#mtp fred

William James Moriarty

The Scene

William often forgot that he had a body. To him, he was a vessel for a mathematical crusade, a mind that existed in equations of blood and social reform. He would sit at his desk in the dead of night, the candle flickering low, his eyes stinging from the strain of tiny bridge-handwriting.

You never interrupted his thoughts with chatter. Instead, you would slip into the room like a shadow, moving with a grace that didn't jar his frantic mind. Your love language was the soft clink of a fresh porcelain cup being placed on a coaster,never directly on his maps. You would gently pry the dried-out pen from his cramped fingers and replace it with a warm cup of tea, your hand lingering on his shoulder for exactly three seconds.

He would look up, the crimson of his eyes softening from the cold fire of a mastermind to the weary warmth of a man. He wouldn't say 'thank you',the word felt too small for the way you tethered him to the earth. Instead, he would lean his head back against your stomach as you stood behind him, closing his eyes and letting out a long, shuddering breath. In that silence, he wasn't the Lord of Crime; he was just Liam, allowed to be tired because you were there to hold the light.

Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love

· He notices everything you do.

William's mind is wired to observe, calculate, and remember. He sees every small act,the way you warm his chair by the fire before he sits down, the way you leave his favorite pen exactly where his hand will find it, the way you turn down the lamps when you notice his eyes straining. He never mentions it aloud, but his gaze follows you around the room with an intensity that makes your skin warm.

· He tries to refuse you at first.

Not because he's ungrateful, but because guilt gnaws at him. "You shouldn't trouble yourself over me," he says the first few times, his voice soft but firm. You ignore him completely and keep doing what you're doing. Eventually, he stops protesting. He learns to simply... accept. To let himself be cared for, even when he doesn't feel worthy of it.

· He returns your acts of service in subtle ways.

William shows his love through quiet provision. Your favorite book appears on your nightstand when you've had a hard day. The fire in your room is always lit before you retire. The garden path you like to walk is mysteriously cleared of leaves every morning. He never takes credit,he simply folds these small kindnesses into the architecture of your life like variables in an equation, solving for your happiness without ever asking for recognition.

· He becomes protective of your time.

William is fiercely territorial about the moments you choose to spend on him. If someone interrupts when you're playing with his hair or massaging his temples, his eyes flash with something sharp and cold. "Not now," he says, and his voice leaves no room for argument. You've accidentally become the only person who can make the Lord of Crime drop everything just to exist in the same space as you.

· The first time he let you see him break.

It happened after a particularly brutal mission,one where a child died despite all their planning. William locked himself in his study and didn't come out for hours. When you finally entered with tea, you found him sitting in the dark, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking silently. You didn't speak. You simply set down the tray, sat on the floor beside his chair, and rested your head against his knee. He didn't look up, but his hand found your hair, and he held on like you were the only thing keeping him from drowning. In the morning, he was William again,composed, brilliant, terrifying. But something had shifted. He looked at you differently now. Like you'd seen something no one else was allowed to see, and you hadn't run.

Albert James Moriarty

The Scene

Albert lived his life behind a mask of perfect, aristocratic bronze. Every smile was a tactical maneuver; every polite nod was a lie. He carried the weight of the initial spark,the fire that started it all,and the guilt of what he had asked his brothers to become.

When he returned from the Ministry or a grueling day at MI6, his shoulders were set in a rigid line that looked like it might snap. You were the only one who didn't demand he be "The Count." Your act of service was the ritual of the homecoming. You'd meet him in the foyer, wordlessly taking his heavy wool coat and hanging it near the fire to warm.

One evening, you found him staring into the fireplace, his glass of wine untouched. You sat on the rug by his feet, leaning your back against his knees. You didn't speak. You just pulled a basket of tangled embroidery thread into your lap and began to sort the colors. The rhythmic, mundane task acted as an anchor. Albert's hand eventually found its way to your hair, his fingers stroking the strands with a trembling tenderness. To him, your presence was a sanctuary,a place where he didn't have to be a leader or a traitor. He could just be a man sitting by a fire with someone who knew his darkness and chose to stay anyway.

Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love

· He is confused by you at first.

Albert has spent his entire life around people who want something from him,status, money, protection, secrets. Your quiet acts of service baffle him because you ask for nothing in return. "Why do you do this?" he asks one night, watching you mend a tear in his sleeve. You look up, confused by the question. "Because your arm was cold," you say simply. He doesn't know how to respond to that. He stares at you for a long moment, then looks away. His ears are red.

· He becomes addicted to your presence.

Once Albert learns what it feels like to be cared for without conditions, he can't go back. He starts seeking you out,not for conversation or strategy, but just to be near you. He'll sit in the same room while you read, or follow you to the garden while you tend the roses. He doesn't always speak. He just needs to know you're there.

· He shows his love through fierce protection.

Albert is the head of MI6, and he uses every resource at his disposal to keep you safe. You have a permanent detail of shadows watching you at all times (you've never noticed). Your mail is screened. Your carriage routes are planned for maximum safety. He has a contingency plan for every possible threat to you, filed under a code name that only he knows. He will never tell you this. He doesn't want you to be afraid. He just wants you to be alive.

· He confides in you when he can't sleep.

Albert's nightmares are filled with fire and screaming and the faces of his birth family. On those nights, he comes to your room and stands in the doorway, looking younger than his years, looking lost. You never ask what's wrong. You simply shift over and lift the blanket, and he climbs in beside you, curling around you like you're the only warmth in a frozen world. He doesn't always sleep, but he rests. And in the morning, he's Albert again,polished, controlled, untouchable. But you know. You always know.

· The first time he thanked you properly.

It was late, and you'd spent the entire day organizing his disaster of an office,sorting classified documents, cleaning his neglected desk, leaving out a fresh uniform for the morning. He came home to find you asleep in his chair, a smudge of ink on your cheek, his coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket. He stood there for a long time, just looking at you. Then he knelt beside the chair, brushed the hair from your face, and whispered, "Thank you." His voice cracked on the second syllable. You don't know if you dreamed it. But when you woke up, there was a fresh flower on the table beside you, and his coat was still wrapped around your shoulders.

Louis James Moriarty

The Scene

Louis was the most difficult to serve, primarily because he viewed caretaking as his domain. He was the guardian, the chef, the one who ensured everyone else was fed and folded. For a long time, he viewed your attempts to help as a challenge to his utility.

But you learned that Louis didn't need someone to do his job; he needed someone to share the burden. You started showing up in the kitchen at 5:00 AM, before the sun had even thought about rising. You didn't try to take over; you simply began peeling the potatoes or sharpening the knives before he could get to them.

The first time you did it, he stood in the doorway, his hand hovering over his scarred cheek, looking genuinely baffled. You just tilted your head and pointed to the kettle. "Tea's already steeped, Louis. Can you check the biscuits? I think I might have left them in a minute too long."

The tension in his face melted into something soft and vulnerable. By letting him 'correct' your minor mistakes, you gave him the permission to relax. Now, the kitchen is a shared cathedral. He works faster when you're there, his movements more fluid. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, he'll press a small, perfect tart into your hand,the one with the extra jam you like,and his eyes will linger on yours, a silent admission that he isn't alone in the shadows anymore.

Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love

· He rejects your help at first.

Forcefully. "I don't need assistance," he says, his voice clipped, his scarred cheek turned away from you. He sees your offers as pity, or worse, as proof that he's failing in his duties. But you're patient. You don't push. You simply show up, day after day, and do small things without being asked. Eventually, his walls begin to crack.

· He expresses love through food.

Louis cannot say "I love you." The words stick in his throat like fish bones. But he can bake your favorite bread. He can remember exactly how you take your tea. He can leave a plate of warm scones on your nightstand when you've had a bad day. This is his language,the language of flour and sugar and careful, loving hands. Learn to read it, and he will never stop speaking.

· He becomes fiercely possessive.

Louis has lost everyone he's ever loved except William. The thought of losing you is unbearable. He doesn't show it obviously,no grand declarations or public displays. But he watches. He notices every person who looks at you too long, every stranger who stands too close. He memorizes their faces. Just in case. You've caught him sharpening his knives after someone was rude to you at the market. You didn't ask why. You just made him tea and sat with him until his hands stopped shaking.

· He lets you see his scar.

This is the greatest gift Louis can give. His scar is his deepest shame, the physical manifestation of the fire that birthed their revolution. He keeps it hidden behind his bangs, turning his face away from mirrors and photographs alike. The first time he lets you touch it,really touch it, your fingertips tracing the raised tissue,he trembles like a leaf in a storm. "Does it disgust you?" he whispers. You kiss the scar gently and say, "It shows me how brave you are." He cries. He never cries. But he cries then, and he doesn't pull away.

· The first time he said "stay."

You were leaving the kitchen after helping with dinner, and his hand shot out and caught your wrist. His grip was too tight,he loosened it immediately, embarrassed,but he didn't let go. "Stay," he said. Just one word. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his scarred cheek hidden by his hair. You sat back down. You didn't say anything. You just stayed. And when Louis finally looked up at you, his expression was so full of desperate, terrified hope that your heart cracked open. Now, "stay" is your word. He uses it often. He means it every time.

Sebastian Moran

The Scene

Moran was a man built of jagged edges and old shrapnel. He didn't know what to do with "soft." To him, affection was a distraction that could get a man killed in the tall grass.

Your love for him manifested in the maintenance of his humanity. After a mission, when he came back smelling of gunpowder and cheap gin, you didn't lecture him. You simply prepared a tub of hot water, some clean rags, and a bottle of high-quality oil for his firearms. You'd sit on the floor of his room, humming a low, tuneless melody while you scrubbed the grime from his heavy boots.

The first time you did it, he tried to scoff, telling you it was "bloody ridiculous" for a lady/gentleman to be cleaning a marksman's mud. But you just looked up at him, wiped a smudge of dirt off your nose, and said, "Everyone needs a clean slate, Sebastian."

He stopped protesting after that. He'd sit in his oversized armchair, nursing a drink, watching you work with an expression that bordered on awe. He wasn't used to being looked after without an ulterior motive. Sometimes, he'd "accidentally" leave his favorite waistcoat with a loose button just so you'd have a reason to sit near him for twenty minutes, providing the quiet, steady presence that kept his war-torn mind from spiraling into the dark.

Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love

· He doesn't trust it at first.

Moran has been betrayed by everyone who was supposed to protect him,his country, his comrades, his own blood. Kindness smells like a trap to him. The first few times you do something for him, he watches you with narrowed eyes, waiting for the catch. The catch never comes. This confuses him more than anything else.

· He shows love through rough physicality. Moran isn't gentle.

He doesn't know how to be. But he shows his affection by pulling you into crushing hugs, by ruffling your hair until it stands on end, by throwing an arm around your shoulders and hauling you against his side. He's careful, though,you notice. He's always careful. His strength is immense, but he handles you like glass, like something precious that he's terrified of breaking.

· He becomes your personal guard dog.

Not officially. Officially, Moran answers to William and no one else. But somehow, he's always wherever you are. Walking to market? Moran is suddenly interested in shopping. Reading in the garden? Moran is trimming roses (badly). Attending a social event? Moran has somehow wrangled an invitation and is glaring at anyone who looks at you wrong. "I'm not following you," he insists, his ears red. "It's just... coincidence." You don't argue. You just save him a seat.

· He stops drinking as much.

You never asked him to. You never lectured him or hid his bottles or made him feel ashamed. You just started being there,sitting with him in the evenings, talking about nothing, filling the silence with your presence. And slowly, without him really noticing, the bottle became less important. He still drinks. Old habits die hard. But he doesn't need it the way he used to. He has you now.

· The first time he said "I'm glad you're here."

It was the middle of the night, and he'd had a nightmare,the desert, the ambush, the faces of his men as they died. He woke up gasping, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there, and found you already beside him, your hand on his chest, your voice low and steady. "You're safe. You're home. I'm here." He grabbed you and held on like a drowning man, his face buried in your hair, his whole body shaking. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet. "I'm glad you're here," he said, rough and raw. "I'm glad it's you." He's never said it again. He doesn't need to. You heard him the first time.

Fred Porlock

The Scene

Fred was the wind. He could move through a ballroom or a back alley and leave no more impression than a draft. He was so used to being "no one" that he often forgot he deserved to be "someone."

You showed your appreciation for Fred by noticing him when he wasn't trying to be noticed. You would leave small tokens in the places only he frequented,the crook of a high window ledge, the corner of the garden where the foxgloves grew. A single orange, a new whetstone for his knives, or a sprig of lavender for his pillow.

Because he rarely spoke, you stayed silent with him. You would go out to the gardens while he was weeding and simply sit on the bench nearby with a book. You didn't ask for his attention; you just offered your company.

One afternoon, he approached you with a single, perfectly bloomed white rose. He placed it on your lap and stood there for a heartbeat, his young face unmasked and peaceful. "It matches the one in the corner," he whispered, referring to the sketch you'd been working on. For Fred, your presence was a confirmation of his existence. You saw him when he was invisible to the rest of the world, and that was the greatest service you could ever offer.

Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love

· He is confused by your attention.

Fred has spent his entire life blending in, being forgettable, being no one. He doesn't understand why you see him. He doesn't understand why you leave him gifts or sit with him in the garden or remember his birthday. The first time you wave at him from across the room, he actually looks behind himself to see who you're waving at. It doesn't occur to him that you could possibly be acknowledging him.

· He shows love through quiet offerings.

Fred cannot speak his feelings,the words feel too large for his small, quiet voice. So he leaves things for you instead. A smooth stone from the river. A pressed flower in your book. A cup of tea waiting on your nightstand, still warm, made exactly the way you like it. You never see him leave these things. They simply appear, like magic, like proof that someone is watching over you.

· He follows you. Not in a threatening way.

In a protective way. Fred is always somewhere nearby when you're out in the city,disguised as a vendor, a beggar, a passing gentleman. You never spot him. You're not supposed to. But if anything ever threatened you, he would be there in an instant, silent and deadly, eliminating the danger before you even knew it existed. He has saved your life at least four times. You have no idea.

· He lets you touch him.

Physical contact is difficult for Fred. He's not used to it,not used to being close to people, not used to being perceived. But he lets you braid his hair when it gets too long. He lets you hold his hand when you walk through the garden. He lets you pull him into gentle hugs that last maybe a second too long. He never initiates these touches. But he never pulls away. And sometimes, when you're not looking, he touches the places you've touched him, like he's trying to memorize the feeling.

· The first time he spoke to you on purpose.

He'd been avoiding you for days,not because he was angry, but because he didn't know how to handle the warmth spreading through his chest every time he saw you. Finally, you cornered him in the garden. "Fred," you said, "if I've done something wrong, please tell me." He shook his head violently. "No. No, you-" He stopped. Took a breath. His hands were shaking. "You make me feel seen," he whispered. "I don't know what to do with that." You took his hands and held them until they stopped shaking. "You don't have to do anything," you said. "Just let me see you." He nodded. And now, when you're alone, he lets you see him,all of him, the spy and the gardener, the killer and the lost boy. It's the most vulnerable he's ever been. He's never been happier.

Von Herder

The Scene

Von Herder's workshop was a chaotic symphony of clicking gears and the smell of sulfur. Most people found it overwhelming, but you learned the topography of his clutter so you could navigate it safely.

His eyes didn't work, so you became his eyes for the things he couldn't feel. Your act of service was the meticulous organization of his tool bench. You'd spend hours sorting screws by size and weight, placing them in braille-labeled bins you'd fashioned yourself. You made sure his favorites were always exactly three inches to the left of his anvil.

"Ah, my little clockwork," he would chirp when he heard your footsteps. He didn't just appreciate the organization; he appreciated that you never moved things without telling him. You respected the way he saw the world through his fingertips.

When he was frustrated with a delicate mechanism, you wouldn't offer pity. You would simply stand behind him and place your cool hands over his ears to block out the distracting noise of the manor, or you'd read out a German engineering manual in your slow, steady voice. He would cackle with joy, spinning around to catch your hand. To Von Herder, you weren't just a friend; you were the constant variable in his most beautiful equations.

Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love

· He is delighted by you.

Von Herder finds everything about you fascinating,your footsteps, your scent, the way you move through his workshop without bumping into things. "You have excellent spatial awareness," he tells you approvingly. "Most sighted people are useless in here. You are not useless." This is, from him, the highest compliment.

· He shows love through invention.

Von Herder cannot see your face, so he cannot draw your portrait or write you love letters. But he can build. He builds you things,beautiful, intricate, sometimes completely unnecessary things. A music box that plays your favorite song. A hairpin with a hidden blade (for protection). A tiny mechanical bird that sings when you wind it up. Each gift comes with a long, enthusiastic explanation of its mechanisms. You listen to every word, even when you don't understand them.

· He touches you constantly.

Since Von Herder can't see, he experiences the world through touch. And he wants to experience you. He touches your face to learn your expressions, your hands to learn your moods, your hair to learn its texture. "You smile with your whole face," he observes one day, his calloused fingers tracing your cheeks. "I like that." You let him touch. You understand that this is how he sees you, how he knows you, how he loves you.

· He becomes protective of your voice.

Von Herder loves the sound of your voice,the cadence, the warmth, the way you pronounce certain words. When other people talk over you or interrupt you, he gets genuinely angry. "Let them speak," he growls, his blind eyes somehow finding the offender with unnerving accuracy. "I was listening." You've learned to value your voice more because he values it. To him, your voice is music. To you, his attention is home.

· The first time he called you "important".

It was late, and you were reading to him while he worked on a delicate mechanism,some new gadget for Bond's next mission. He was humming along with your voice, his hands moving with perfect precision, when he suddenly stopped. "You know," he said, his accent thickening the way it did when he was emotional, "I did not expect to find someone as important as you here. In this country. In this basement." He turned toward you, his covered blind eyes somehow finding yours. "But you are important now. You understand? You are mine." You set down the book and took his hand. "I understand," you said. He nodded once, sharply, and went back to work. But he held your hand the whole time. He didn't let go until the mechanism was finished.

Moneypenny

The Scene

Moneypenny was the glue that kept the MI6 office from dissolving into anarchy. She was always the one taking care of others, managing the egos of coworkers and the brooding of noblemen.

You realized very early on that no one ever took care of her. Your love language for Moneypenny was the "takeover." On Friday afternoons, when the stack of reports on her desk reached precarious heights, you would walk in, take the pen out of her hand, and point to the door.

"The bath is drawn, there's lavender oil in the water, and I've already handled the filing for the 4th District," you'd say firmly.

She would try to protest,she always did,her spine going stiff as a ruler. "The government's expenses haven't been-"

"I did them this morning," you'd interrupt. "And I found the three-pound discrepancy in the carriage budget. Go. Now."

The way her shoulders would suddenly drop, her professional veneer cracking just enough to show the tired woman beneath, was your reward. She would squeeze your hand, a rare and fleeting gesture of intimacy, before retreating to take the rest she so desperately needed. You were the only person in the world she trusted enough to be vulnerable with, because you proved daily that the world wouldn't stop spinning if she closed her eyes for an hour.

Headcanons: How She Reacts to Your Love

· She resists at first.

Moneypenny is used to being indispensable. She's used to carrying the weight on her shoulders. Your offers of help feel like criticism at first,like you're suggesting she can't handle her own job. "I don't need a babysitter," she says sharply the first time you try to take something off her plate. You don't argue. You just keep showing up. Eventually, she stops pushing you away.

· She shows love through efficiency.

Moneypenny's love language is making your life easier. She streamlines your schedules, handles your paperwork, deals with the tedious bureaucratic nonsense that would otherwise eat up your days. "You looked tired," she'll say, sliding a completed form across the table. "I took care of it." She never asks for thanks. She just wants you to rest.

· She becomes fiercely loyal.

Moneypenny has worked for powerful men most of her life. She's learned to be useful, efficient, and utterly replaceable. But you've shown her that she's more than her productivity,that she deserves care just for existing. This changes something in her. She would burn down the world for you now. Not dramatically, not loudly. She would simply... file the right forms, make the right calls, and watch the flames consume your enemies from a safe distance. "I handled it," she'll say afterward, adjusting her spectacles. "Don't worry about the details."

· She lets you see her tired.

Moneypenny is a master of composure. Her hair is always pinned, her dress always pressed, her expression always professional. But when you're alone, she lets the mask slip. She lets you see the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way her hands shake after a particularly brutal day. She lets you brush her hair and rub her shoulders and tell her that she's done enough. She never thought she needed that. She was wrong.

· The first time she cried in front of you.

It had been a terrible week,a mission gone wrong, three close calls, and an endless mountain of paperwork threatening to bury her alive. You found her at her desk at midnight, still working, tears streaming silently down her face. She didn't even notice you come in. You sat beside her, took the pen from her hand, and pulled her against your shoulder. She didn't speak. She just cried,ugly, exhausted, broken sobs that she'd been holding in for years. You held her until she stopped, then made her tea, then walked her to her room and tucked her into bed. "Stay," she whispered, catching your hand. "Just... stay." You stayed. You sat in the chair by her bed and held her hand until she fell asleep. In the morning, she was Moneypenny again,efficient, composed, unstoppable. But she looked at you differently now. Softer. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For seeing me." You nodded. You understood. You always would.