#emcrse

 HE SHOULDN'T BE HERE. This bed has not been made for him. Its sheets have not been straightened and pressed for him. This room has not been set up for him, not chosen so carefully for its size and space and view for him. Nothing here is his, nor is it made for the likes of him. But there is, perhaps, one exception; the man currently resting against his chest. Fergus. Fergus is--- not Morse's, exactly, but Morse is his. His ear is pressed to Morse's chest for the sound of his heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. He is here at Fergus's request. That does not mean he should be here. This, Morse knows. And still, he is here.

       MORSE MAKES RATHER A GOOD BED, IT SEEMS. This room and its bed and its sheets and pillows have been arranged for Fergus, and yet he lounges across Morse's body instead. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous, and... endearing. Morse's arm is tucked between his own head and the pillows, cushioning the back of his skull against luxuriously soft bedding that he does not deserve to be resting against. His other arm is draped across Fergus, his thumb stroking in a tiny up-down curved shape on his back. He kisses the head resting against his chest.

       A DOOR SLAMS OUTSIDE. It's likely nothing to do with them ( as the hotel does have other guests and other rooms, after all ) but it startles Morse anyway. It's a sudden reminder that he shouldn't be here, and if someone was to find him here--- but they won't. Not now. Why should anyone else have cause to come in here? Morse knows, rationally, that they're alone for tonight, highly unlikely to be disturbed. Still, his ridiculous heart is pounding under Fergus's cheek. The other man must be able to feel it. Morse stays firmly silent. The thought of Fergus being able to feel his heart rate picking up is fairly mortifying, but what's even worse is the idea of drawing attention to it by saying something. He can just imagine his own ridiculous voice now, low and mournful, suggesting he "ought to go, in case someone needs you for a pressing matter". What pressing matter could warrant some unknown person to disturb Fergus in his hotel room, at this time of night? Morse doesn't know, but it's just the sort of nonsensical thing he might say and immediately regret. Best for everyone involved if he simply neglects to speak at all, lest he ruin things or embarrass himself. Best if he hopes Fergus doesn’t notice the pounding of his heart.

This was nice. He could get used to his. Fergus had never thought much about wether or not he was a cuddler. If asked, he probably would have said no but to lie like this, his head resting on Morse’s chest while his heartbeat lulled him to sleep was possibly very close to heaven. 

It made him forget about all the stress of the day. No thinking about tomorrow’s agenda or that policy proposition or international relations; just Morse’s steady heartbeat and his hand on his back. If he wasn’t careful, he would nod right off and he wasn’t so sure he would mind. 

He only vaguely took note of the sound of a door going somewhere beyond his hotel room but paid it no mind until he became very aware of the soothing, slow rythm of Morse’s heart pick up speed. 

“It’s fine. I put a ‘don’t disturb’ sign on the door,” he assured him, mumbled into his shirt and then reluctantly raised his head to look up at him. The skin under Morse’s chin seemed very tempting from this angle and he put some effort in to crane his neck and place a kiss to his neck.  

☎️ 𝙶𝙷𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙱𝚄𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂, 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃? || 25) one muse shows up at the other’s doorstep because they need help and are in danger. || @emcrse​

MIDNIGHT VISITORS TO THE FIREHOUSE WERE BY NO MEANS A NEW CONCEPT. In fact, after the media explosion surrounding their efforts, and the subsequent transformation from unknowns to people of international repute practically overnight, the building had been subjected to visitors at all hours from all manners of individuals - typically either crased fans or overly-eager journalists. Fortunately, he knew how to adequately handle both possiblities. 

HOWEVER, EVERY NOW AND AGAIN, THE CIRCUMSTANCES WOULD TURN OUT TO BE A LITTLE LESS PREDICTABLE. The signs weren’t often immediately obvious, however, and as the front door was subjected to a rather erratic knock at a little before two o’clock in the morning, Egon had been reluctantly roused from his work, a distinct frown present on his lips as he prepared himself to address yet another pest - only for his demeanour to immediately change upon noticing the rather worried-looking young man standing outside, the atmosphere that now lingered between them conveying his general feeling of panic. Senses triggering, he himself found his gaze darting from one end of the street to another, danger settling into his mind, though he couldn’t identify any clear threat. That didn’t mean one didn’t exist, however. He was well-aware of that possibility.

❝ Inside. Now. ❞

Albert had managed to wear out a number of bodyguards in the last year, none really seemed able to either handle him or keep up with him. The Prince having served, did not seem so convinced that he truly needed protection in the same ways that his siblings might. However, his own role demanded protection and so he would inevitably keep going through bodyguards until there was one that could stick or his father gave up. 

When he looked at the latest to walk through the door he was at first surprised by his age, he supposed that rumour had spread of how difficult he could be and the more senior in the service knew to avoid him. Still the expression granted was polite even if there was just a little shadow of pity for the man too. He stood straight and lifted his chin just that little bit, playful but still measuredly regal. 

       HE DESERVES THIS. Morse has been restless all evening, finding every excuse under the sun to bother Mycroft. It started with the crossword --- he simply had to borrow one of Mycroft's pens, because his own ran out, which of course became a perfect opportunity to steal the one Mycroft was using. After that it was the other pens. They all needed testing out, which really had to be done right next to Mycroft. From there, his determination only increased: Morse wants attention, and Mycroft therefore can't be allowed to get more than a moment's peace until it has been achieved. And it seems his efforts have paid off.

       SO, YES, HE DESERVES THIS. When he's pinned rather suddenly against the wall, Morse finds himself quite pleased with his behaviour. It isn't a punishment he deserves, but a reward, and this is surely a reward. He's earned it through an evening of hard work trying to provoke Mycroft!

      AT FIRST, HIS EXPRESSION IS ONE OF SURPRISE. He's got his head tilted slightly back and resting against the wall so he can stare up at Mycroft, all innocence and bewilderment. What could've possibly caused Mycroft to behave this way? It's not all false, however. There's no faking the faint colour in Morse's cheeks, nor the way his heart races under Mycroft's attention.

       THE FALSE INNOCENCE DOESN'T LAST LONG. He's far too pleased with himself. Soon enough, self-satisfaction settles into his expression, a rather smug little smirk forming on his lips.

Morse was a pest. Yes, he was a pest that Mycroft felt strong affection for, but he was a pest nonetheless. The man had been driving him crazy all evening with his request for pens - not only because of his damn habit of clicking them, but also because apparently he need to test every single pen that Mycroft owned. It was clearly attention seeking. He had attempted to ignore it so as to not reinforce the behaviour but, fortunately for Morse, Mycroft had found himself simply having enough.

He had asked the other man to fetch him a drink. However, as Morse had stood, so had Mycroft. Without giving his companion a moment to ponder exactly what he was doing, he reached out and took hold of his shoulders - forcibly turning him so that his back was facing the nearest wall before promptly pinning him to it, the action smooth and clearly well practised. Self defence skills, it turned out, could be useful in more ways than one.

“You’re a smug git,” Mycroft accused even before the other’s pretence of innocent fell. As he spoke, he moved his hands so they were holding Morse’s wrists in place to the sides of his head. The damn man could be so irritating sometimes - and, to make matters worse, he was clearing enjoying the reaction that he had managed to provoke out of Mycroft.

a semi-plotted starter   ――   @emcrse​