Hunith was probably constantly worried about Merlin. She did all she could and she new Camelot was dangerous but she didn’t know where else to send her son. Her only child she had to send directly into the line of fire.
Do you think she waited for a letter from Giaus saying he got caught? Constantly worried she would lose her only son.
Then when she finally gets to see him again I bet she was so relieved because he looked okay. Sure things were hard being the princes manservant and all but he was loved and she knew that. Even after see just how much Arthur cared about Merlin she just waited for that letter.
Stay with me A little longer I will wait for you Shadows creep And want grows stronger Deeper than the truth
John stretches out the taut piece of fabric. It’s inlaid with kevlar (even a supersoldier goes down when they take a bullet), slightly thinner than usual for mobility’s sake. He turns to Zemo, raising an eyebrow. The man in question was tugging a pair of boots from the trunk where his uniform was.
“It will do the job, but the bullet will still hurt.” Zemo remarks. Often, when shot, the pain will not register fast enough. John had experienced it before. He would feel a blinding fire in his gut, and his feet would still be moving even when his body crumpled and folded under the hit. And lying there, in shock, he had thought- I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. Over and over, blood spilling out of him, before it registered that he’s been hit again by another bullet.
“Just don’t freeze,” Zemo reminds him again.
“It’ll hurt just as much as being shot normally, just that the bullet won’t penetrate. You’re betting that I can handle the pain?” John knows he could, but it’s fun to rile Zemo up.
“You will handle it.”
“And if I come back with a shit ton of internal bleeding because of your negligence?”
Before he knew it, Zemo was centimeters away from him, gloved hand digging viciously into a blackened bruise on his torse. John grits his teeth to prevent himself from making any sound. Zemo leans in, close enough that John could feel the heat of his breath and inhale the delicate scent of cherry blossom tea. “Then take it as your punishment, and don’t be so foolishly careless again.”
Zemo takes a step back from him, fixes him with a searching gaze. John inhales slowly, recognising these moments as the eye of the storm, the silence and bated breath before thunder cracks the sky. He has learnt to treasure them. “And- I will not be negligent around you,” Zemo says, voice catching in his throat. Then he says, a faint sterness in his voice that told John it was a reminder- “Not in anything I do.”
The words what do you mean are on the tip of his tongue, but John presses his lips into a tight line. He doesn’t want Zemo to spell out the obvious for him- attachment is negligence as well.
Zemo seems to be pleased by whatever minuscule reaction (or lack of) that he showed. The man nods to himself, satisfied, as he turns away and reaches for John’s shield.
John puts on his suit with quick, practiced tugs. Then he buckles the buttons, alternating red and black, one by one in a slanted line down his chest; he squats down, yanking on his sleek combat boots. When he looks up, Zemo is observing him silently, head cocked to one side. John freezes, wondering if Zemo had been standing there the whole time, motionless, looking at his every movement. He reaches for his laces by the side table, but Zemo’s hands find his.
Oh. when had he taken off his gloves?
Wordlessly, Zemo lifts him from the floor. John could smell the leather still lingering on his bare fingers, and the softness of his touch, calloused only on the middle finger where a stylus rests. These are hands that hold heavy gold chalices and silver letter-openers, sharp as a knife. And they stamp royal carvings into hot wax, sealing letters that will decide the fates of millions.
John’s blood turns molten all of a sudden, pumping hard and fast under his skin. He wanted to spill blood all over those dainty fingers, and knowing Zemo, it could be golden ichor. He imagined it crusted into fingernails, could nearly taste it hot on his tongue, war paint befitting of royalty.
He lifts Zemo’s hand, holding that wild gaze, and plants a chaste kiss on the back, chapped lips sliding against soft skin. “Baron,” he says, reveling in the shaky inhale that he hears.
Zemo’s eyes are wide, pupils dilated. His hand hovers over where John’s heart is. After a few seconds Zemo retracts his hand as if burnt and glances away, with the expression that John has come to associate with cornered and run. But he does not take a step back, doesn’t even make up some bullshit excuse to run away.
John knows that neither shock nor fear can make Zemo come to a standstill. So here, there is something inexplicably different that has pinned him to place like a dried butterfly to a corkboard.
“Hold still.”
He watches, mesmerised, as Zemo sinks to his knees and begins to lace up his boots, fingers working deftly to thread string through metal rings.
When the job is done, Zemo straightens again and looks at him square in the eyes. Fully clothed and ready for combat, something deeply calm has settled into John, reducing the world around him to a gentle hum. “US Agent,” Zemo says. His expression is not loving or warm, but his brows are furrowed in worry and John knows it’s the closest thing to kindness he’ll get.
“I’m here,” John says. It might have been a trick of the light, or his brain hallucinating some source of comfort, but he could’ve sworn there was a smile on Zemo’s lips just then, for barely a second.
But walking away and out of the equipment room, he hears a soft good luck behind him, and knows there’s no doubt about it.
I can't help but love you Even though I try not to