all hours but late in the mere sense of time of day. Merlin is pleasantly buzzed, chuffed that his team has WON, and warm both internally from the alcohol and externally from Harry’s proximity at his side. It barely occurs to him how close the other man is until he turns his head and their noses almost brush.
Harry’s face is flushed from the alcohol, lips red and Merlin bites his own as the other man licks his to wet them. But it’s Harry’s eyes as their gazes meet, those soft deep brown eyes that betray not so much an innocence as a PURITY so befitting of a knight, that draw him in closer. Closer until his lips meet the other man’s and he closes his eyes, forgetting himself.
But they part and their gazes meet again and Merlin is suddenly reminded of who he’s with and the GRAVITY of what he’s done pulls him backwards. He’s pushing himself up off the couch and stammering, stumbling towards the door, barely remembering to grab his jacket and forgetting his scotch entirely.
“Sorry, I- I should go.”
“Merlin-”
“I’ll see ye at work, Galahad.”
“Hamish!”
He’s out the door and headed towards the street to hail a taxi before he can hear whatever Harry has to say. Because if he stays he isn’t certain what else he’ll do. But there is one thing he is certain of: he LOVES Harry Hart.
And that’s utterly terrifying.
THREE: MAY 2003
He’s fucked.
Still, he’s been in worse situations before. The Falklands. Iraq. It’s not his first time facing down overwhelming odds but this time it’s Kingsman. And this time he’s on his own for the moment, against the DOZENS that have him surrounded in the warehouse. Merlin isn’t certain how his cover was blown but it doesn’t much matter now. What matters is getting out and getting the information on the hard drive to Arthur.
He’s got limited options and Merlin knows that in spite of his previous training, he’s a bit out of practice and Galahad certainly would’ve had a better fighting chance in his place. Harry is his backup and he certainly needs it now. But TIME, as always, is of the essence and the crate he’s taken cover behind is quickly disintegrating in the gunfire. The men are concentrated ahead of him, just over a stone’s throw away behind a bank of crates, which means he won’t be able to do what he needs to from where he is.
Merlin slips a lighter from his jacket pocket- a prototype, one he’s still working out the kinks for but there’s no time like the PRESENT for a field test really -and rushes out from his cover quickly, gun in the other hand. He vaults over a crate, tucking and rolling and placing two rounds into two hostiles before he’s activating the grenade, tossing it over the wall of crates with precision, ready to dive back again.
There’s a sharp pressure in his chest and he stumbles, falling backwards. The explosion of the grenade kicks up dust and splinters wood but Merlin barely registers it. There’s movement, he catches it out of the corner of his eye but can’t see. BLOOD is spreading over his chest, soaking into his shirt and jacket. The blazer he wears is bullet proof like the suits issued to agents but he’s not an agent. He doesn’t get to wear a suit. This is what he’s been afforded and while a few rounds have been caught by the fabric, one has managed to strike him right above where the two sides come to meet in the middle of his chest.
It’s a few more moments before Harry is knelt over him, putting pressure on his chest. Merlin sees the man’s mouth moving but all he barely hears him. The man probes his back for an exit wound, finding none, and tugs him close. One strong arm wraps around his shoulders and Harry’s other hand presses down HARD on the wound. Blood is bubbling up in his mouth, trickling over as he tries to speak, hushed quickly by Harry, who Merlin realizes must be speaking to central now, gaze torn away from him for a few moments before looking back down.
“You realize you’ve absolutely no leg to stand on now, chastising me about putting myself into dangerous situations, you tosser.”
Merlin isn’t certain how long they stay there. Not long before they’re moving. And as he’s being loaded up into medical, PALE from blood loss and quickly slipping under, the last thing he sees is Harry’s face, worry lines etched into his forehead. It’s a shame really. There’s a great deal he hasn’t done, hasn’t said. And he feels it more keenly with Harry’s hand gripping his tight. He opens his mouth one more time, words not coming.
He wishes he could say it: I love you.
FOUR: KENTUCKY
It’s chaos.
All hell has broken loose in the church and Merlin can barely keep track of what’s going on in Harry’s glasses feed. There are too many people in the building, there’s too much movement, and Harry isn’t RESPONDING to him, which is what worries him most. No, that’s a lie. What worries him most is that Harry’s shot an unarmed woman in the head. A bigoted arsehole, yes but it’s certainly not the Harry he knows.
This isn’t Harry at all. The man is slaughtering church-goers left and right and Merlin can hardly keep track of the bodies as Galahad cuts through them with near superhuman speed and a laser-like focus. He knows what Harry’s capable, knows how DANGEROUS the man can be when it’s necessary but this is something else entirely. Something’s come over the entire church and all that Merlin can do is watch and wait and hope- but he’s never been much for hope. He’s always been a realist.
“Galahad. Galahad, can you hear me?”
Nothing. Two more bodies tossed aside, more rushing towards the man.
“Harry! Harry, what the heck is goin’ on!?”
All pretense is dropped. It’s against protocol, using an agent’s name but the man isn’t answering him at all, his VITALS are all over the place and Merlin’s heart nearly stops as the grenade goes off with Harry still in the blast radius. It barely fazes the agent, who’s only down for a moment. It’s gruesome. More violent than necessary. Merlin is CONCERNED to say the least. He’s scared for Harry, scared of the uncertainty of it all. He has no idea what’s happening to the man, no idea if his friend will be able to make it out of the church alive with everyone in it going completely mental and there’s nothing that he can do from England with only a computer screen and keyboard.
It was supposed to be recon. They hadn’t sent backup with the man because he shouldn’t have needed it. Merlin feels dread festering in his stomach, that familiar hollow sickly feeling of something terrible approaching.
When it all settles down and Harry moves out of the church, the pieces begin to slot into place. They’re waiting for him. Valentine. His thugs. A TEST. It must have been. And when Valentine begins to talk, begins to explain, Merlin knows that this isn’t ending with a quick escape. He knows what Harry’s doing, knows that the man is trying to extract the information they’ll need to STOP what Valentine is planning, as much as he can before they decide to put him down. But there’s still a chance. Harry is injured but still moving, still upright. From Merlin’s count he’s taken at least a bullet and a knife to the back, plus the shock of the grenade. It’s likely he’s taken further damage as well but there’s only so much he could catch while watching and the man’s vitals don’t give him detailed information.
“Harry, ye need te-”
The gunshot is loud and Merlin’s breath hitches. Harry’s vitals drop off entirely, high pitched tone RINGING in his ears even after it stops. The feed from his glasses is turned upwards. Blue skies, not a cloud in them. There are dead pixels across the visual, spiderweb cracks running through- broken glass -and darker flecks. Blood.
Merlin turns off the feed with a quick keystroke, turning in his chair and removing his glasses. His chest is tight and he sucks in a deep breath, head hanging. There’s no TIME for this. Arthur was watching from the shop. They need to move on the new information. The SIM cards. He wants to VOMIT. Not because he’s squeamish. He’s seen war. He’s seen more violence and death that he can remember. He’s seen agents die, even spoken one through their last moments in an attempt to provide some kind of comfort.
But this is Harry. His best friend, perhaps the only true dear friend he’s had in his life. The only family that he has, certainly. This is the man who bothered him incessantly after his recruitment and battered and banged at the walls he’d put up out of sheer stubbornness and some strange desire to get to know him, until Merlin had started to LOWER them. This is the man who had seen him at his best and worst and knew more about him than he allowed anyone to. This is the man that he loves- loved. And the thought is enough to turn his stomach again.
He wishes he’d said it: I love you.
But there’s no time for this, so he forces himself to swallow down the bitterness at the back of his throat along with any SENTIMENT, fingers rubbing over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He puts his glasses back on with a heavy sigh. Professionalism is paramount and his commanding officer is waiting.
“Arthur…are ye there?”
“Sadly, I am. Assemble the Kingsmen.”
FIVE: POPPYLAND
He’s made his peace.
It’s a quick decision, shoving Eggsy off the mine and placing his own foot on the trigger mechanism in one fluid motion. He’s the weak link of the three of them. While he does keep up his training, he hasn’t been in a proper fight in the field in YEARS. Sparring is a completely different scenario and while he trusts himself to be there with the other two men, he certainly doesn’t think he’d do better than Eggsy or Harry in what’s sure to be tooth and nail sort of fight to get to Poppy Adams, judging by her security detail on the outskirts.
“Merlin, what the fuck have you done?”
“The spray only buys a split second. Even if we’d all got clear, it’d detonate. Poppy’s guards come running, none of us make it inside.”
“Then spray it again and let me back on! It was my fuck-up!”
“Did ye ever have balloon debates at school, Eggsy? …Ye pretend ye’re all on an overladen hot-air balloon. Everyone is doomed unless one person goes overboard. An’ ye debate who. Ye argue who’d contribute most te the world if they survived. There’s no debate te be had here, lad. The mission needs the two of ye. The world needs the two of ye.”
He knows he could still contribute, knows that the contributions he’s made thus far in his life are something to be PROUD of. But in this situation, on this mission, he’s already done his job. He’s performed his role. He’s lived a longer life than he thought he would already. And it’s been a good one, if a bit lonely. Harry was right about that, on the plane. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop but it wasn’t a huge aircraft.
“Besides, our journey together began many years ago when yer father did the same fer us.”
“Our journey began with a mistake I made. Give me the can. That’s an order.”
His gaze is finally drawn from the young man to Harry. Harry who’s expression is serious as a heart attack, damn near murderous. It’s an expression that he’s not unfamiliar with. One the man wears on rare occasions when he is truly ANGRY. Occasions when he can no longer hold on to his many masks and gives a glimpse of what’s hiding past the surface of the witty, suave picture of a PERFECT gentleman. Harry orders him. Orders him. The man never pulls rank. It’s the first time he’s heard Harry give him in order in years and perhaps that, more than anything else, is truly telling. But it doesn’t matter. It’s too late. And like hell he’s going to let either of them blow themselves to high heaven and bollocks up the mission.
“Can’s empty. Split second’s over. You two need te get going.”
“No, no, no there’s gotta be another way-”
“He’s right. Mission comes first.”
“Bollocks mission comes first, this is-”
“Eggsy. This is no time fer emotion. Remember yer training. Or we all die.”
It’s a bit difficult, treating the young man like this. But it’s necessary. They still have a mission to complete. The world needs saving again and they’re currently the only people in a position to do just that. Time is precious with the VIRUS killing people with each minute that passes. There’s no time to discuss other options, no time to regroup, no time for tearful goodbyes.
“Now get on with it.”
“Do as you’re told. Move it.”
The young agent is looking between them as though they’ve no hearts. Perhaps they don’t. The heart is a fickle thing and it certainly doesn’t serve them in the work they do. They’ve been doing it long enough to have left the useless organs far in their PASTS. But Eggsy does as he’s told and leaves them with just a glance back, moving to take up his position. Merlin’s gaze shifts back to Harry, watching silently as the man salutes him.
“It’s been an honor.”
It’s a simplification. All they have time for right now. Merlin knows that if they had more, more would be said. But there isn’t time and he’ll have to live with those regrets- well, he won’t have to. Harry will. The man’s hand is a COMFORTING weight on his arm and he wants to reach up and take his friend’s hand in his own but he can’t. He won’t distract him further. He’s made his peace with his decision but it’s difficult not to think back on others he wishes he’d made, regrets he can’t make peace with.
He’d told himself a year earlier that if he’d had more time with Harry he would’ve made good use of it. Then they’d come to Kentucky and the man had been there. Alive. But he hadn’t remembered. None of it. And that had done him no good. Then they’d gotten the man back proper but there had been no time for anything but WORK, the golden circle keeping them plenty busy. And now here they are in Cambodia. It’s ironic, really. A mere week after he gets Harry back, he’s forced to leave him.
He wants to say I love you.
“Good luck.”
He watches Harry walk away through the brush.
@soulscatter
#soulscatter#[ honestly this is @ every harry ]#[ these boys need to stop using up their nine lives ]#[ me bullshitting action-y things right and left ]#[ I USED SOME DIALOGUE FROM THE NOVELIZATION FOR THE POPPYLAND SHIT ]#[ BECAUSE SOME OF IT SHOULD'VE BEEN IN THE MOVIE ]#[ BECAUSE MERLS DIDN'T JUST DO IT OUT OF GUILT ABOUT LEE ]#;; this is my autograph. here in the songs i sing. ( drabbles )#long post for t#tw: death#tw: etemophobia
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Actors (Dabi x fem!Hawks drabble)
Dabi found it difficult to trust people. From the small-time jobs he did, he learned he could never really trust anyone: not your friends, not your enemies.
The same principle applied to Takami Kai. It’s a rare occurrence to have the number two hero show up at his metaphorical doorstep and declare loyalty to the League. Dabi wasn’t sure what the folks at the Hero Commission were thinking, if they were thinking at all.
Still, he was confident he could pull this off. Get as much use out of her as possible, reveal as little as he could, and then when the cards all fold, burn her and her wings to a crisp.
That was the original plan.
––––––
Dabi stepped out of the shadows to see Hawks glaring at him. Under the cover of darkness, and with her wings completely spent, her silhouette was nearly unrecognisable, though from the few meetings Dabi had with her prior to this, he could tell how she looked even without her wings. The long ponytail gave it away.
Thinking about it, those meetings were under far more friendlier circumstances. And he honestly preferred those.
“I was hoping,” Hawks began, holding a long feather-blade in her right hand, “things could have went differently this afternoon.”
“Same here.” Dabi shrugged, his hands resting non-threateningly in his pockets, though Dabi knew she didn’t buy that for a second. “But when you don’t do things the way I told you to, then we gotta do shit like this.”
“We agreed on staging the fight at the ports,” Hawks shot back, gritting her teeth, “Not in the middle of the damn city.”
“We also agreed on getting some random hero off the streets to test the Nomu on, not the number 1 hero, with the number 2 backing him up.” Dabi met her gaze, as intimidating as it was, showing as little weakness as possible.
Just like a hawk.
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied with the results. Took all the strength out of me.” She gestured at her back.
“Eh, not really. Not a single casualty. Sounds like you’re doing your job too well, and not mine at all.”
“Hey. I can’t lose the faith that the commission and the public’s placed on me. Y’know how much paperwork I’ve gotta fill out just for one death? Not to mention the hearings and investigations.” Hawks said, sighing with a tad of a dramatic flair.
“Yeah, sounds exhausting. No wonder we’re becoming friends.”
“We are not friends.” Hawks crossed her arms.
“Damn, we got past that phase quicker than I thought,” Dabi joked.
Was that her blushing? It was difficult to tell in the dark.
“Shut up. God, you’re bad at this.” She massaged her forehead. “Since you’re an idiot, lemme explain it to you. One person dies under my watch, I get demoted. I can’t give you better information. Got it?”
“Yes, Miss Takami.” Dabi imitated a schoolchild’s voice.
“Let me talk to Shigaraki. I’m sick of your shit,” She said exasperatedly.
“Nice try. I don’t induct you until I get what I want.”
“An autograph? A fan-meeting? Or how about one job where both sides can agree on something?”
“Hard choice there...” Dabi rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “I’d have to take the third. So listen for my call. I’ll tell you when the next one starts.”
“Fine.” She flipped her ponytail behind her in irritation, making Dabi blink.
Fuck that’s hot.
“I’m putting my neck out there for you guys, so the longer we play this game, the less you’ll get from me.” She started to walk away.
“Not even a ‘good night’? So much for heroic kindness.” Dabi mocked.
Hawks stopped and turned to look at him. Instinctively, Dabi lit his hands on fire.
Surprisingly, she didn’t flinch or react. With her face illuminated by the flames in an azure tint, he saw her deadpan. Then her lips thinned to form a grin that Dabi would remember for a while. It was a fake smile, the smile of a deceiver – and he knew that. He knew this whole thing was an act. But that smile was unnervingly beautiful.
“Good night, Dabi,” She said in a sing-song voice. And then she walked off, leaving Dabi stunned. That bitch actually...?
Shaking his head, he turned and walked into the alley for Ujiko to transport him back. He was smiling at the thought, still. He wasn’t sure if it was a smile of happiness or sadness. If he had to guess, it was both.
He didn’t trust Hawks. He still didn’t trust Hawks. After today, he had even less of a reason to do so. She was acting. He was acting. These meetings were them putting on a mask and pretending they wouldn’t kill each other in a heartbeat.
He wanted to pretend that didn’t exist. After all, if it’s an act, he could try to trick himself into believing that they weren’t on two sides of society, never to be able to look at each other in the eye. They could never trust each other.
“And the men and women merely actors...” Dabi murmured as he was warped out.
#bnha#mha#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#hawks#dabi#bnha fanfiction#mha hawks#bnha dabi#mha dabi#dabihawks#dabi x hawks#hawks x dabi#femhawks#bnha fanfic#mha fanfic#hawks fanfic#dabi fanfic#hawks fanfiction#bnha oneshot#bnha shipfic
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
To Spot a Friend
Request: Hello, dear Author. Can You do the following request. Hope it will interest You. Reader is a famous singer, whose voice gets is a voice of a angel, but she hides her face behind a mask. Newt running after niffler is in concert hall and heard her. He sees her singing and fell in love with voice. But she had an abusive boyfriend, who is heating her... and here can be any variation of action...
Word Count: 5,703
Pairing: Newt x Reader
Requested by Anonymous but tagging @caseoffics @red-roses-and-stories @dont-give-a-bother
WARNING: Allusions to an Abusive Relationship
Part 2 (Drabble) | Part 3
The silver lights cast the room in a sultry glow that drapes over the red plush seats and diamond-and-pearl covered guests like a silken shawl. Their conversations, soft under the intimidation of the glow, drift languidly toward the high ceiling of the theater and mingle together as they wander through the room.
A soft jazz tune weaves through the crowd, no more than a lazy cat no one pays much attention to as it sneaks over their heels and between the legs of their black slacks. The song wafts from the open orchestra pit, a moat between the seats and the massive wooden stage that juts out, looming in front of the crowd, a stage with such a history of grandeur that few agree to step onto it.
Some women shift in their seats in an attempt to peer around the velvet curtains that guard the back of the stage, separating audience and artist for now. They murmur to one another, wondering if the brave artist is back there, hidden in the folds of the shadows, listening to the conversations swirling around. Their chairs squeak as they move, trying to earn the first glimpse of the acclaimed performer with the voice of a cherubim.
They never see her, though, never notice you as you lean against the cool stone wall and try to understand the bits of muffled conversation that amble past you. Your eyes are shut, arms wrapped around your stomach, while you take slow breaths in through your nose, let them out through your mouth. The terror you’d known your first time on stage still haunts you, a ghost you can never rid yourself of no matter the amount of glowing reviews in newspapers or number of sold out concert halls. Terror is a constant in your life, one of the only constants you’ve known for the past four years.
Two hands wrap around your waist, covering your own hands, a wave of thick cologne that ruins your slow breathing and causes you to cough accompanying them.
Theo’s hot breath, smelling of cigarettes and whiskey, scrapes across the side of your face. “You know you’re not supposed to hang out side stage before the show, darling.”
“I needed a break.” You murmur as his stubble scratches your cheek and his chin digs into your shoulder.
“Your wardrobe team tore backstage apart looking for you. They want to get you ready.” He tugs you against his chest.
“They have plenty of time.”
“They need to start soon or you won’t look radiant tonight.”
The insult doesn’t upset you, not anymore. “What does it matter how I look if they’re here for my voice?”
His fingertips dig lightly into your stomach. “No one wants to listen to an ugly person sing. You need to shine, darling. We’ve been over this.”
The bile in your stomach simmers and you feel sick, but you nod at his words. “I’ll meet with wardrobe soon.”
He presses a rough kiss against your exposed neck. “Don’t be long. They need to get to work or we’re paying them for nothing.”
“I know, love.” You whisper as his arms unwrap from around you with one final squeeze.
You shut your eyes again, fighting the tears that threaten to gather. They rise and fall without once finding their way between your closed eyelids. You’ve fought tears plenty of times, enough to know what to picture to drive them away.
Your mind wanders instinctively to that image, to your happy place. You’re on a front porch somewhere, sitting on a two-person swing as the spring sun covers the field in front of you with a comforting warmth. An animal—a dog this time, though it changes every week—pads around in front of you, sniffing the old oak boards and panting. It barks when one of the buzzing insects that surrounds the house hops by, and the dog gives chase to the poor bug. Children’s shouts come from a nearby park, and the screen door leading into the house creaks open as your spouse comes out, sweating glass of ice water in their hand, smile on their face. You smile back, taking the glass as they lean down and kiss the top of your head before sitting next to you and rocking the swing gently. The condensation on the glass drips onto your thigh, a nice break from the summer’s heat, and you reach up to wipe the sweat gathering on your forehead. The world shakes apart, breaking up, when you touch your forehead, not the hard brim of your mask.
You open your eyes, straightening your back and your mask. It covers the top half of your face and runs down the bones just in front of your ears, curling around your jawline for only an inch. Theo despises the thing.
“Let me take it off.”
You shake your head. “It’s mine.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. You can’t go on stage like that.”
“I am.” You say the words quietly but with the strength you can muster.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” You repeat, bowing your head as the anger starts to materialize in the hard lines around his mouth and the crack of his neck.
“Darling, take it off.” Now his voice is quiet, but he doesn’t have to work to say it with force.
You close your eyes, hands trembling at your side, but you shake your head. He clenches his jaw and strides toward you.
You shake the memory out of your head as you touch the black half of the mask, fingers twisting one of the gold sequins that outlines the smooth fabric. You’d found the mask three and a half years ago and slid it on before a show.
You haven’t taken it off in front of another person since then. Theo has tried to tear it from your face so many times you’ve lost track of the exact amount. He doesn’t understand. None of them do. The press begs for it to come off, to learn who the women hidden underneath is, and the fans themselves will try to pluck it from your face, an occurrence happening so often you stopped allowing them at your side.
You’ve turned yourself into an enigma that the world eats up when all you want is to rest. A long, bottomless rest.
The world calls, though. Calls with diamonds and emeralds and queen visits and every luxury you could want, but also with hours upon hours of traveling and days without enough food and a deep exhaustion no amount of sleep can erase from your bones. Some days, you worry you’ll never sleep it off, never outlive it. That doesn’t matter, though, not to the world. It calls and you must answer.
Chaos runs rampant backstage as your wardrobe attendants and makeup attendants wring their hands and turn pink when Theo flirts with two of them and tells a joke to the others. Lighting directors creep up to you and ask for an autograph, curtain boys flirt heavily with you, whistles follow you as do children and nieces and nephews of the stage owners, swearing up and down they are big fans and want your attention, just a piece of it. Two sons of the conductor are begging to see what rests under that mask. Is there a scar? A disfigurement? Have you lost an eye or are you a cyborg like in the comics?
Theo spots you and starts your way, sifting past the crowd accumulating and resting a hand on the small of your back. It’s a little too low but moving it will only ruin his decent mood so you imagine your happy place again.
This time, there’s a cat.
You don’t tune into whatever information he’s spewing until you reach the door with your name plastered across it. Your attendants pop up from your left and right, taking your elbows and leading you into the room, leaving Theo behind as he tips his hat, making half of them swoon.
You let them raise your arms and paint your face and pull your hair until it hurts. They never pin it until it aches. One tentatively runs her finger over the white half of your mask, asking if tonight’s the act. You shake your head, earning disapproving shouts from three different women.
You shut your eyes when they tell you to as they paste eyeshadow over the little skin of your eyelid showing. It’s gold, bright gold to match the sequined dress they shove you into. The dress sparkles and gleams every time you move or breathe. It molds to every curve of your body, clinging to you like a life raft.
You eye the dresses hanging on the rack to your right. One’s snowy hem skims the floor, glimmering when the light hits it the right way. You imagine yourself in that dress, how it would feel to wear something that doesn’t reveal every flaw on your body, something that doesn’t turn you into a chandelier that spins slowly in the dining room, loved only for the way it looks. You want the dress that floats out, that looks like the first snowfall of winter.
Theo’s never let that happen, though, and you don’t bother to argue anymore. The brightest manager sits next to his name in type, the headline of many newspapers that he shoves in your face anytime you work up the nerve to question his decisions. If that doesn’t end your protests, he reverts to other methods.
You shift, tugging at the long sleeves when they bunch up around your shoulders. Your attendants swat at your grasp, telling you to leave it be, you’ll ruin the design and rip it.
Dropping your hand, you nod, pretending to understand, pretending to care.
One of them clamps a hand around your arm, thumb burrowing right into a fresh bruise. You yelp. They don’t care as they swing the door open to present you to Theo. He’s there, of course he’s there, and he opens his arms and hugs you so tight you can’t breathe as he mumbles something in your ear about not messing up.
The attendants don’t hear him, just whisper about the romance to one another, wishing they had someone like him. They don’t understand where the bruises they saw came from.
You can’t find it in yourself to care.
You allow yourself to be ushered to the stage, to take your place in front of the silver microphone. The heels they squeezed your feet into are a half size too small, but you can’t change now, not as the clock off stage ticks down to a minute before eight. You nod at their directions as they hurriedly explain lighting and the microphone. You don’t care. You don’t care at all about being up here. Not anymore.
But when the lights above turn from silver to gold and the heavy curtains in front of you swish away, you open your mouth and sing.
“Get back here, you pest.” Newt mutters as he dives for the niffler again. The slippery bugger ducks under his grasp and darts forward down the abandoned New York street and past the closed shops. He skitters away when Newt starts forward again.
“Stop that! Come on…” His feet pound against the sidewalk, echoing around the silent street. “Oh for… It’s getting late. You’re not going to find anything out here.”
The niffler stops short, looks sideways, then shoots around the corner.
Newt curses. His feet ache, his chest burns from running for so long, and the finger he jammed against the asphalt earlier throbs in pain. The night is not in his favor right now.
Still, he rushes around the corner, pausing to scan the area for the niffler. He spots him scampering down the sidewalk, heading for a door that’s been propped open.
Strains of a song drift from the door, lovely music that Newt thinks he may enjoy if it weren’t for the bloody nuisance leading the chase.
“I’ll take away your stash if you don’t stop.”
To Newt’s surprise, the niffler does stop. Right in front of the open door. He sits, and Newt thinks he may be going crazy when he sees the tiny creature sway.
The niffler looks at Newt, watches him rush forward, then hops to its feet and runs in past the door.
Newt rolls his eyes and follows suit, footsteps muffled by thick carpeting when he slips inside. The niffler’s nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, a path of tiny gems and coins leads to a staircase.
“You bother.” Newt grumbles as he follows the path up the steps. It twists, and he wonders how the niffler made it up so quickly as he continues, legs burning.
When he turns the corner, he sees the niffler: leaping into a woman’s purse. She opens the door to the theater, stepping into the seating area. Newt catches it before it can close, shouting out a woman’s name so the guard’s think he’s with her.
The niffler peers out of the woman’s purse, not rifling through her belongings, not stuffing the shiny necklace poking out from under a handkerchief into its stomach, just staring at the stage.
Newt creeps forward, snatching the furry beast from the purse and clutching him, tightening his grip in anticipation. The niffler doesn’t squirm, though, just stares at the stage, transfixed.
Newt follows his gaze and freezes. A beautiful woman with a voice purer than he’s ever heard stands alone on stage, voice wavering on a single note, the end of a song.
He can’t move, as in awe as the rest of the audience. Not a person speaks, not a pen scratches against a reporter’s notebook, he’s not even sure a person breathes.
The note ends, falling, tripping into silence for only a moment before the crowd erupts. Even the niffler taps his paws together twice.
Then he wriggles out of Newt’s grasp and runs out of the room.
Newt finds him on the main floor, three rows from of the front of the room. He ignores the dirty looks and angry patrons as he walks down the side aisle, sticking as close to the wall as he can to avoid anyone that might throw him out.
When he reaches the niffler, he swipes him up again and drops him in a deep pocket of his jacket that he charmed months before. He closes the button on it and leaves his hand over the top as he watches your performance.
He leans against the wall, listening to the subtle vibrato in your voice, the way you transition from each note, the obvious passion in your performance. His heart wrenches when he sees water drip from your jaw. Tears.
He doesn’t know you, doesn’t know your name or why you have that black and white mask on, but he knows he wants to stop your tears. The niffler shifts in his pocket, but he knows he has to find you after the concert and make sure you’re okay.
The final note of your final song trembles in the silence. You let it, let your emotions bend and warp it as they see fit. It’s the only victory you have left: control over your voice.
When it ends, the audience erupts into applause, whistling and shouting your name, cheering for you. You wonder if it’s for you or for your dress and voice. It can’t be both.
You step back from the microphone, head high. You should nod, should acknowledge their compliments, but you don’t have the energy to, not when they don’t mean it.
You turn to walk off the stage and slide the heels off your feet when you notice him. A man standing at the side of the aisle, not clapping, not cheering, just staring with an unusual expression painted across his face. You’ve seen many expressions in your four years of performing. You’ve seen lust, jealousy, envy, anger, pure joy, false tears, even bliss, but you’ve never seen whatever is in this man’s eyes.
You stare at him, meeting his eyes as you walk past and into Theo’s arms.
His grip tightens around your forearm. “What do you think you’re doing?” He hisses, words hidden under the applause still booming behind you. “You didn’t bow.”
“I can’t.” The dress would tear.
“Don’t lie to me.”
You can almost taste the alcohol on his breath. “Theo-“
“Don’t ‘Theo’ me. I know you’re trying to ruin my business, but I won’t let you. You go back out there and bow.”
“Please-“
“Now.” He growls, turning and shoving you back.
You stumble on stage, tears welling up in your eyes at the embarrassment. The crowd breaks into cheers again, thinking you’re performing another song.
The new blisters on your feet grow as you stride to center stage, lip wobbling imperceptibly. You lift a hand, waving once, twice, three times before pressing it across your stomach. Your eyes dart to Theo. He scowls, waving his hand. You sigh and look back over the crowd, bowing.
You shut your eyes as you feel cool air sneak up an inch of your now-exposed spine. The dress strains and tears slowly, but you remain bowed until you count to ten in your head. When you stand, the crowd is on their feet, but you just glance for the man you saw earlier.
He’s gone.
Disappointment filling you for some reason you can’t fathom, you turn, revealing the tear to half the audience, and walk offstage.
Theo doesn’t smile, isn’t pleased with you. He just slides his hand into yours when everyone around you looks and squeezes until you yelp.
A sugary grin appears on his lips as he looks at you. “Something wrong, darling?”
You don’t bother to reply.
He drags you forward, asking the attendants to leave you two alone, implying the exact opposite of what you know is coming, and pushes you into the dressing room. You stumble forward, grabbing the rack of dresses to regain your balance.
He pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pocket as he shouts. “You think you just get to go out there and give a performance like that? Huh?”
“Theo, please-“
“I said stop that!”
You shut up, bowing your head as he takes a drag from the lit cigarette.
“You think you can just go out there and ruin me like that? Go out there and give a half-hearted performance that doesn’t include the dance moves we went over?”
“My dress was too tight.”
“My dress was too tight.” He mocks in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t care if your dress is glued to every fold of your body, we paid good money to teach your clumsy self how to do those moves. You will put them to use. Understand?”
You nod meekly, waiting for the peak of his anger to finally come.
“If you want to stay popular, stay important, you listen to me. You think your brand works because of you?” He coughs out a laugh.
Smokes washes over your face.
“You better think again, darling. I’m the reason you are where you are. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be singing in small town coffee shops. You’d still be a nobody that no one cares about.”
Tears tremble at your lashes. You close your eyes, trying to transport yourself to your happy place. It doesn’t work, though, as his voice rises and rises until you wonder if the audience can hear.
“Are you listening?” He grabs your bicep, yanking on it, sending you lurching into the wall. He cusses at you, calling you slur after slur as he works himself into a frenzy, grabbing the dress rack and throwing it onto the ground before he stalks over to you.
“I won’t have you ruining me.”
You shut your eyes when he raises his hand.
The hit never comes.
A flash of red light breaks through your eyelids and something nearby thumps onto the ground.
You open your eyes to see Theo laying on the ground in front of you, not moving. You think you’d scream if you weren’t so tired. You drag your eyes up from Theo’s body when the door clicks. The man from the audience is there, something in his hand, staring not at Theo but at you.
“Are you okay?”
You just watch him as he walks forward, hands raised.
“I won’t hurt you.”
You can see that in his face, the soft lines there, the way his lips twitch into a smile.
He gestures toward Theo with his chin. “He’s alive.” He says the words to comfort you, but there’s ice in them, as though he doesn’t quite wish for that to be true.
Oh. Good.
“I just stunned him.” Here his face hardens, but it softens when he looks at you.
“He was my boyfriend.” You murmur simply in response.
“Didn’t look much like one.” There’s a subtle edge in his tone, a protective quality you’ve never once heard used around you.
You consider his words, turn them over in your head before you look up at him. “He wasn’t much of one.”
The man grabs a blanket from the back of the tiny armchair and tosses it over Theo. “He’ll be stunned for a few minutes, at least. Enough for us to talk. If you’re okay with that.”
You reach up, biting your thumb nail as you look at him. He’s standing a few feet away, hands still raised, that unrecognizable look painted on his features again. Though the terror you’re accustomed to stirs, you nod at the ground in front of you.
He steps over the fallen rack and sits in a pile of dresses. “Your performance was beautiful.”
“Thank you.” You mumble around your nail.
He nods. “But…” he hesitates, that expression strengthening in his furrowed brows and pursed lips.
You just wait.
He finally falters. “Do you mind if I say something personal?”
You shake your head, dropping your hand onto your lap. “Go ahead.”
“I know what loneliness looks like.” He smiles humorlessly at some memory. “I’ve not been the most outgoing, and I’ve spent plenty of time alone.” He drums his fingers on his thighs, staring at his knee for a moment before jerking his head up to look at you. “Are you lonely?”
You freeze as you start to realize what you couldn’t figure out before.
“I’m sorry if that’s too assumptive of me. I just thought… I know the look too well.”
Understanding. That’s what fills his eyes.
Tears you don’t want to chase away fill your eyes. “Thank you.”
The words are soft, probably confusing, you figure, as he has done nothing to deserve thanking, not that he’s aware of, but you say them nonetheless.
And the man, you want to hug him, nods. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? Being alone.”
Your lower lip wobbles as he waits, aware that you’re going to respond. A knot works its way up your throat, choking you, hindering your ability to speak for a couple of minutes. He sits there, though, hands fiddling with his shoelaces, not saying anything, just flashing you a grin every now and then to reassure you.
“It’s so hard.” You finally manage, tears dripping onto your mask.
The man nods again. “You have me, if you want.” He laughs at himself, easing the embarrassment of your tears. “I’m not in the highest of demand among other people, but I do consider myself an all right friend.”
“Thank you.” You mumble again, wishing you could say something else but not knowing how else to convey your gratitude without breaking into a sobbing mess.
“What’s your name?” He asks, quiet now.
You stare at him. He doesn’t know? He hasn’t seen the posters, heard you proclaimed as perfect on every radio station?
He’s too good to be true.
You shake your head as you tell him and ask for his.
“Newt Scamander. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” You say, shifting as your back starts to protest the hard stone wall. “Except for…” You trail off, gesturing to everything around you. “All of this.”
He frowns. “You don’t like it?”
Shame fills you. You have everything you could want: money, adventures, fame, but you hate it. You hate every bit of it.
“It’s nice.”
“But not what you want?”
You meet his reassuring eyes again. How does he just know? “Yes.” The word breaks, cracks open on your despair, on your worry that he’ll judge you. The terror surges, gaining a foothold on your heart, sending it pounding away in a pulse you can hardly control.
But Newt doesn’t glare at you, doesn’t shake his head in condemnation. He just tilts his head and asks, “Would you leave?”
The question smacks you square in the chest, granting the terror a chance to crawl up your chest and constrict your throat, control your tears, and hasten your pulse. You’d never let yourself consider such a terrifying question. There had never been reason to with Theo around. And when it had first started, when you first heard your name over the crackly radio speakers, you’d found a thrill nothing else could match. Singing for money, for life… it was all you had wanted since you were young and holding concerts in your tiny kitchen. Music was all you had, a lifeline you couldn’t just leave behind. But the fame, the fame you could do without. You could do without the pictures and the rumors and the late nights and early mornings and diet after diet.
You shake, terrified at the thought of running away, of leaving Theo, but also excited.
Newt crawls around to sit by you. “I’ll help you, if you’d like.”
The image of the porch swing returns. You can almost feel the cool rim of the glass when it presses against your makeup free lips, hear the squeals and laughter of the children as they play, smell the fresh spring breeze that floats past you. It’s all right there, right in front of you. The radio never plays one of your songs, no one ever stops you and asks for autographs, no one cares about who you are except the person standing next to you.
A utopia you know you could never have.
“I can’t.” You say, voice cracking.
Newt slowly reaches up, waiting for you to nod before wiping away the tears soaking into your mask. “Why not?”
“There’s so much.” You have to stop, breathe, before you can continue. “So much here that will follow me. How could I just give it all up?”
Newt grins at your words. “I know someplace where they won’t find you. You just have to trust me.”
“Where?”
He shakes his head. “You won’t believe me until I show you, but I think you’ll love it.”
You’re inclined to trust him, to believe him despite his refusal to reveal the place. “Do you—do you really think you could do it?”
He nods, fingers moving from your wide eyes to the gold sequins around your mask. “If we don’t dally.”
“How?”
“I’ll sneak you out of here.” He says it simply, with no worry, no doubt whatsoever. Such confidence without any of the arrogance of Theo is something you haven’t seen in years.
“Everyone here knows me.” You pick at your nail, embarrassed at the arrogance you yourself seem to be showing, but the statement is true. Everyone here could pick you out in an instant.
Newt takes in your dress, your shoes, and your hairdo. “I can fix it, but,” he hesitates, “the mask. Are you willing to take it off?”
Your hands drift up to run over the bottom of it. The thing is your only comfort, your only way of beating back the terror, the only way you can look in the mirror and live with yourself.
Newt takes your silence as an answer. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to.”
You jerk your head up to meet his green eyes. “Are you sure?”
He presses a finger to his lips, staring at your mask. “We’ll need a hat and to let your hair down.”
You shake your head. “A wig would be better.”
He brightens at the thought. “That would work. One minute.” He frowns as he digs in his pocket and pulls out a stick.
You flinch when he raises it, sending apology after apology tripping out of his mouth.
“It’s all right.” You murmur.
“This won’t hurt. It’s magic. I’ll explain later.” He continues when he sees your expression. “I promise I’m not a crazy man.”
You figure it doesn’t matter if he is at this point if he gets you out of here.
He waves it, mumbling something to himself, and you watch, mouth open, as the tight, glittering fabric that you so despise melts away, loosening and freeing your chest and stomach. A long-sleeved button up takes its place, loose and flowy. Black slacks free your legs, allowing you to walk normally, and a pair of fuzzy socks and simple sneakers appear over your feet, easing the pain of the blisters as the heels fade. To finish, a wig—a black bob—and a newsboy cap land on your face, blocking most of the mask from anyone else’s sight.
Newt’s sweet smile steadies your heartbeat. “You look lovely.”
You grin, eyes dropping to your torn apart nails.
He continues. “I’ll create a distraction outside the door so you can sneak out.”
“What are you going to do?”
Newt grins mischievously. “I can be quite clumsy at times, I’m sure something interesting will happen.”
“Are you going to use more… magic?”
“Maybe.” He grins again, but it fades when he realizes something. “Would you hold onto something for me?”
You agree to with a nod.
Digging in his pocket, he scowls at his jacket. “Come on out, you little bugger. There’s jewels out here.” A fluffy little creature emerges nose first from the inner pocket. Newt holds him out to you. “Yes, she’s the one you liked.” Cheeks pink, he looks up at you. “This is a niffler. Crazy about anything shiny and a squirmy little guy. Hold on tight to him, okay?”
You take the niffler into your hands, holding him up to your face. “He’s adorable.”
“A bigger pest than you’d imagine.” Newt stands. “Are you ready to go?”
The niffler fades from your thoughts as you glance around the dressing room again, at everything you’re leaving behind. The dresses, the jewels, the glamour, but, worst of all, the music.
You bite your lip. No, the music is with you always. The fame is all you’ll lose if you walk out of here, and you can live without it.
You kick the blanket that Theo rests under, still unmoving. Good. You hope he landed on something that will leave a kink in his back later.
“I’m ready.”
Newt nods, face pure determination as he turns and slips out the door. You walk up to it, placing one hand on the handle, cuddling the niffler in your other, and pressing an ear against the crack to listen to whatever may happen.
Three loud bangs sound from backstage. Taking it as your cue, you push the door open and step out, keeping your head down so the hair blocks your face. You hold the niffler to your chest, praying the rattling of your racing heart doesn’t scare it. Each step feels like your last, like someone will tug you back and ask where you think you’re going. Your mouth is dry as you pace forward, trying to speed up but feeling like you’re walking through honey. You force yourself forward as sweat beads up on your forehead and the world becomes really loud. Black spots dance in your vision, and you force yourself to breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.
In through your nose, out through your mouth.
In through your nose, out through your mouth.
The door leading outside is in front of you, just out of reach, when you begin to fall. Despair yanks down your chest. You’re not going to make it. They’re going to find you and drag you back. You’ll never have that front porch swing.
Then two hands wrap around you, tugging you gently against their chest and helping you forward, forward, forward. Then you’re outside and the cool breeze hits your face and you can’t help but cry as Newt murmurs words of encouragement to you.
“Come on, just around the corner. There we are. You can sit now.” He grunts as he helps you down.
You cover your eyes and sob.
You don’t know how long you weep, how long you sit there, Newt’s hand rubbing small circles over your back, crying, but you know it’s a long enough time for most people to have decided to leave.
When you finally stop and hiccup, you look up at Newt.
Worry creases his forehead, but he smiles. “You made it.”
A friend. A real friend.
You reach up with shaking hands and pull off the hat and wig. Newt says nothing, letting you do as you please.
You try three times to get your hand under the bottom of the mask, and when you do, you peel it off, squashing the doubt that tries to stop you. He deserves this. You finally met someone that knows the real you.
Newt says nothing at first when you stare at the mask in your hand, at the symbol of everything from the past four years. He still says nothing when you pull your arm back and fling it deep into the alleyway, screaming for the first time in years.
You could sob again. You’re free.
But instead, you look up at Newt, let him see who you really are.
And he smiles at you, lifting a hand to run a finger down your cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
You close your eyes, repainting your happy place into a forest, a beach, a lake, anywhere, anywhere as long as this man is with you.
This time, it’s a niffler.
#newt scamander#newt Scamander x reader#newt Scamander imagine#newt Scamander one shot#fbawtft#requested#I don't normally ask but would any of you be so kind as to let me know what you think of this?#even if it's bad I'd like to hear it#I wasn't sure when I sat down to write this how it would turn out#but I kind of like it#idk#lmk please? I'd really appreciate it#and thanks for the request!#Have a lovely day everyone!!
232 notes
·
View notes
Note
5 Times the Love
SEND ‘5 TIMES THE LOVE’ FOR A DRABBLE ABOUT 5 TIMES MERLIN FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR MUSE
ONE: TWO YEARS BEFORE V-DAY
He spies them from down the hallway. The young man speaking to James is unfamiliar and a quick scan of recent memory tells him this must be their new Morgana. Their old bookkeeper had been quite literally on his last legs when he retired. The job was certainly one of the less dangerous varieties at Kingsman and the man had been with the organization for over half a century. He’d been ill-tempered, bigoted, and clung onto tradition like it was an extra limb, so they hadn’t particularly gotten on. Thomas hadn’t much liked him and the feeling had been mutual but they’d had to deal with each other so they had.
The young man is quite a change. He appears to be around thirty and the first thought that goes through Merlin’s mind is that their new Morgana looks to be of the same breed as the knights. He hopes however, being younger, he’s more forward thinking than his predecessor. The second thought that goes through Merlin’s mind is that the young man is rather attractive. A bit of a strange beauty. He doesn’t dwell on it past the initial thought.
Merlin is more focused on the fact that their new Morgana is in the middle of putting Lancelot in his place, and it’s a wondrous thing to see. He’s grown quite accustomed to James Spencer’s ridiculousness since the man had come to them as not much more than a boy for his training. Calling the man a peacock wasn’t near a good enough comparison. Harry was a great big bloody peacock. James was something far past that.
He isn’t sure what cockamamy request Morgana is currently shooting down but he sees a distinct pout on Lancelot’s face as he finally makes his retreat. He comes to the immediate conclusion that he quite likes this Morgana. Merlin closes the rest of the distance between himself and the young man- who’s name is Armitage according to the file he’d brought up on his tablet while he’d been walking to confirm -and stops in front of him, sliding the clipboard under his arm and holding his hand out.
“Ye must be our Morgana. I’m Merlin.”
TWO: ONE MONTH AFTER V-DAY
The mug placed next to his keyboard is the first thing that alerts him to the presence of another person in his work space and Merlin’s gaze drifts from his screen to Morgana, the young man looking about as exhausted as he feels. Merlin’s certain he isn’t the picture of health at the moment either. It’s been a month since V-Day and he’s still working to ensure the political and economic wellbeing of their country while their aide efforts across the globe are wrapping up, agents returning home from their posts.
He knows he’s not the only one who’s been working round the clock to fix the chaos that had ensued after the two waves hit worldwide. Their agents have been tireless in their efforts, newest especially, and the rest of their small staff hasn’t been allowed much rest either though he’s made a point to tell them to go home and rest frequently- advice he hasn’t taken himself. But with two vital positions on his shoulders and the meeting to appoint a new Arthur approaching he hasn’t allowed himself the luxury of rest save for what’s absolutely necessary to keep himself functioning properly.
“Ta, Morgana.”
Merlin takes the mug and blows on the hot liquid before taking a sip. It’s still hot, too hot, but the caffeine starts to hit him immediately as the coffee burns down his throat. It isn’t long before they’re discussing progress made and the long list of what still needs to be done. The young man has been helpful on the economic end of things but before long he’s offering to take quite a bit more work off Merlin’s plate and while he’d normally refuse, the help is sorely needed. His pride can afford the hit.
They’ve been working further into the night and when Merlin wakes to the the sun coming through the window of Arthur’s office- it’s not something he could ever consider his own -he realizes that they’ve both drifted off in their chairs and his neck is smarting something awful. Still, the sleep has left him feeling just a bit more himself. Morgana is still asleep, face first on the other side of the desk, face planted on some paperwork.
Merlin stands quietly, watching the young man a moment with a smile, before leaving the room to freshen their coffee.
THREE: A FEW MONTHS AFTER V-DAY
He’s not quite sure how they got here but hindsight, as always, is twenty twenty. Merlin certainly noticed his general attraction to the young man but past that, it had taken a kiss to properly alert him to his own feelings for Armitage. It was a wonder. Fifty-three and he’s still hopeless when it came to that.
Now here he is walking into a restaurant- a rather nice restaurant mind you -and finding the younger man already there at a small candlelit table in the corner. Merlin hesitates for just the briefest of moments before walking over and joining him. It’s been some time since he’s been on a proper date. Over the years his romantic entanglements have degraded from the occasional date or fling to pickups at the pub when he has the time and feels the need. It’s generally not a thought he chooses to linger on too much.
It’s a nice night. They talk through dinner, avoid the subject of work and somehow still have a great deal to discuss. It’s an enjoyable, intellectual conversation which is something that’s becoming dreadfully difficult to find these days. Merlin has been in Armitage’s company before. They’ve spent a great deal of time talking and he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s just as easy to be on a date with the younger man but this is a step away from friendship and towards something other and he finds himself a bit daunted by it.
They take a Kingsman cab to his flat and Merlin invites the young man in for a nightcap and only a nightcap because he has a steadfast rule about not bedding a man after a first date. Ironic considering he’s had nothing but casual sex for years now but then, those were never men he intended on seeing more than once.
When Armitage finally leaves, Merlin sees him out the door and to his cab. They share a sweet kiss, the younger man’s hands finding his hips. Even after the man leaves, Merlin can still feel his fingers gripping him, can still feel the man’s lips on his.
He hopes it won’t be the last time.
FOUR: HALF A YEAR AFTER V-DAY
It’s certainly not the last time.
One date turns to two and two to a regular occurrence. Before long the young man becomes a regular fixture both in his office and at his flat. He finds he actually has time to spend at home with Armitage and so he does. He’s ironically getting more rest than he has in months in spite of the fact that his sex life is the most active it’s been in a very long time.
He’s struck by the strange normalcy of it all when he finds himself laying in bed next to the younger man some months after V-Day. It’s strange. And isn’t it telling that he finds something so normal for other people to be such an outlier in his own life? It’s almost domestic. He’s on one side of the bed reading and Armitage is on the other with his own book. The young man is staying the night. They’ve not moved in together yet- Merlin isn’t quite sure how he’d feel about that -but they’re frequently in each other’s homes.
Most of the dogs are curled up in their respective beds against the wall but he’s allowed Athena up onto the bed and the harrier pup is curled up in his lap, nudging her snout against his stomach.
He puts his book down on the nightstand, one hand still brushing over the dog’s fur, and then reaches over to Armitage and takes the man’s hand in his own. His thumb runs over the back of the young man’s hand and he lifts it, giving it a soft kiss. He meets Armitage’s gaze and smiles slightly.
“Bed fer me, I think.”
The young man smiles back at him and Merlin feels a bloom of warmth in his chest, feeling the man’s hand squeeze his own. He puts Athena on the floor and she plods off to her bed. When he turns back over, Armitage is there kissing him and he returns it in kind. He turns off his lamp light, leaving the other man with his own on the opposite nightstand.
As he starts to drift off he feels Armitage’s hand at his back, fingers brushing against the back of his neck, and he falls asleep smiling.
FIVE: TWO MONTHS AFTER POPPYLAND
It’s been three weeks, give or take a day or two, since he woke up at Statesman’s medical facility and they’ve finally returned home. He’s only just gotten started with the temporary prosthetics he’s been given but it’s something. Progress. He’s opted to finish his physical therapy at home so he can be closer to their new headquarters as they start to rebuild their organization from nearly the ground up.
Receiving the transmission from Morgana had been a relief, to say the least. Before they’d left for Kentucky he’d sent out messages to all mere staff and set his tablet to keep track of all news about the explosions in the hope that some survivors might be found. But there’d been little time to do much besides take the one lead they’d had and go to America.
They’ve communicated since then, talking through their glasses and over the phone. Even just hearing the younger man’s voice has been enough to lift his spirits through everything. And when the cab drops him off at his flat, Armitage is there waiting for him. The young man is helping him from the cab and getting him into his wheelchair after a quick peck on the lips and a greeting. Merlin bristles a bit at the assistance- he is fully capable of transferring himself at this point -but he reminds himself the man is trying to be helpful.
Once they’re inside, once he’s settled in on his couch with a cuppa, his gaze is fixed on the calendar on his wall. Dates crossed off up to the day the missiles had hit. His flat had been unchanged since then. Book he’d been reading still face down on the coffee table. Scarf still on the floor where it had fallen from the rack when he’d grabbed his jacket and run out the door. It’s strange to consider when everything else has changed. His flat remains untouched. Until now, he supposes.
He doesn’t realize that he’s trembling until there’s a strong hand gripping his arm and a pair of soft green eyes staring into his own. Armitage takes the mug from his hands and puts it aside before taking his hands.
“It’s alright, Hamish. You’re alright.”
He isn’t. He’s not been alright since Cambodia. He won’t be alright for some time to come. And Merlin wishes he knew when he would be alright. It would make moving forward from this easier to cope with. If he had a date he could plan for it. But this is, perhaps the most uncertain he’s ever felt in his lifetime, with the exception of his formative years.
“Even if you’re not, you have me. I’m here.”
And those words, more than anything else, give him some kind of inexplicable comfort. More even than the comfort the man’s hands provide as they caress his face gently and squeeze his ruined and shaking hands. Merlin lets out a slow breath and draws in another, nodding his head slightly. He squeezes Armitage’s hand gently, a sign that he’s come down, somewhat, from whatever panic he’d been working himself into. He leans against the younger man, eyes closing as he feels the man’s arms wrap around him.
“…Thank ye, lad…”
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
5 Times the Love
SEND ‘5 TIMES THE LOVE’ FOR A DRABBLE ABOUT 5 TIMES MERLIN FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR MUSE
ONE: JUST AFTER V-DAY
They’re back at central. It’s been a long hard slog and Merlin can feel himself starting to burn out as the adrenaline from the day begins to wear off. He’s not slept in the past forty-eight hours save for a quick nap with everything that’s been happening and he knows he won’t be able to rest in the next twenty-four either. He’s Arthur now, by DEFAULT. He’s sent Eggsy and Roxy to medical as per protocol, glad that their underground facilities were unaffected by V-Day after he’d given the order to lock away all mobile devices away in their safes, lined where the SIGNAL wouldn’t be able to get through. He’s spent some time on the plane ride back taking stock of the dead across their international outposts and trying to get in contact with their agents to see who’s survived.
He’s in the midst of monitoring the communications coming in from their other branches, agents, and gathering what information he can on the worldwide effects of the two waves they hadn’t been able to stop when the REPORTS come in from medical. Lancelot and Eggsy- there’s no time to consider a knighthood at the moment unfortunately -have been released. The young man is far worse off than Roxy, cracked ribs and a great deal of bruising, but he’ll live.
Merlin grabs his tablet, continuing his work as he walks, heading towards the temporary quarters he’d afforded to both the agents. He checks the video feeds from the rooms to make sure they’re not RESTING. He certainly doesn’t want to interrupt what little sleep they’re likely going to be able to get before he calls the remaining agents to an emergency meeting. Roxy is perhaps not asleep but certainly well on her way but Eggsy is sitting on the bed. He knocks twice on the door before he’s given permission to enter.
The young man has been crying, that’s evident, though he tries to hide it by keeping his gaze down, face partially obscured. Merlin moves a couple steps into the room and before he can say a word, Eggsy speaks.
“…Do ya ever get used t’ it?”
Merlin lets the door close behind him. He lowers his tablet, tucking it under his arm and studies the young man for a moment. He’s unsure what EXACTLY Eggsy is referring to but he certainly has some idea. The past couple days they’ve both seen Harry die, gone through a full blown battle, and the young man has killed for the first time. The young man had dropped out of training for the Royal Marines, never been deployed and Merlin is fairly certain it’s the first time he’s seen proper combat.
“Aye. In a way. Ye do what ye have te in the moment te survive and complete the mission…bu’ if it ever stops EFFECTING ye entirely…tha’s the time te start worrying.”
He’s killed before. He’s seen combat. Not nearly as much in person since his recruitment to Kingsman but he’s still been on assignment and he sees everything from his post even if he’s not there. He doesn’t ENVY the lad, what he’s going through. He remembers it well. The first time he’d killed another person. It had hung over him like a great cloud.
He finds himself moving to sit next to the young man, placing a firm- and what he hopes is comforting -hand on his shoulder. Eggsy cries. Merlin lets him. And when the young man begins to lean on him he doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arm around him and holds him because it seems to be what he needs and he UNDERSTANDS. He feels Eggsy eventually relax against his side, wearing himself out. And when he hears the man’s breathing even out, he shifts carefully as he can, to lay the young man down on the bed, propping a pillow under his head and drawing a blanket over him.
Merlin moves to the door and turns back to look at the young man for a moment, all signs of worry smoothed from his face in SLEEP, before he shuts the lights and leaves.
TWO: A COUPLE MONTHS AFTER V-DAY
It’s little things. Merlin barely realizes what’s happening, really. Well, he doesn’t. Not at first anyway. He’s been working non-stop, busy with regular table meeting as interim Arthur, working to find a REPLACEMENT for their leader, the worldwide cleanup attempt in the aftermath of V-Day, dealing with the political and economical effects of what’s occurred. There’s a great deal of work to be done and while he does have some techs who work under him to assist, he’s doing most of the legwork.
He’s caught between his responsibilities as Merlin and those as interim Arthur and he has nary a few hours to rest here and there, grab a bite to eat if he remembers. It starts with cups of tea and coffee popping up. He doesn’t remember MAKING them mind you but he doesn’t question a fresh hot beverage. Then it’s sandwiches. Not every day but food is left around meal times and a great many days are the only reason he eats. Then Eggsy starts showing up in his office to chat with him about assignments and the young man somehow always manages to talk him into a couple hours rest.
It’s sorely needed. Merlin can’t deny that. If not for the young man keeping an eye on him along with their new Lancelot, Merlin’s fairly certain he might burn himself out. But Eggsy keeps at it, reminding him to eat and sleep when it’s necessary and providing assistance with Roxy when they CAN. It is a help. It relieves just a small amount of the stress he’s felt piling up. Not a lot, but it’s enough that he can breathe again.
It’s yet another late night. He’s just overseen one of Galahad’s missions, signing off once the young man was safely en route back to England, and went to Arthur’s desk- because it’s not his and he won’t even entertain the idea of CALLING himself that -to look through endless stacks of paperwork with endless pertinent information and lord, did Chester have a horrid system of organization.
He’s stirred from sleep when someone shakes him gently and Merlin lifts his head up, wincing just slightly at the CRICK that’s formed in his neck from resting on top of the desk. A few sheets of paper fall back to the desk, peeling off his face, and he looks at the young man, bleary eyed and trying to shake off the sleep. But Eggsy just pulls him to his feet and leads him over to the couch at the other end of the room. He far too exhausted to argue, mind not quite catching up to his body as the other man gets him settled. Merlin’s asleep again in moments, last thing he sees Eggsy pulling up a blanket over him.
THREE: A FEW MONTHS AFTER V-DAY
Maybe he should’ve expected this. Eggsy’s been guessing names for weeks now, just slipping them in here and there. They’ve all been wrong thus far but it’s an interesting guessing game to wager on how long it’ll take the young man before he actually guesses CORRECTLY. But he doesn’t guess. Eggsy won’t reveal his source- yet, anyway. Merlin is sure he can get it out of the young man eventually. He’s almost certain it’s Arthur. The man is the only person at Kingsman who has ACCESS to his files. Unless the young man found it somewhere else and he’s not sure how he would have. He had no information to go on to do his own research outside the Kingsman databases.
“Hamish?”
“Aye, lad.”
Merlin sighs. It’s a fine name, he supposes but he’s never felt particularly connected to it. It’s a bit hoity toity sounding for his tastes. In the ARMY he’d always been referred to by his last name, which had suited him fine. And when he’d been recruited to Kingsman, receiving a code name had been a relief. Emrys had fit well enough and when he’d become Merlin, well…Merlin had fit like a glove. And now that over twenty years has passed, there isn’t much else he feels comfortable being called by.
Hamish almost feels wrong now. Harry had been the only one who’d ever called him by it anyway, and only in private. It’s been a while since he’s been called Hamish but somehow he doesn’t quite MIND hearing it from Eggsy. It doesn’t sound nearly as stiff in the young man’s unpolished accent. It’s better somehow.
“Hammy?”
“Och, don’ ye start.”
The young man is grinning and Merlin’s expression is stern as Eggsy continues to tease him with ridiculous nicknames, poking and prodding and testing just how far he can push before it’s too much. But it’s in good fun. The man is having a LAUGH and it may be at his expense but Merlin doesn’t really mind too much. Hamish has no hold over him here. Eggsy’s the only one of the agents now who even knows it’s his real name.
“This from a man who chooses te call himself Eggsy.”
“Oi!”
FOUR: A COUPLE WEEKS AFTER POPPYLAND
It’s days before he’s properly lucid. He doesn’t remember much, flitting in and out of consciousness as his mind and body struggle to right themselves as he emerges from his coma. The breathing tube was removed the moment he started REJECTING it, replaced by a cannula as he begins to come back to himself. It’s been two weeks- not that he knows that -and he needs a bit of time.
It’s a few days before he wakes up and really sees for the first time. There’s no foggy glaze over his eyes. He’s alert. As alert as he can be with the drugs running through him at any rate. He’s sluggish, eyelids at half mast as he stares up at the white ceiling in the dim room. There’s a faint beep of MACHINERY but it sounds distant, more clear at his right. Merlin turns his head towards the sound, noting the twinge of pain in his neck and the pull of taped gauze on it.
The sight he’s greeted with is comforting. Any panic and confusion beginning to bubble in his chest is flushed out when he sees Eggsy. The young man is splayed out in a chair just next to his bedside, head back and mouth wide, snoring. The first thought that Merlin has is that after everything they’ve been through, the man DESERVES the rest. Poppy Adams is the next thing that comes to mind and for a brief moment he’s filled with a sense of urgency but it ebbs and logic prevails, telling him that if Eggsy is resting by his bedside then surely matters have been taken care of or someone equally capable is dealing with it.
It’s then it occurs to him that he doesn’t remember what’s happened. He’s quite aware of the fact that he’s in Statesman’s medical facilities by now but he’s not certain how he arrived there. It’s a bit of a MUDDLE and as he sorts through what he can remember he finds there are bits that aren’t as clear. Statesman. Harry. Blue Rash. The Golden Circle. It’s a struggle to work through it all and he finds a migraine beginning to form at the base of his skull as he abandons his attempts. His eyes squeeze shut, unaware of the noise of DISTRESS he’s made. When he opens his eyes again, Eggsy is rubbing the sleep away, eyes widening at the sight of him, relief washing quickly over his face.
“Merlin?”
“…’lo, lad…”
FIVE: A FEW MONTHS AFTER POPPYLAND
He’s sore. His entire body feels liquid, strength drained right out of him after yet another session of physical therapy. He’s put in the work with his prosthetics, worked on strengthening his hands and arms, and he’s KNACKERED to say the least. His stumps are perhaps the worst of it, sore and chafed from the prosthetics, still adjusting to the pressure and building up a toughness for it.
Eggsy takes him home and gets him inside and before Merlin can even think about what he needs to do before he can lay down to rest, the young man is doing. His pants are being rolled up, socks being pulled off, and the cool relief of the salves he’s been given for the chafing is so INCREDIBLE he lets out a heavy sigh, leaning his head against the back of the couch and closing his eyes. It burns a bit in some spots where the skin is rubbed raw- he’d been pushing himself a bit much perhaps -but it doesn’t matter much.
The young man’s hands are working over his stumps, massaging the tension out of sore muscles and Merlin groans. It’s something that needs to be done EVERY day to avoid pulling something while what’s left of his legs are adapting. But Eggsy doesn’t stop there, moving up his thighs to ease the tension there and his arms and shoulders next.
By the time the man is through, Merlin is more or less a puddle on the couch. He’s not sure how much time has passed but he’s about ready to sleep right where he’s sat. Eggsy has other ideas, however, and he finds himself being lifted- an easier feat now he’s a stone and a half LIGHTER -and carried to his bedroom. A soft kiss is pressed to his lips and Merlin smiles sleepily up at the young man as he’s put under the covers.
He’s vaguely aware of Eggsy singing low to him, hand brushing lightly over his cheek, and keeping watch over him until he falls asleep.
@kingsmanmakings
#kingsmanmakings#;; this is my autograph. here in the songs i sing. ( drabbles )#[ rip these are all getting so long ]
2 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
lawnchairz
'bout that beer i owed ya
utheneradesigns
ACNH Patterns
cazarey
Untitled
idunlilithohlin
In Memoriam Dead and Euronymous
velvetteonmain
velvette posting