A/N: Eish such a long time since my last update. Think I got caught by a bit of that March Madness.
And wow, so much love! Thank you, Fic's Sly Lover, StValentineSt, and literally all of you who are leaving me such nice reviews! Guh! xx
"You're bleeding," Harry says. A bright scarlet colour blooms on the crisp white fabric wrapped around Tom's thigh and Harry can't help but wince in sympathy. Beside him, Tom throws him a glare before his eyes focus back on the road ahead.
"I wonder who's fault that is..." The Sentinel replies. Harry's got enough of a conscience to be sheepish though he still thinks the wound is deserved. Maybe. Just a little.
"Don't you want to stop over and re-bandage it or something?" Harry asks, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Tom doesn't answer and the Guide huffs. "Fine. Are you at least going to tell me where you're taking me?" He asks this for what has to be the fifth time already. Yet Tom still hasn't said a word during the entire time they've been in the car except for the accusation just a moment ago. He also won't stop driving either, and Harry wagers they must be miles away from the motel by now. In fact, Harry won't be surprised if they're almost in Scotland by now.
Harry sighs and fidgets restlessly in his seat when Tom still doesn't reply to his question. So instead he looks out the car window and watches the scenery pass by in a blur of green trees, grass, and bushes. Slowly Harry's leg begins to move of it's own accord and jiggles up and down restlessly until a strong hand reaches over and clamps down on it in an iron grip, thoroughly halting any movement. Harry startles and looks up to see Tom's arm reaching across. The pale hand flexes around his thigh and Harry's breath leaves him in a small gasp while a flare of want and heat burn through him at the contact. His back straightens, slightly arching against his seat involuntarily and Tom utters a soft noise in the back of his throat. His fingers dig painfully into Harry's leg and Harry just manages to stop himself from letting out a whine.
"Enough," Tom says, but his voice is rough like gravel. His hand retreats to the wheel once again and Harry can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at the loss. He quickly channels it into irritation.
"Can't you just bloody say where we're going?" Harry snaps.
Tom's silent for a moment and Harry begins to think he won't answer again but then his dark eyes flit to him a second before he replies, "London."
Harry's jerks his head around to face the other, straightening in his seat.
"You're not serious," Harry says in a slightly hysterical tone.
"Deadly."
The wince Tom's answer elicits makes the Sentinel think he probably shouldn't have, but the feeling quickly passes. It's not logical.
"Will you at least tell me why we're going back to the sodding source of all our problems?"
"Because," Tom says with forced patience. "We need to lay low for a while. And there's a place. In London."
Harry huffs but decides to acquiesce for the moment. Although he shouldn't, he trusts Tom to know what he's doing. Even if it sounds completely mental.
"What did you tell the driver?"
The question throws Harry completely off and sends his heart racing which causes Tom to glance at him sideways.
"What?" Harry asks, his mouth feeling dry.
"I know you caught a ride with a truck driver," Tom says evenly. "And I highly doubt you talked about what you had for tea."
Harry swallows before answering, "Everything."
Tom doesn't react immediately and Harry feels the tension in him thicken.
"You told him about Voldemort?" Tom asks, still calm as ever. Harry stares hard at the cracked windshield in front of him, wary of the ticking bomb next to him that could very well go off with the next word he says.
"Yeah," Harry eventually replies. Tom is silent for a beat, and then another. It isn't until a few moments of inaction pass that Harry realizes Tom isn't going to do anything. Rather, he doesn't look concerned at all. Harry frowns. "You're not mad. Why aren't you mad?"
Tom's mouth curls a bit at the edges but that's all he gives.
"We need pressure on Voldemort," Tom says before his features harden into stone. "Though you must understand something, Harry. You attract attention to yourself and you're going to get people killed who didn't need to be. Do you understand?"
"You wouldn't — " Harry strangles out.
"I won't . But Voldemort will. When he finds out."
"He can't! "
"He can. And he will."
"We've got to stop him then!"
Tom gives Harry a sharp, incredulous look. "I sincerely hope you're joking. For both our sakes."
"Can't we at least warn him?" Harry pleads.
"Do you even know where he is?" Tom barks, obviously assuming Harry doesn't know a single thing about the man who helped him beyond his name. A steely look comes over Harry's face and he fumbles around in his pocket until he retrieves a crumpled up piece of paper with a number on it. Tom frowns.
"I have his number," Harry explains. "Please, Tom. Let me tell him."
A muscle in Tom's jaw clenches and his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He looks out the side of the car window briefly before turning his eyes back in front him.
"Fine," He says shortly. "But don't come crying to me when you find out he's already dead."
Harry swallows hard but ignores him. Instead he focuses on the feeling of finally being able to help someone even a little bit since this whole mess began.
"Do you have a mobile?" Harry asks and Tom replies with a simple "I do." Harry waits but Tom doesn't remove his hands from the steering wheel.
"May I have it please?" The Guide deliberates, his patience quickly wearing thin.
Tom shoots him a look that has an odd glint of mischief to it. Harry doesn't like it at all.
"In my left pocket," Tom says. "Help yourself." When Harry glares, he adds, "Both hands on the wheel, right?"
"Somehow I find the idea of a hired killer adhering to the rules of the road laughable."
"Hired killers have plenty of rules. 'Not killing' just isn't one of them." A shoulder lifts slightly in a shrug. Harry lets out a frustrated sigh and unceremoniously plunges his hand into Tom's pocket. Tom squirms and shifts away from the rummaging hand and says, "Careful there. The mobile might not be the only thing you find."
Harry's face flushes scarlet and he sputters, glaring at the side of Tom's face that he's shocked to find holds a ghost of a smile. The Sentinel is clearly enjoying the tease a little too much. Harry finally manages to yank out the cell and absently notes it's a cheap disposable before quickly dialling the number.
It goes straight to voicemail.
"The number you have called is currently unavailable at the moment. Please try again later, or to call again, press one. To leave a message, press two. To use any other service, press — "
Harry hits two on the keypad.
"Please leave your message after the tone," The automated voice chirps. A short note rings through and then silence.
"Hey, um — Hagrid. It's me, Harry. From the motel? You picked me up on the side of the road? Anyway, I just — I need to warn you that there's people out there. Voldemort's people. They'll be looking for you. I'm so sorry, Hagrid. I don't know what else to say, but... Be safe. Hide yourself. They'll come looking for you... I'm sorry. Take care, okay?"
Harry ends the message there, not knowing what else he could possibly say to a man who's helped him so much and at such a great price.
"End of message. Thank you for leaving a message. To return to main menu, press —" The mechanical voice starts to prattle when Harry hangs up, cutting it off. He lowers the phone into his lap and absently strokes the screen with his thumb while he stares out the window. It's becoming light outside. Harry realizes with a detached sense of awareness that they've driven all night and he hasn't slept through any of it.
Harry can see Tom glance over to him in the window's reflection, but the Sentinel says nothing. Harry knows better than to ask him if he thinks Hagrid will be all right. So he slumps in his seat and continues to watch the brightening scenery blur past, releasing a tired sigh through his nose.
Tom looks over at the Guide again, who's so clearly trying not to look like he's pouting, and absently studies the man's profile; His square jaw, well-shaped nose, sharp cheekbones, the thick but shapely eyebrows, and the oddly bright shine of those captivating green eyes... Tom shakes himself out of the line of thought. Suddenly he's all to aware of the intoxicating scent wrapping around him in the confined space of the car. The aroma is alluring, delicate and slightly floral. Tom clenches his jaw and tightens his hands on the steering wheel.
"Christ," Tom grumbles. "Did you even take the pills?"
He can feel Harry's indignation without having to turn and look.
"Yes, I did!" Harry snaps, then just as quickly falls silent. "Shit..."
"You left them back in the motel, didn't you."
"Well, I didn't exactly have time to pack myself a bag — if you recall, I was too busy being shot at through the fucking door," Comes the sassy reply.
Tom let's out a slow breath. "We need to get you more."
"And how d'you suppose you're going to do that?"
Tom sends him an unreadable look. "That's for me to figure out. Don't you worry your pretty little Omega head."
"Don't call me that," Harry shoots back darkly.
Tom smiles inwardly. He finds teasing the Guide a surprisingly enjoyable pastime.
They finally stop at a gas station and Harry's allowed to get out of the car and actually go into the store, much to his own surprise. Though Tom accompanies him and sticks to him like glue, of course. And it's much to Harry's annoyance. Yet secretly, Harry finds he likes the warmth the Sentinel radiates, and the smell. It's weird, and he knows that, but he can't help it. Not for the last time, he curses his Omega hormones.
Once inside the small store, Tom and Harry begin to peruse the isles. Or rather, Harry peruses and Tom looks like he is. But the hitman just seems to pick up random items before putting them back down again without actually having looked at them. Instead his eyes focus on scanning their surroundings; First the cameras in the corners, and the people. After doing this, he leans in to say low in Harry's ear, "Be quick and meet me out front in one minute."
"What? Why?" Harry asks, bewildered and not a little bit alarmed at what Tom plans to do. Or what he thinks will happen. Did he spot someone? Did the D.E. catch up to them?
Tom squeezes his shoulder in way that's both stern and infuriatingly calming.
"One minute," Tom repeats. "Just do as I say." And then he's off.
Harry stands there, still more than a little confused as Tom marches out of the store. Harry looks about for the possible cause of Tom's harried state before picking up a last few items and making his way to the front to pay.
The girl at the cashier gives him a double take as she starts to scan his items.
"Hey, don't I know you?" She says.
Harry's heart jumps into his throat and ducks his head a bit to try and hide from the probing look.
"No, uh. I don't think so," Harry mumbles, and hopes that will be the end of it.
"You just look really familiar," She continues, and Harry clenches his teeth, praying for her to get on with it. He doesn't answer as he watches her bag the last item and hands over a few pound notes when a loud rumbling of a motor is heard out front. Harry and a few others inside the store glance up.
Harry stops, gaping at the sight that greets him through the store windows.
Tom sits on a sleek black motorcycle wearing a matching jet black helmet. The only reason Harry can recognize it as him is the dark eyes that stare out from the visor with a piercing urgency. Harry swallows and stares back just before a loud banging of a door sounds and a man comes bumbling out of the bathroom with his pants half buckled.
"Oi! That's me bloody bike!" He yells and Harry's eyes widen. Before the man can even get past him, Harry is bolting out the door towards Tom.
"Get on!" Tom orders and Harry does so without a second thought. He clambers onto the bike behind Tom and holds on for dear life. Tom stomps down on the pedal and Harry looks back to see the man marching out of the store towards them, face angry and red as he continues to yell. Harry can't hear anything he says over the sound of the engine revving, drowning him out. Come on, come on, Harry thinks frantically as the man gets nearer. The motorcycle gives a violent jerk and finally both Harry and Tom are shooting off. They roar down the highway, Harry clutching the flapping bag of groceries in his hand while both arms wrap around Tom's waist. His eyes squeeze shut against the blast of wind in his face.
"There's a helmet in the satchel. Put it on," Tom's voice can just be heard over the sound of wind and the engine in his ears. Harry unwraps one arm to rummage around for it and pull it out. It's black like Tom's but has a white stripe on each side. Harry puts the bag of groceries inside the satchel along with his glasses before putting it on and then wrapping his arms around Tom's solid chest once again.
If Harry forgets the entire situation he's in, and that they aren't riding a stolen bike, or running for their lives, and that he's following the man who almost killed his two best friends, Harry thinks this might actually be enjoyable. He feels liberated and free even if it's just for this one moment. But he allows himself to feel it, racing along down the road like the whole world doesn't exist. Harry's so lost in the breath of fresh air that he almost misses the low rumble of contentment, pleasure, satisfaction that echoes back to him in reply.
As soon as they arrive in London, the bike has to be ditched as well. Tom takes it all the way to a block of rowhouses before disposing it in the woods nearby.
"This it?" Harry asks, looking at the house from the driveway when Tom comes back. Together, they walk up to the front door and Tom unlocks it. "This is the safehouse?"
Tom pushes open the door and gestures for Harry to go in.
"The very one," Tom replies to Harry's guarded look when he goes in.
"It's... normal," Harry comments. Tom raises his brow.
"I apologize. I didn't know you were expecting an underground bunker full of weapons with smart little gadgets like in a James Bond film."
"You watch James Bond?" Harry asks, because of course that's the most astounding bit of information the hitman gives him so far. The mere thought of Tom watching something so far-fetched is making his brain explode. Or the thought of him even watching telly at all really. (What do people like Tom even do when they aren't killing people for money anyway?) But Tom doesn't dignify his question with an answer and walks past him into the kitchen.
"The whole place is stocked so help yourself. Just don't leave the house. Understood? We're only here for a few days."
Harry pulls a disgruntled face but reluctantly says, "Yes, fine. Alright."
"Good," Tom says and suddenly he's pushing up against him in the hall which causes Harry to get hit with that arousing, musky smell of his again. Tom leans down and whispers low in his ear. "Because you know what will happen, don't you?"
Harry wars against wanting to shove him away in anger and disgust or pull him closer. He holds his breath and mentally shakes himself. But before his mind or body can come up with a response, Tom is pulling away again. A gust of cold air hits Harry and causes him to shiver.
What a prick, Harry thinks, but finds his heart isn't in the insult. And honestly, when did that start to happen?
A few hours later finds Harry in the living room, restlessly watching some rubbish on the telly when Tom finally comes back with pills. Harry hasn't been able to focus at all since Tom left and when he hears the door open, Harry's there in the hallway. Waiting for him.
The edge of Tom's mouth twitches in an irritating smirk. "Miss me?" He says.
Harry rolls his eyes and asks, "Those the pills?"
Tom just chucks them at him by way of reply and says, "Hurry up and take them."
It's Harry's turn to smirk now but decides not to comment. Instead he makes his way past to get a glass of water from the kitchen. Tom watches him go with a dark look and Harry feels it prickle across his back as he moves down the hall. When he gets to the sink, he exhales a soft shaky breath before downing two pills with a glass of tap water.
When he turns, Tom is suddenly there.
Harry reacts violently and almost drops his glass of water but Tom's hand is there, wrapping around his on the glass. His surprisingly warm, long, strong fingers practically caress his and Harry stares into Tom's bottomless depths while his breath hitches.
"What?" Harry asks, meaning to sound annoyed but just ends up sounding breathless. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
Tom gives him a wicked smile. "I don't think that's the only thing making your heart beat so fast..." Tom's head inclines towards him a bit as if entranced (or rather, listening) and Harry's breath becomes shallow. His body becomes loose and relaxed with the proximity of the Sentinel and his smell. God, he's just taken the pills but Harry wishes they took effect sooner. "I can always hear your heartbeat. It's always quite fast when I'm near, isn't it?" Tom continues in that low voice that makes Harry want to close his eyes in bliss. But the stubborn part of Harry refuses to give him the satisfaction.
"Shut it. It's not even my fault. Fucking Jugson could be here and I'd still probably be gagging for —" Harry's abruptly cut off by Tom's sudden, ripping growl. The sound goes straight to his cock which jerks in excitement and anticipation. Tom's chest presses against Harry's, causing his back to press almost painfully into the edge of the counter while those liquorice coloured eyes rake across his face, wild and hungry and desperate, before seeming to catch himself and he pulls back a bit. Harry raises his brow but he still feels dizzy. He swallows and licks his lips which feel dry all of a sudden. Tom avidly tracks the movement and Harry can see his Adam's apple bob in response.
"Alright there?" Harry says quietly, wanting to goad. "Looked like you were 'bout ready to give me the bite."
"I told you I wouldn't. Not until you beg me to do it," Tom answers threateningly, and Harry hears the next words reverberate right down to his bones. "And trust me on this; You'll be begging for it soon enough."
Harry shudders and can't help the ache to do it; To just open his mouth and say yes. To get it over with and have Tom fuck him into the mattress, balls deep inside Harry as he cries out his name under him and Christ, what the fuck?
Harry makes the mistake of not smothering the small whimper he makes, and the hard-on he sports must be painfully obvious by now because Tom's nostrils flare and his eyes close as if in pain. Harry would feel smug if he isn't in such a similarly discomforting predicament.
Then Tom's abruptly jerking himself away from Harry. He takes measured, deliberate steps out of the kitchen, his back very straight. Harry watches him go before letting out a trembling sigh, just barely managing to keep himself from melting into a puddle of sexual frustration on the floor.
It's hours later when Harry calms down enough to trust himself to be in the same room as Tom. After the 'kitchen incident', Harry migrates to the small yard outside, hoping the fresh air will clear his mind and cool his body somewhat. And it does, to a certain degree. But now standing out on the small garden, he notices something.
It's too quiet.
Harry strains his ears and wishes he were born a Sentinel. (If not so that he wasn't in this mess in the first place.) But he hears nothing beyond the gentle rustle of the leaves on the trees beyond the garden fence. The soft chirp of an insect. Yet no cars. No people. No distant sounds of living society at all.
Harry frowns to himself, unsettled, and goes back into the house.
The house is even more quiet.
Did no one live on this street? Harry wonders. He looks out the curtained windows in the living room and sees no passers-by, cars, or bicycles. Maybe Tom purchased a house on this street for this very reason: No witnesses.
All of a sudden, Harry is filled with a need to hear sounds. Life. Noise.
Even if it came from a grade-A Sentinel Alpha tosser like Tom.
The stairs creak softly under Harry's feet as he climbs them up to the landing. It's completely quiet and dark on this level of the house. Curtains are drawn and the lights are off. The only light comes from cracks in the curtains, casting everything in late afternoon dimness. He goes all the way to Tom's room when he stops at the door. It's opened just a sliver and wonders if he should knock. He's sure he doesn't need to alert the Sentinel of his presence because he would have heard Harry come up by now. Harry musters up the courage and pushes open the door. The room is just as dark as the landing, if not dimmer. Harry's eyes take a while to adjust to the lack of light and spots the unmistakable form of Tom lying prone and deathly still on the bed. Harry notes that he sleeps on top of the covers, fully clothed in what looks like silk and cashmere. Harry also notes how the top two buttons on his shirt are open, revealing his pale but lean chest.
Harry stands awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself now. He didn't expect Tom to be sleeping. Somehow the idea seems strange and bizarre though he doesn't know why. Tom is human after all, no matter how much the man doesn't act like it most of the time.
Harry's eyes catch onto the blood-stained bandage around Tom's leg and he frowns. Taking a step closer, Harry finds there's a fine sheen of sweat on Tom's brow which looks to be scrunched up in obvious strain. Harry wonders if he's in pain.
Harry's almost at the bed, staring down at the pale form of a sleeping hitman, and not at all sure what to do. Should he wake him? Make him take care of the wound before he bleeds out in his sleep? Harry's hand reaches out and pauses. Should he shake him awake? The hand hovers indecisively for another moment. Which seems to be a moment too long. There's a sudden, violent movement that somehow ends up with Harry's arm twisted painfully behind his back and his face smashed against the floor next to the bed. The heavy weight of a body presses on top of him and what Harry assumes must be a knee digs painfully into his back.
"Agh! Fucghk!" Harry cries into the carpet, muffling the words a bit. The sound of his voice seems to be the trick, though, as the weight abruptly lifts and Harry's able to scramble up. "Bloody hell!" Harry yells, rubbing his wrist as Tom flinches and settles himself back down on the edge of the bed with what seems to be a bit of effort. "You're a complete psycho!" Harry says but Tom just gives him a tired and strained look.
"I need you to lower your voice," The Sentinel pushes through gritted teeth. When Harry just glares, he closes his eyes and when they open again, understanding dawns on Harry. Extreme discomfort bordering on pain reaches him before it's quickly shut off. Tom is...
Harry stares and feels more awkward and at a loss than before. He bites his lip in indecision before saying, "Are you... Are you gonna Zone or someth — "
"Don't be ridiculous," Tom snaps and Harry's mouth clicks shut.
"Fine," Harry says, unsure whether he feels relieved or hurt at the refusal of his help. Or more specifically, his Guide ability. Tom's obviously going through a raw patch where his Sentinel senses are at an all time high. Apparently, the only thing that can soothe a Sentinel is a Guide to help him overcome the bout of over-sensitivity. Or, even better; the Sentinel's bondmate.
Tom lets out a small sigh. "The fuck you want," He says, voice both aggravated and sleep roughened. Harry has to consciously not get caught up in the sound of it. Harry purses his lips and jerks his chin at Tom's leg.
"You gonna take care of that or what?" Harry says in a lower pitch than before. Tom looks at him with an unreadable expression as if unsure why Harry's asking. The Guide rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake," Harry grumbles. "Just let me take care of it then, will you? Where's the first aid kit?" Harry waits for an answer and Tom seems to take his time giving one, but eventually gestures to the drawer beside the bed. Harry rummages around until he finds it and pulls it out. He starts to tentatively unfold the bandages from around Tom's leg and can feel dark eyes watching him carefully, warily. As if Tom distrusts him and Harry doesn't even know why he would. It's not like he can possibly win in a fight against him, as was abundantly clear just a few moments ago.
When he's finished, Harry stares at his work to avoid looking at those eyes still trained on him. He tries to come up with something to say and comes out with, "Um... Sorry I, uh..." He trails off.
"Don't," Tom says, nonchalant. Harry's briefly confused. "You're not sorry."
Harry ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck. Although he hates to admit it, Tom's right. He's not proud about it, but when faced with the person who supposedly killed his friends... He can't really bring himself to regret the decision to shoot him in the leg.
"Right, well. Okay..." Harry says, and starts to move away. Standing around in Tom's bedroom while his senses are going berserk makes him feel awkward and self-conscious for some reason. But then there's still that lingering need to stay. It's pathetic, but Harry wants company even if there's no conversation involved.
Tom's body shifts a bit and Harry looks to see that he's relaxed a fraction. Dark eyes bore into Harry and the Guide swallows. Tom's eyes flicker lazily at the sound.
"We're meeting a contact tomorrow. I need you to train before then," Tom says into what's rapidly becoming a charged silence.
"A 'contact'," Harry repeats. "Does that mean 'friend' in assassin speak?"
"Hardly," Tom grunts as he hoists himself off the bed. Harry moves to do something — to help him — but manages to stop himself just in time.
"Where are you going?" Harry asks, unable to stop the spark of worry though he tells himself it's only because he doesn't want his bandaging work to be undone.
Tom looks back over his shoulder in the doorway. Harry can't help but notice how he leans slightly on it for support.
"I want to show you something. And then train you."
Harry frowns and opens his mouth to ask what the hell he's on about. But Tom's already leaving before he has the chance to. Harry huffs before he follows him out of the room.
What Tom wants to show him is a wardrobe, apparently.
Just when Harry thinks to question the hitman's sanity the second time in an hour, Tom's fingers reach into the back and something catches. The bottom of the wardrobe pops open and Tom pulls out a few trays laden with an assortment of impressive and very terrifying looking weaponry. Harry gapes.
"I thought you said this place didn't come stocked with fancy weapons?" Harry says.
"I said it didn't have an entire armoury. Not that it didn't have anything at all," Tom responds calmly. Harry narrows his eyes but Tom's too preoccupied with checking the magazine of a simple matte black handgun with a long nozzle. Harry's eyes rake over the other things and finds a Bowie knife, a rifle, a few more handguns of various shapes and sizes and holy shite, are those bombs?
Harry watches, horrified, as Tom picks up the little grenade and weighs it in his palm as if contemplating it before putting it back down again. Like it's too risky. Harry almost chokes on his spit.
"So what's this 'training' you're banging on about?" Harry asks to keep his mind from worrying on the potential dangers of Tom having things on him that could come out and lethally harm him at any moment. (Though he's fairly sure Tom's far too careful for this to happen.)
Tom looks coolly over his shoulder at Harry before answering. "Your empathic Guide power. It needs to be stronger," He says. "Voldemort will be training, so you should be prepared too, just in case."
Just in case? Fuck, Harry never wants to see the bald lunatic ever again in his whole life. But Tom's making it sound like an inevitability.
"Alright, then. When do we start?" Harry asks.
Tom's mouth twitches upwards and the sight sends an excited chill to run down Harry's spine. He's fairly certain he'll develop a Pavlovian response very soon.
"Right now," Is Tom's smooth reply.
"Your recovery time's shortened since you've last had to use your Guide abilities, but it needs to be faster. I need you to be stronger," Tom explains to Harry. They're out in the small garden by Harry's choice. He hopes the fresh air and open space will help in some way when the formidable Sentinel tests his shields.
I was strong enough to throw you off your guard once, Harry wants to say but wisely keeps the comment to himself.
Harry huffs but finds he can't argue with the hitman's logic.
"Alright then, what do you propose — " Harry starts but cuts himself off with a gasp when Tom releases some of his Alpha presence. Harry reels and recoils, afraid to succumb under the intoxicating aura and becoming a begging, wanton mess, bearing his throat for a bond bite. Harry scrambles to shield himself but it's not enough.
The presence recedes and Harry releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. He's suddenly aware of the feel of damp grass beneath his hands and wonders how he got to be on his knees. He squints up at the Sentinel standing a foot away.
Tom's frowning but his eyes are mysteriously dark, a hint of hunger in it's depths.
"Not good enough," Tom says.
Anger flushes hot in Harry's chest and he lashes out in defence.
"Well I wasn't exactly expecting to be sandbagged like that!" Harry yells. Tom puts on an unaffected air again when he replies.
"You'll never be expecting it, Harry. You have to be ready at all times."
Sounds like paranoia, Harry thinks, but grudgingly concedes Tom's point.
The presence hits again but Harry's quicker this time. He just manages to shield himself, shutting his eyes tight in effort. The presence becomes heavier.
Oh God, Harry thinks. He's going to drown if he lets go now. He can feel beads of sweat begin to form on his temples at the effort he exerts.
Slowly, the weight recedes until it's lifted completely and Harry almost collapses again from relief.
Tom's silent for some moments, simply watching Harry recover. His voice is strong and unwavering when he eventually says, "Practice."
"Marvellous advice. Thank you," Harry shoots back. "I don't know where I'd be without you."
"Dead," Is the simple reply. "Or wishing you were."
Harry stares back and shakes his head, still panting slightly. "You're a right prick, you know that?"
"So I've been told. Repeatedly."
Harry's mouth twitches but he refuses to laugh.
"Right," Harry says, gathering himself up once more and preparing his shields. "Let's get on with it then."
Tom raises a brow and Harry thinks he might see a little approval in those dark depths. But it's hard to know for sure. He'd stretch out with his empathy but doesn't trust Tom enough not to bombard him as soon as he does.
The alpha in Tom flares at the sight of his Omega being so strong, so diligent. At the moment, he wants nothing more than to force Harry down under the weight of his full alpha power. To let him succumb to his musk and hold Harry down as he ravages him. The Guide would open up like a flower, so sweet and ready to receive the bite. But Tom holds back by sheer force of will.
Harry will come to him soon enough. He can wait.
A/N: So I changed some stuff between Tom and Voldy in the chapter before last, but there's no urgent need to re-read it. I only inserted a bit more dialogue and such while the rest of the chapter's remained untouched and entirely skip-able if you've read it before. :) Just thought I'd let you guys know as a general PSA.
