𝕔𝕠𝕕𝕖 / 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕣.

it felt like hours went by as she stood in front of his door. minutes ticked by like hours as she fidgeted with her hands, too afraid to will them to knock. there was no way of knowing what was on the other side of it. sure it would be henry but how would he be? after everything that happened she wanted to give him some space before she bombarded him with her presence once again.

after waiting long enough here she was just standing at his door, feeling completely stupid for the butterflies in her stomach. there was no sense in delaying this anymore, the time would just keep ticking away. raising a pale hand up she finally knocked on the door separating them. “henry…can i come in?”

@codacodebreaker​

         the  knock  on  the  door  echoes  hesitance  inside  his  room,  bringing  with  it  a  sense  of  trepidation.  a  mission  gone  just  a  tad  sideways,  henry  can  only  guess  as  to  who’s  knocking  before  the  voice  comes,  quiet.  of  all  the  people  to  knock  at  his  door,  klara  is  somehow  not  who  he  expected  ( thinks  perhaps  mortimer  might  come  to  berate  him  on  levi’s  behalf ;  which  henry  doesn’t  feel  is  entirely  undeserved,  at  this  point,  after  days  of  reflection ).  the  ache  of  his  calf,  the  sting  of  taut  skin  threatening  to  loosen  tight  stitches  each  time  he  moves  serves  as  a  reminder  of  that.  perhaps  she’s  come  like  a  wraith  to  remind  him  of  his  failings.  he  knows  his  mother  would  think  so ;  after  all,  rash  decisions  made  for  the  fear  of  putting  a  loved  one  in  danger  will  ultimately  always  be  his  downfall.

&&.   closed starter |  @codacodebreaker​ !

             ideally,   charlie would give the injured men longer than a week of bed rest,   but time is of the essence in their unfortunate case.   healing,   once the bleeding has been stopped and the general high-risk of death or serious bodily harm has been avoided,   turns into an act of diligence and patience,   which is what has charlie so stressed out.   henry’s wounds remind him of the bodies he saw in greece.

  “   it seems like a rite of passage to get shot in the leg among this team,   ” there’s a frown on his lips as he inspects the gunshot wound.   he would allow henry to clean it out on his own under any other circumstances,   but in their current situation,    charlie wants to make use of this time to perform check-ups and make sure the process is going as intended.

  “   well,   it’s looking as good as you’d expect a gunshot wound to look after a few days.   how is it feeling for you,  any changes in pain or sensation ?   ”

          the  joke  rings  tasteless,  all  things  considered,  but  there  is  an  inkling  in  the  back  of  henry’s  mind  that  appreciates  the  inherent  futility  of  lighthearted  humor  despite  the  way  his  leg  aches.  he  shifts  in  his  seat,  wincing  as  he  takes  both  hands  to  move  his  leg  into  a  more  comfortable  position,  suffering  a  short  hiss  at  the  burn.

          ❛  peachy,  ❜    the  word  is  bitten  off,  every  muscle  in  his  body  tight.  whether  due  to  exhaustion  from  the  wound  itself  or  from  the  sleepless  nights  as  an  inevitable  side  effect  –––  memories  of  greece  plaguing  him,  nipping  at  his  heels  each  time  the  sun  sank  below  the  horizon.  still,  he  supposes  he  too  could  see  the  dramatic  irony  in  it,  from  an  objective  point  of  view,  were  he  to  take  one ;  but  the  burning  of  his  calf  hardly  allows  that.  though,  he  agrees  –––  he  had  it  coming.  the  knives  that  lacerated  his  skin  ( unwanted  but  not  unfamiliar )  perhaps  less  so.

a steady thumping in her chest started to beat faster and faster and faster as she heard that familiar voice. there was no need for her to even turn around for her to know who that was. it would only hurt to turn around and see him. still she had to, she had to see him. so she finally turned to look at him.

“henry…” her eyes lingered on him. he looked the same from when she saw him the last on the island. maybe a hint of age was there but barely if any. she could only see her friend from the island at that moment. the one who picked her up from the ground when she’d collapsed after dealing with her father. the one who kissed her head before running off to possible death. and the one who just left her without another word. right now that was the person she saw standing in front of her, the one who just left.

her stomach twisted in knots looking at him. finally she pulled her eyes from him back to the field in front of her.  "thought you might spend the whole trip hiding away.“ the words were maybe a little harsh to start out with but she was angry.

          henry  nearly  agrees.  it  would’ve been  easier,  tucked  away  with  his  papers  and  codexes,  but  ultimately  he  knows  they  would’ve  ended  up  here ;  at  odds,  despite  himself,  despite  the  way  his  fingers  itch  to  touch  her.  to  reach  out,  to  soothe  as  he  might  have  done  once.    ❛  well,  ❜    it’s  no  longer  his  place,  he  reminds  himself,  if  it  ever  was.    ❛  i  suppose  the  dog  needed  to  be  let  out  eventually.  ❜     and  it’s  not  an  apology,  but  it’s  something.  because  it  feels  like  that,  more  often  than  he  cares  to  admit.  he’s  back,  yes,  but  only  after  being  blatantly  manipulated  through  former –––     

it was at times like this she would have really really needed a drink. that’s about all klara wanted right about now, just something to take the edge off how she was feeling. henry, lena, noah. all the hidden secrets. but of course, she had stopped drinking a few months ago so she just had to stew in the feelings bubbling up inside. she needed a small break from everyone so she found a nice quiet spot in an open field nearby. she hoped she could just take her mind off things for a few minutes, but even she knew that was unrealistic.

@codacodebreaker

          leaving  was  easy.  it’s  something  he’s  had  time  to  reflect  on  in  the  quiet  of  twilight,  in  fallen  hush  over  english  countrysides.  he  fell  into  it  slowly,  at  first,  so  slowly.  the  sheep  had  needed  tending,  the  house  needed  care,  he’d  said ;  and  his  part  was  done,  adventures  written  in  the  story’s  pages,  aches  writ  in  his  bones.  the  tall  grasses  clinging  to  him  now  in  the  brush  as  he  goes  –––  fields  lush  in  the  foothills  of  the  mountains  –––  drag  his  mind  back  to  that  slow  slide,  sweeping  him  up  in  daydreams  of  wool  like  clouds  just  at  his  fingertips.  

@codacodebreaker

    Roman’s thumb brushed over the etching in the metal of the silver lighter he tried not to use these days. He leaned back against the car, eyes peering out over the horizon. He was a real piece of work, pursuing Henry, wasn’t he? He knew damn well that Henry was better off on his family’s land, secure, able to move past the chaos and demands of the field – a field he still worried about him walking in. A god damn minefield.

       He exhaled, pocketing the lighter again before rolling onto his side, pushing off the car to grab the door. It wasn’t far now, there was no sense putting it off any longer. He needed Henry. He’d couldn’t navigate the mines without him. The rest of the drive was quiet, not that the first half had been filled with any real noise, only the crunch beneath the tires of the car as he headed out to find him. The breeze was soothing though, the sun trying to peek through grey clouds as the warmth caught his arm. He parked, fingers drumming against the steering wheel for a moment before finally climbing out. It had been too long. He missed him. Something raw nestled between his ribs, tongue pressed firmly to the roof of his mouth as he made his way up the path.

      He wanted to find Henry well, safe and sound in his family’s space. The thought of anything else was unacceptable. He refused to entertain it. Walking, his eyes scanned the grounds, knowing better than to just approach and knock without keeping sight of his surroundings. Henry might be retired, but he wasn’t stupid, and he was far from incapable of taking care of himself. He looped around the house, spotting the sheep first. They were well tended to by their shepherd, that much was evident from their visible health. Of course Henry was a natural at this. Their shepherd though, was nowhere in sight, though they were safe within the confines of the fence. Roman’s tongue shifted to press against the inside of his cheek as he considered where he might be.

       Realizing, Roman made his way toward the water, the lull of the waves against the shore, against rocks in the distance, calling him forward. There was something steady about the crunch of rock beneath his boot, but the ache in his chest refused to give way even for the familiar sounds and smells of the english countryside. He’d grown up nestled in the city, but it didn’t mean he never enjoyed his time outside of it. At long last he spotted that familiar dark hair, longer now it seemed than when he’d last seen him. Tension rolled off his shoulders as his lip quirked into amusement, taking the rare chance to simply observe him on the beach near the water. A part of him considered turning around, walking all the way back up to the farm, passing the sheep, and climbing right back into his car. He didn’t owe this Levi gentleman a damn thing. But, even if he chose not to speak a word about what was happening, he wanted to speak to Henry. His voice appeared too often in his dreams to keep him from seeking the chance to hear it in person again.

        His voice was clear enough to be heard from across the way, “David est-il revenu? Ton troupeau est magnifique.” He asked, eyes filling with a warmth that had been absent for some time as he came to a stop some paces away, eyes flicking between the sea and the good shepherd whose flock he’d admired just before.

          the  ocean  roared,  hungry  waves  crashing  against  the  open  shore ;  the  mouth  of  the  sea  open  wide,  wide,  wide,  and  ready  to  swallow  him  whole  if  he’s  not  careful  about  just  how  deep  he  dips  his  toes.  may  meant  the  chill  of  the  morning  could  be  tempered  by  the  warmth  of  the  water  as  it  rushed  up  to  kiss  his  feet  –––  something  of  a  ritual  he’d  made  a  habit  of,  some  few  years  running  now.  throwing  stones,  however,  was  rooted  in  his  childhood  on  that  same  strip  of  the  coast,  and  he  dips  down,  fingertips  sifting  through  fine  sand.   

          the  strain  of  the  muscle  of  his  arm  as  it  swings,  launching  the  stone  into  the  sea,  is  immensely  satisfying  for  reasons  he  –––  nor  his  mother,  nor  her  mother  before  her  ( neither  mother,  nor  crone )  –––  will  ever  entirely  understand.  but  it  is,  and  he  closes  his  eyes  against  the  whip  of  the  wind,  breathing  in  deep,  tongue  sweeping  out  to  lick  salt  from  his  lips ;  tucking  his  hands  back  into  the  pockets  of  his  coat,  shoulders  hunching  against  the  chill  of  an  english  spring,  henry  feels –––

          there  is  a  sound  from  the  dunes  just  behind  him,  high  grasses  brushing  against  a  long  stride.  henry  freezes,  fingers  twitching  in  his  pockets,  flexing  ( hesitance,  though  the  glock  hidden  –––  tucked  between  his  belt  and  his  lower  back  –––  burns  hot  against  his  skin ).  his  mind  flickers,  stutters,  flashing  through  a  catalogue ;  the  sheep  are  penned,  his  mother  is  in  town,  nan’s  not  begun  to  haunt  them  yet,  despite  her  playful  threats  some  two  years  ago –––

@codacodebreaker

nails painted a glimmering blood red glint like talons as she drummed them on the desk.  she leaned over the fine wood carved piece of furniture, too bothered to stand straight, but too authoritative to sit down. she wouldn’t dare create a power imbalance such as that, with him standing and her sitting. no - she would stand all day in those wretched heels if it mean that he, and everyone else who entered the room, would know that she is in charge. 

she waved her hand to dismiss the guards, and beckoned henry closer, “come in darling,” the thick russian accent poured from her mouth like smoke, “sit down, make yourself comfortable as they say.” 

“i hope you are smart enough to have figured it out by now,” she purred, shrugging casually, “i’m vronsky.”

once she saw him take his place on the couch in the center of the room, she slinked over to him. walking behind the couch she traced her fingers over his shoulder, feeling him shudder under touch, “henry, you have been invaluable to me over the past few weeks. i just need you to stay valuable. it’s time to talk, and if not…well, you know how it is, goodbye grandma.”

          the  tapping  of  her  nails  is  like  the  tap  of  talons,  claws  raking  across  his  shoulders  as  she  crosses  behind  him.  the  pseudo-sweetness  of  her  voice  is  cloying,  saccharine  to  his  senses  as  bile  rises  in  his  throat.  however,  despite  appearances,  henry  is  no  fool.  being  an  MI6  agent  for  twelve  years  means  this  isn’t  his  ––  how  do  the  americans  put  it ?  isn’t  his  first  rodeo ?  

          he  was  no  lamb  in  a  den  of  lions ;  but  rather,  a  wolf  in  sheep’s  clothing.  and,  twelve  years  in  mind,  he  was  certainly  no  stranger  to  intimidation  tactics.  green  eyes  track  the  way  her  weight  shifts,  the  gait  of  her  walk,  the  sway  of  her  hips ;  voice  low,  calm  as  he  breathes,  “ i’m  well  aware,  thank  you. ”  a  pause,  wetting  his  lips,  “ is  something  the  matter  with  the  radio ? ”

3. what was the worst thing in your character’s life ?

disconnection. henry, by nature and certainly not nurture (lord knows his mother and grandmother tried to teach him), finds it incredibly difficult to connect with others on an emotionally vulnerable, intimate, meaningful level – especially with other men (oh the irony). he’s gone his whole life having only his mother and nan, everyone else kept at a professionally polite arm’s length away. it wasn’t until coda that he was forced to forge more than polite camaraderie with team mates.

11. for what would your character give their life ?

MONSTER FACTORY SENTENCE STARTERS / ACCEPTING

MONSTER FACTORY SENTENCE STARTERS / ACCEPTING

MONSTER FACTORY SENTENCE STARTERS / ACCEPTING 

HENRY’S MODERN AU CONTACT BOOK:

NAME: miss lena 🌸

RINGTONE: naive / the kooks

PICTURE:

HENRY’S MODERN AU CONTACT BOOK:

NAME: robocop 🤖

RINGTONE: mr. roboto / styx

PICTURE:

HENRY’S MODERN AU CONTACT BOOK:

NAME: jackson county missouri 

RINGTONE: red right hand / the bad seeds

PICTURE:

HENRY’S MODERN AU CONTACT BOOK:

NAME: noah 🐳

RINGTONE: time / tom waits

PICTURE: