Work Text:
Eliot never wakes up gasping from a nightmare: it’s a luxury he can’t afford. This night is like any other one, and he surfaces without moving a muscle, the gallows and the merciless sun of his dream melting away. His breathing is calm, measured. The warmth surrounding him is still unearned and still his to keep.
Then Parker whispers in his ear, impervious and smooth in the darkness: “Remember, you’re never leaving again.” And Hardison says on the other side, voice still rough and gravelly with sleep: “Yes, brother. Royal orders.”
He dreams of the coronation after that, bright light and his blood on the stones, and smiles in his sleep.