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Between Percival going off the grid in Iraq for a fear-inducing two hours on Monday and Arthur not turning up to HQ at all on Thursday, leaving Merlin in command of far too many individuals, it’s already been a hell of a week even before Friday rolls around and brings with it Harry’s mission in Essaouira.
It was just supposed to be recon, Merlin reminds himself, in amazed resignation, as his heart pounds too loudly in his ears in response to the grunts and sounds of flesh against flesh coming across the comms. Fortunately, Harry’s vigorous swearing also comes across, and the blood spattered across his glasses seems to belong to the drug traffickers who had, unfortunately for them, noticed something suspicious in a Western man being in the dodgy plaza Harry had been scoping. Merlin suspects, as the second to last trafficker falls with a watch stun shot to the neck, that Harry, coming off two weeks of dead time, is even glad that the thing went tits up.
“You wouldn’t be in this situation if your cover were any damn good, Galahad,” Merlin remarks as the last trafficker falls and silence reigns once more. The world as seen through the glasses’ visual feed shakes slightly as Harry begins jogging through the now-deserted plaza toward the extraction point. “I saw those crap khakis you were trying to pass off as authentic Moroccan.”
“I wear what I’m given,” Harry remarks, his voice wavering with exertion. “If my cover is bad, it’s because—”
The visual feed cuts out for a second as Harry swears under his breath, and when it reappears, it’s on the ground. Merlin attempts to rotate it for a better look as the sounds of more hand to hand combat drift over the audio feed.
Thirty seconds later it’s quiet again and Harry appears, briefly, onscreen as he bends over to reclaim the glasses. “Sorry, Merlin. Last last one taken care of.”
“Right, time to get out before you give me a heart attack, Galahad.”
“Happy to obey. Hope my cover will hold just a bit longer.”
“Ach, Galahad, I’m sorry; this one is on me.” Guilt pricks at Merlin’s stomach as he remembers. “Just a recon mission, so I figured I should let one of the minions try his wings solo at the costuming. I won’t be making that mistake twice.”
“How far is extraction, again?”
Harry’s slowed to a casual walk now that he’s back on the main roads in Essaouira, mingling once more with the dusk crowd headed toward the countryside, but the gasps punctuating his voice are stronger than ever. Merlin frowns. “Two miles beyond the city limit.” He double-checks the helicopter’s feed. “It’s on target for the designated time.”
“Good.” Harry meanders slowly toward the exit, keeping his head down so that Merlin gets frequent glimpses of the ground underfoot. “I hope they brought plasters.”
“Galahad.”
“Just a graze—last fellow had a nice little knife. A flesh wound, if you will.”
“Get your arse back here, Monty fucking Python.”
It’s just about midnight and Merlin is finishing the last report related to the cock-up in Essaouira when he hears the lab door open behind him.
“Infirmary. Now.” He does not look away from the screen.
Footsteps echo off the electronics that line his cave, and then all falls silent. In the stillness he feels Harry standing over him.
“Infirmary,” he repeats, his typing never faltering.
“Already done, Gran.” Harry rests his chin against Merlin’s head, and Merlin tries not to sag with relief at his touch. “Even though the best nurse is locked up in here.”
Merlin surveys the man before him. Harry’s still all in one piece, it appears, and whatever bandaging he got for what Merlin’s been assured five or six times now is just a graze to the shoulder, it’s not visible above his clothing.
“They did their jobs. Good.” He turns around again and continues typing. “Are you dismissed?”
“Until Sunday, unless someone in the world out there acts up tomorrow,” Harry murmurs into Merlin’s skull. “You?”
“There is no freedom on this side of the desk, you know that.”
“Paperwork.” Harry grunts. “Still, a man can get a night off, yes?” He wraps his arms lightly around Merlin’s shoulders.
“A man can take a few hours to sleep. Literally, sleep.”
Harry’s fingers massage his neck. “How about figurative sleeping?”
Merlin disentangles himself. “The only sleeping I’m interested in involves my head, a pillow, and diminished brain function.”
“Sounds like figurative sleeping to me.”
Merlin does not dignify that with a response. He spends the next five minutes on the last few sentences of mission description instead, before finally hitting send and leaning back in his chair. Harry, who had taken a position leaning against the neighboring desk, slinks back over and begins rubbing his shoulders.
“You’re a git,” Merlin says, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes.
“I’m your git.” Harry’s hands drift southward, rubbing at Merlin’s nipples through his sweater and shirt. Merlin shivers. “And I’ve had such a strong dose of adrenaline this evening; I’m not tired at all.”
“Congratulations,” Merlin snaps, without any real heat behind his words, replacing his glasses. “This was supposed to be an adrenaline-free recon.”
“No such thing.” Harry mouths, gently, at Merlin’s chin as one hand brushes his belt. “All spy work is adrenaline. Why do you think spies are so good at honeypots?”
“Because you’re horny fucking animals.” Merlin should do something about how Harry’s hands are working his buckle. He stretches instead. “Depraved.”
“We’re,” Harry reminds him, brushing a finger down Merlin’s zip. “Although you are always the stodgiest.” He thumbs the still very flat placket and huffs laughter against Merlin’s neck.
Merlin sits up at that, contracting back in on himself. “I’m sorry if watching you in danger doesn’t get me hard. And a gentleman doesn’t apologize by shoving his hands down another’s pants.”
“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Harry whispers, his voice holding back what Merlin’s sure are snickers. “I’m sorry I got stabbed by a bunch of knobs in a foreign country, while all you could do was sweat yourself to death with worry.”
“Better,” Merlin grumbles, reaching out a hand. Harry takes it in his and rubs his fingers across his palm.
“What would make you feel better?” Harry’s voice is reaching for something seductive, true, but there’s also an undertone of concern that all the joking in the world can’t quite hide, and it’s that Merlin responds to, even as he protests.
“That’s my line; you’re the injured one.”
“I’m high on adrenaline, darling.” Harry kisses his palm, and Merlin feels his stomach leap. “But you can play nurse at mine tonight if you want.”
They end up on Harry’s bed, Harry’s head in Merlin’s lap, surrounded by most of the carbs from the pantry. Bits of cracker litter the sheets and Harry has purposefully left a trail of crumbs up Merlin’s chest, tittering whenever Merlin eats one.
“You must be pissed as hell on your adrenaline; this is a mess,” Merlin says, running his fingers through Harry’s hair.
“You looked hungry.” Harry offers a cracker, which Merlin bends to pluck from his fingers with his teeth. “And they closed the local doner kebab.”
“Bastards,” Merlin murmurs into his ear. “Don’t they know they have horny middle-aged spies to feed in the middle of the night?”
Harry sits up at that.
“If you prefer literal sleep—”
Merlin covers his mouth with his as he pushes the remaining cracker bits to the floor. “I will always choose you over sleep.” They kiss again, Merlin applying the faintest pressure of teeth against Harry’s lips. “You fucking bastard. I will always choose you.”
Harry smiles through their next kisses, which grow ever deeper and wetter. His hands brush against Merlin’s belt once more, sending the first sweet shocks of desire to Merlin’s hindbrain.
“I hope I please you,” Harry whispers into his mouth. “How do you want me, nurse?”
Merlin chokes as Harry grabs him through his trousers. His prick responds to the touch, engorging as Harry rubs. “As close to me as possible.”
There are few things better than the warm weight of Harry Hart’s body across his, and he clings to Harry’s waist as their cocks align and Harry begins a gentle, rolling drag, their hipbones slotting together on each pass, hands massaging Merlin’s chest. They continue like this in sweaty, panting silence for several minutes until Merlin lets his hands fall to Harry’s arse and squeezes, provoking a light stream of profanity.
“I am sorry,” Harry whispers between thrusts, pressing a kiss to Merlin’s neck. “Monty Python is a bit much, under the circumstances.”
Merlin laughs, breathily, and tugs at Harry’s shirt. “I’ll forgive you if you let me check your fucking flesh wound.”
Harry sits up to dispose of his shirt properly, revealing a plaster the size of a postcard on his left shoulder. Merlin tuts and begins the most erotic examination he knows how to perform, running the fingers of one hand along the bandaging while brushing his other hand up and down Harry’s bare flank. Harry squirms beneath his touch, sending a fresh jolt to his prick.
“All in order?” Harry asks.
“I wish every piece of machinery I had to examine was as warm and willing as you are.” Merlin transfers his hands to Harry’s belt, undoing it in a few quick motions and tossing it aside. He continues work on the zip of Harry’s trousers. “Even the squirming is acceptable in such a pretty model.”
Harry’s mouth is open in the half gasp, half moan that Merlin is so very fond of, his hips bucking as he sits up enough for Merlin to pull off trousers and pants in one go. His cock is flushed and engorged against his stomach, precome glittering at the head, and Merlin bends down to take the tip into his mouth.
“Christ, Merlin, please—” Harry’s hands on his head are sweaty. “Please, you know I’ll go in twenty sec—ah—” Merlin licks, letting his tongue flutter at the base of the glans. “Not like this, please—”
Merlin pulls off, allowing himself one final lick before meeting Harry’s eyes. “How do you want to go, then, sweet bastard?”
Harry shivers. “I want to ride you.”
“Fuck.” Merlin does not resist as Harry pushes him back against the bed. “Let me at least take off—”
“No, I like—” Harry swallows “—I want to fuck you with only your cock out. The rest of you dressed.”
“Jesus Christ.” Merlin’s prick swells yet further at that, finally reaching true hardness beneath his zip. The pressure makes him squirm against the bedspread. “Well, get the lube.”
Harry obeys, rifling through the bedstand for what Merlin considers entirely too long, his arse in the air. When he emerges it’s with the bottle open and one hand already coated; he meets Merlin’s eyes and grins before thrusting a finger in.
“Shit, Harry, don’t kill yourself.” Merlin’s throat has gone dry just watching; he reaches out to drag Harry back over him, smearing lube on his own fingers in the process. Harry’s spent most of the past few weeks of sex with his own cock up Merlin’s arse, and Merlin thinks, fleetingly, of how much he hopes Harry’s arse is ready for anything like this so quickly, before Harry slides off him again.
“Don’t want too much lube everywhere; those are nice clothes,” he explains in response to Merlin’s raised eyebrow, adding a second finger to the first and closing his eyes in pained delight. Without opening them he continues, surprisingly tentatively, “Get yourself out?”
“Self-service all around tonight,” Merlin mutters, undoing his zip and pulling trousers and pants down to his knees. Harry’s staring at him now, working two fingers slowly but efficiently in and out of his arse; Merlin reaches for the lube bottle, pours out a palmful, lets it warm, and, without breaking eye contact, begins to slick up his cock. Harry moans.
“So beautiful,” he whispers as Merlin applies lube to the head. “My favorite.”
“I bloody hope so,” Merlin replies, but he’s grinning as he says it, the blood rushing through his lower limbs making it increasingly impossible to do anything but smile and stroke. Harry is a sight with his fingers up his own arse, slowly beginning to buck against them, hair falling across his forehead, his nude body shining under the low lighting. Merlin’s cock jumps as he continues to watch, and eventually he stills his hand. “Ready when you are.”
It’s another two beautiful minutes of watching Harry fuck himself before he shuffles over to Merlin on his knees and, with entirely too much grace for a fifty year old, straddles his hips and places a hand on Merlin’s cock. “Ready,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Merlin as his hips lift and he positions himself. Their mouths move together, wetly, sweetly, spiking Merlin’s heart rate as he feels his head breach Harry.
“Fuck, gorgeous—”
It happens deliciously slowly, Harry taking him in centimeter by centimeter, head tossed back to bare his neck to Merlin, legs twitching slightly with the effort of lowering himself down onto a cock in a controlled manner. Harry’s got sheets fisted in each hand for counter balance; he gasps occasionally, each intake of breath making Merlin’s cock twitch. Merlin finds himself babbling.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous like that, Harry, fuck, how are you this bloody beautiful?” Beneath his shirt and sweater, he can feel sweat pouring from his armpits, and he knows his face is rapidly approaching the color of a tomato. “Your body bending like that, fuck’s sake, you’re fitter than a twenty year old, you’re—fuck.”
His balls brush Harry’s arse as Harry finally takes him all the way in. For a moment Merlin cannot breathe; such a lithe, naked figure before him, while he sweats and grunts still more than half dressed, is enough to send his head spinning. He’s just gotten his breath back when Harry begins to move, up and then down, and although he tries to still himself, to let Harry have control, his hips thrust in response.
“Fuck, Merlin.” Harry moans this, and Merlin actually closes his eyes for a moment before realizing that he does not want to miss any of the sight of Harry riding his cock. “You are so good, so thick, so fucking perfect, Christ alive.”
Merlin’s arms can just wrap around Harry’s waist from this position; he revels in the sweat-slick skin beneath his fingers, in each bump and dimple. He massages his fingers into Harry’s hips, timing it with the rolling one-two of their synchronizing thrusts, his hips surging, Harry’s pulling up and then down. It does not take long until they’re almost perfectly in tandem, and then the pace increases; his hips press faster, Harry’s thighs work harder, his fingers dig further into Harry’s hips.
“Thighs burn,” Harry murmurs, shaking sweat from his forehead. “You’re a better workout than...half of Essaouira.”
“I’ll ready...your retirement papers,” Merlin retorts, and the sight of Harry laughing above him, hips stuttering momentarily, as he takes in his cock makes something in his throat tighten.
“You first. Letting me do all the work—”
“You told me to, you berk.”
Harry’s smile is both radiant and wicked; he flexes his torso, making scars both new and old twist in the half light, and Merlin blinks twice, three times at the water gathering in his eyes as he remembers, as always, what he could have lost, what he may very well lose the next time Harry takes to the field.
“It’s okay, love.” Harry looks down at him with bright eyes, but his face is more somber now, his smile turning bittersweet. “I’m here.”
Merlin squeezes his fingertips into Harry’s hips, once, and then reaches to take Harry’s cock in one hand. Harry curses and arches, bucking up high enough to almost dislodge himself from Merlin’s cock. Coordinating his hips with a sloppy handjob is difficult, but hormones are a useful guide; Merlin gives long, pistoning thrusts and equally long strokes, speeding up as he feels his own orgasm building.
Harry reaches with one hand to cup Merlin’s balls and roll them between his fingers, and there it is, a slow but steady rush that, when it explodes, leaves white at the edges of Merlin’s vision. Harry fondles him through his aftershocks, until Merlin gently removes his hand and, through his own pleasure-heavy eyelids, puts both his hands on Harry’s cock, one hand stroking the shaft, one on the head.
“That’s it,” he murmurs as Harry begins to pant. “Your turn, silly. You were so damn good, you know that? I have never seen you so beautiful, fucking god above me, perfect love.”
Harry comes into Merlin’s hands about twenty seconds later, painting them white. Merlin holds him until the spurts and quivers stop and then places his sticky hands on Harry’s sides, cradling his ribs as he comes down from the high.
“Yeah?” Merlin asks him, once Harry opens his eyes.
“Yes. Wait a minute?”
Merlin has barely nodded in acknowledgment when Harry slides off him and makes for the en suite, returning with a damp flannel pressed to his ribs.
“Sorry; come on my sides isn’t the best,” he says, settling himself next to Merlin on the bed. “Better there than your clothes, though.”
“That was my thought process,” Merlin admits, luxuriating under Harry’s touch as he applies the flannel to Merlin’s cock. “Can’t believe you fuckin’ rode me with half my clothes still on.”
Harry presses a kiss to his navel. “I love the sight of your chest in that sweater. And it feels so...decadent, shagging a clothed man.”
“You’re a goddamn lush. C’mere.” Merlin kisses him in the deepest way he knows and snort-laughs when Harry rubs his chest up against his sweater.
“I’m wounded,” Harry says eventually, breaking their kissing. “I need my sleep.” He sits up and grips the hem of Merlin’s sweater. “Go au naturale with me?”
Together they strip Merlin down to the nude; the softness of Harry’s bedsheets feels even better against his bare skin, a thought Merlin vocalizes as Harry checks the alarm, turns off the light, and covers them with another sheet.
“Good; a thousand-count ought to mean something nowadays.” Harry curls up to Merlin’s side in the dark and rests his head on his chest. Merlin’s fingers, as ever, go straight for Harry’s hair, sliding gently in and out, massaging his scalp. “Even if it’s just to feel delicious against nude balls.”
“There is no better use.” Merlin puts one hand against Harry’s bandage and feels him still beneath his touch. “Thank Christ you’re okay to share this.”
“Yes,” Harry murmurs, lifting his head. “I never was afraid today; it was an easy scramble, and I had you on the other end of the line.” Merlin’s stomach twists at these words. “Even if it was the end, it would be the best way to die, with you in my ear all the way. But then, like earlier, I see you alone beyond me, grasping without me, and it’s just the most painful, and I think I’m a fucking idiot for not minding my own death when it would destroy you.”
“No.” Merlin wraps his arms around Harry. “No, you berk; if that’s how it goes, then I am with you. And each time it doesn’t go that way is better than the one before.” He kisses Harry’s forehead, an entirely gratuitous gesture that makes his heart swell nonetheless. “Get some sleep, you invalid. Love.”
“Love,” Harry agrees, yawning, moving his head to his own pillow and reaching back to entangle Merlin’s fingers with his. “Love.”