Work Text:
The May afternoon sun filters through the heavy velvet curtains of their London townhouse, casting long, dusty beams across a room that looks less like a domestic sanctuary and more like the aftermath of a raid on a museum of curiosities. The air is thick with the scent of patchouli, expensive hairspray, and the lingering ozone of a Marshall stack left humming. Engelbert stands in the center of the Persian rug, his posture regal despite the fact that he is currently wearing a silk dressing gown and holding a medieval buckler as if it were a holy relic. His hair is perfectly coiffed, a dark, velvety helmet that defies the laws of physics.
Across from him, Jimi is a riot of color—frayed bell-bottoms, a vest embroidered with mirrors, and a look of genuine, baffled annoyance on his face. The fight had started over something small—a misplaced plectrum, perhaps, or Jimi’s habit of leaving half-empty bottles of Coke on the antique sideboard—but it has devolved into a territorial dispute over the décor.
"Get your hand off my shield!" Engelbert says, his voice a rich, baritone boom that carries the practiced weight of a man used to commanding the stage at the London Palladium. He pulls the shield closer to his chest, the gold filigree catching the light. "You have no respect for the lineage, James. This isn't just 'stuff.' This is heritage."
Jimi rolls his eyes, a slow, languid motion. He reaches out, his long, slender fingers—the ones that can make a Fender Stratocaster weep or scream—plucking at the edge of the metal. "Man, you’re being so heavy about this. There’s like a million other shields in this house. We’re tripping over them every time we try to find the exit."
It’s true. The house is a labyrinth of Jimi’s impulsive acquisitions and Engelbert’s curated treasures. There are shields leaning against the bookshelves, shields serving as oversized coasters, and shields tucked behind the television set. Engelbert huffs, a sound of profound theatrical indignation.
He points a manicured finger toward a smaller, more decorative piece leaning against the fireplace. "Take that one. It has a flower on it. Delicate work. Girls like flowers, don’t they? It suits your... aesthetic."
Jimi’s jaw tightens. There is a specific kind of spark in his eyes, the one that usually precedes a feedback-heavy solo. He doesn’t like being patronized, even by the man whose ring he wears. He doesn't want the flower shield. He wants the one Engelbert is hoarding, simply because Engelbert is hoarding it.
"I don't want the flower one, Enge," Jimi says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, soft purr. "I want the one you’re holding."
He lunges. It’s a playful move, or it’s meant to be, but the frustration of the morning—the creative blocks, the pressure of the charts, the petty bickering—channels into his muscles. He grabs the rim of the Humpdinck crest, jerking it toward him. Engelbert pulls back, his boots sliding on the polished hardwood.
"Let go!" Engelbert commands.
"Make me!" Jimi retorts, a grin flashing briefly before the metal slips.
In the scramble, Jimi’s grip firms and then heaves. The shield swings upward in an arc of gleaming gold. It’s a heavy thing, authentic and unforgiving. It connects with the side of Engelbert’s head with a dull, sickening thud. The world seems to stutter.
Jimi’s eyes go wide. "Oops!" he blurts out, the word escaping as a nervous, high-pitched reflex. He looks at the shield, then back at Engelbert. "Now this one has blood on it."
The shield clatters to the hardwood floor with a sound like a gong, a resonance that vibrates through the floorboards and seems to shake the very foundations of the house. Its polished surface, once pristine, is now streaked with a violent, jagged crimson smear. Engelbert doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry out. He doesn’t even blink. He simply collapses, crumpling against the mahogany leg of the sofa like a marionette with its strings cut. He remains there, motionless, one hand pressed firmly to his temple where the sharp, decorative edge of the shield caught him. A thin trail of red begins to escape from beneath his palm, staining the white cuff of his robe.
Jimi’s breath stops mid-lung. The air in the room suddenly feels freezing, the psychedelic colors of his own clothes turning garish and mocking. "Shit," he whispers, the word barely a ghost of sound.
The shield rolls slightly, a final, mocking wobble before it comes to a stop near Engelbert’s slippered foot. The blood looks fundamentally wrong against the gold filigree—too bright, too real, too visceral. It looks like someone has spilled wet, red paint onto a priceless Renaissance masterpiece, a desecration of the man Jimi loves more than the music itself. There are a million other shields in the house—mostly Jimi’s, piled in corners like some kind of medieval armory garage sale—but Engelbert’s is the only one with the Humpdinck family crest. It's his pride, his connection to a sense of history that Jimi has always found a bit silly but secretly envied. And now Jimi has decorated it with his husband's pain.
The silence in the room is deafening. It is the silence of a recording studio before the red light goes on, pregnant with the potential for disaster. Jimi is already moving before his brain fully processes the horror. His knees hit the floor with a painful crack right beside Engelbert. He is a whirlwind of frantic energy, his hands shaking so hard he can barely function.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—Eng, baby, look at me," Jimi pleads, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean... I was just being a drag, I was just playing, man. Open your eyes. Please, Enge, don't do this to me."
He scrabbles for the First Aid kit they keep tucked under the side table. It’s a permanent fixture there, mostly because Jimi is notoriously clumsy with his equipment, burning his fingertips on overheated amps or catching his skin on jagged guitar strings at least once a month. He rips the latch open, sending rolls of gauze and bottles of antiseptic tumbling onto the rug. Engelbert lets out a low, pained groan, his eyelids fluttering. He shifts his hand, and the sight of the deep gash along his hairline makes Jimi feel physically ill.
"James?" Engelbert mumbles, his voice lacks its usual resonance. It’s thin, vulnerable.
"I'm here, I'm here," Jimi sobs, a single tear escaping and landing on Engelbert’s cheek. He grabs a wad of sterile cotton, dousing it in stinging antiseptic. "I’m so sorry. I’m a fool, I’m a total stone-cold idiot."
He begins to dab at the wound with agonizing gentleness. Every time Engelbert winces, Jimi flinches as if he’s the one being burned. He works with a focused intensity, his long fingers surprisingly steady now that there is a purpose to them. He cleans the blood away, revealing a cut that is deep but, thankfully, not as dire as the initial spray suggested.
"You've ruined the shield," Engelbert whispers, though a tiny, weak smile begins to tug at the corner of his mouth. He's coming back to himself, the theatricality returning as the shock wears off. "It’ll never buff out, James. The crest is tainted."
"I don't care about the shield, man," Jimi says, his voice thick with emotion. He discards the cotton and starts applying a butterfly bandage with the precision of a technician. "I'll buy you ten more. I'll buy you a whole castle if you want. Just don't... don't go quiet on me like that again. It scared the soul right out of me."
Once the bandage is secure, Jimi doesn't pull away. He stays on his knees, leaning forward until his forehead rests against Engelbert’s shoulder. The panic is receding, replaced by a profound, grounding warmth. He begins to pepper Engelbert’s face with tiny, apologetic kisses—on his jaw, his cheek, his nose, and finally, a lingering one just beside the bandage on his temple.
"I love you, you big, dramatic crooner," Jimi murmurs against his skin.
Engelbert reaches up, his fingers tangling in the wild, dark thicket of Jimi’s hair. He pulls him closer, the petty fight over metal and ego completely evaporated, leaving only the two of them on the floor in the afternoon light.
"I suppose," Engelbert says, his voice regaining its velvety depth, "that the blood does add a certain... rugged character to the piece. It looks like it’s actually seen a battle now."
Jimi lets out a shaky laugh, burying his face in the silk of Engelbert’s robe. "No more battles today, Enge. Let's just stay down here for a while."
Engelbert hums in agreement, the sound vibrating through Jimi’s chest, a perfect, harmonious chord in the quiet of the house.