Work Text:
Honeysuckle: Devoted Affection
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The purple blue of dawn had barely begun to show when Henry stirred. An unfortunately early riser, something that he’s come to realise of the late, he blearily blinked open his eyes, trying to adjust himself to the pale morning light. Somewhere in the fog of being asleep and being awake, the slow cogs of his mind had begun to turn.
The mission proper. Right.
Maybe it was an out of habit thing, but as much as he would like to stay in their — a thought that he never felt more giddy about — bed, there was work to be done. Communication lines, supply chains, business and financial matters…no one was going to properly coordinate the data if he won’t. Sighing to himself, he reluctantly sat up, his eyes never leaving his wife’s sleeping body. He noted the gentle rise and fall of her chest — or what he could make out of it given that she was essentially a lump underneath a pile of blankets — and the guzzling sound of her snoring. He had to stifle a chuckle. The flawless and indomitable Evie Frye (well, now Mir, though most people knew her as Mrs. Green) was not a graceful sleeper.
Henry turned his gaze to said lump, as he gently pulled down the blankets. Evie had the habit of sleeping on her side, and lately, she was curled even more tightly away. Her legs were tucked close to her chest as her back drooped into a ball. Her dark hair pooled against the pillow, haloing and obscuring her sleeping face, as the long thick strands spilled over to her shoulders and back. Her stormy blue eyes were shut soundly, the lashes only flitting and fluttering for whatever dreams she may have. Her thin pink lips were slightly parted as a thin line of drool dribbled from her snoring mouth and onto the poor unsuspecting bed. Her arm however remained outstretched, as if reaching for something, only to grasp the empty space where he once laid.
Despite the juxtapositions — hard and soft, protected and vulnerable, blemished and perfect — Evie looked oddly serene, Henry thought. Whatever worries or fears she had had smoothed over into sleep, and hopefully into better dreams. Between being an assassin and her cover job, it was no wonder that she often came home tired and stressed, and all at once broken. There were too many what ifs.
What if I was faster?
What if I was smarter?
What if I made a better call?
What if there was another solution?
What if I was wrong?
No matter how much she didn’t want to admit to herself, Henry saw how much the world had made his wife weary. The ghosts in her eyes and the scars that littered her body and soul were more than enough proof. On some days, she’d wake from memories of missions gone wrong; and on others, she’d ask for him to buy purple hyacinths. She didn’t need to tell him. He knew well enough what they were for.
It was then that he cursed his lack of use on the field. If he couldn’t be the field agent she wanted, then damn him into being the best information broker and supplier that she needed him to be. He needed to get the best weapons, the best upgrades, best information that the world had to offer. Since she carried the world on her shoulders, all he could do was share her burden in whatever way she’d let him.
For her, anything.
Certainly.
Tracing a finger down the slope of her freckled nose and across the curve of her cheek, Henry gently tucked a few stray strands back, only stopping to admire the freckles on her face. The more obvious ones were smattered across her nose and cheeks, but he knew very well that they extended to her shoulders and dipped down until the hollow of her back. They were faint, almost like the dust particles that dance under the filtered sunbeams from the window, and all the more he loved it. They reminded him of the constellations under the the London sky — there but only there if you looked hard enough — and while stargazing had been a hobby of his back in India, he had to chuckle at the way the universe had given his own sky to ponder on. Part of him wondered if he was really all that thick, but he relished the thought that this was all meant for him, just as he was meant to her.
And as if on cue, involuntarily so, his hand found her outstretched one, palming the rough callouses and scars. Bringing himself closer to her, he pressed a kiss onto her knuckle. “I love you,” he murmured against her skin, “stay safe for me today.”