Sometimes I write self-indulgent fluff about tough guys crying and cuddling. Characterization based off the old Shadow pulp novels.
The light-less black coupe soared through the night like a phantom. Far behind, the Millcote Chemical Corporation still glowed faintly red against the starry sky; remnants of the violent explosion of the powder shack. Police siren wails were being cut short as recently-rescued Inspector Cardona took charge of the situation. Inside the coupe, the silence was almost as thick as the scent of blood. Neither agent nor master had escaped this battle unscathed.
Silence was to be expected, in the company of The Shadow. Idle conversation was not his style. Probably he would have answered questions, but his passenger was not in the right mind to be inquisitive. Perhaps that was what gave him away. The Shadow's bright gaze left the road for a fraction of a moment.
Harry Vincent slumped forward in the passenger seat, a black outline against the dark window. He cradled his shattered left wrist loosely in his lap. His face was in darkness, unreadable to even The Shadow's keen eyes, but the tremor in his shoulders, the slight irregularity of his breathing, told enough.
When the first sob broke the silence, The Shadow pulled to the side of the road and cut the engine. Black-clad arms reached across the front seat and gathered Harry against his master. The black coat was still clammy from The Shadow's dip into the moat, but Harry did not seem to mind; his uninjured hand caught a fistful in a death grip and he pressed his face against it, as if to muffle the bawling that he could not control. The Shadow's arms encircled him, one hand resting against the back of his head.
Had anyone chanced to witness the scene, they would have surely attributed it to hallucination. Had there been any chance of a witness, the scene would not have occurred. The Shadow was not known for human qualities like tenderness. Harry Vincent alone had been allowed this side of him. Harry Vincent alone knew that this side even existed.
It was a full minute before Harry had the sobs mastered enough to speak. He apologized. The Shadow shook his head. "No," he said in his strange whisper. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You have been beaten, drugged, and shot. Your nerves are frayed."
"When that tower went up-" Harry couldn't finish the thought. The Shadow pressed his nose against the top of Harry's head. Harry didn't need to know how close his fear had come to reality. The Shadow and the rescued prisoners were barely clear when the powder shack had exploded; a prone position and pure luck had prevented a piece of shrapnel from doing more than slicing up his ribs.
"I'm not dead," he whispered to Harry.
Harry's breathing was finally coming back under control. He leaned back; The Shadow released him without resistance. While Harry dried his eyes, The Shadow started the engine again and slid back onto the road.
"You're exhausted," The Shadow said. "Lean on me."
Obediently, Harry leaned his head against his master's shoulder. Soon enough, his breath evened and deepened. The Shadow drove on.
...
Harry awoke to a gentle urging. The car had stopped. Harry's door was open, a mass of blackness reaching to his shoulder with a firm, reassuring grip. "Come," the familiar whisper ordered. Harry rose to follow.
With steady hand, The Shadow guided Harry into a building, up a flight of stairs, and into a small windowless apartment. A weak frosted bulb in the ceiling cast deep shadows into the corners of the single room. A bare mattress rested on a cheap metal frame along one wall; it was to this that The Shadow steered Harry.
"Lie down." The Shadow hardly had to order it. Harry's weak legs all but collapsed as he sank onto the bed. "Try to sleep. I will have Doctor Sayre here as soon as possible." Harry nodded. He toed off his shoes and curled toward the wall. The mattress was thin and hard and lumpy, but Harry was far too tired to care.
Behind him he heard The Shadow's voice, passing terse orders to Burbank for the doctor. The phone clicked into its cradle. Silence followed.
The mattress dipped slightly behind Harry. A long, lean form nestled against his back. A quick gesture, and the great black cloak settled over them both like a blanket, while in the same gesture a strong arm wrapped around Harry's shoulders. A cold nose pressed against the back of his neck and blew warm air against his skin.
Harry smiled softly. In an hour, The Shadow would rise again to admit Doctor Rupert Sayre, the physician who treated the crimefighter and his network. Sometime after that, likely sooner rather than later, a new foe would arise, and a new battle for justice would begin, with new opportunity for harm and death.
But for now, utterly safe within his master's embrace, Harry allowed sleep to reclaim him.