It seemed the privacy of a shared flat was the only place either of them were comfortable anymore. But right now, the pair of them there, in the bedroom, the expression Merlin gave him was distinctly unamused. It had been a hellscape, surviving what they both had. They’d been left with scars both physical and mental. With the missile launching into his house, Lachlan had had to contend with his world literally crumbling around him. Though he’d managed to get out, he’d lost so much, including a pet. The road to recovery in hospital had of course, also left wounds that were healing and a less than pristine physique when all was said and done.
Merlin had his world blown out from under him in Cambodia, and was not only living with that fact, but was living with the added stress and frustration of having to rebuild a Kingsman he had accidentally been complicit in destroying. It was a lot to take in for anyone, let alone a man who had also lost his legs.
Neither of them were as soft as they were before, as unscathed. They both carried wounds on their hearts and on their bodies. But Merlin living with the other agent had come to learn that the wounds for Lachlan, though having healed, were still festering on his heart. That would not stand.
He was drinking in his fill of the man before him. The pink and white flesh on his skin, the mottled smooth and puckered healing, didn’t dissuade him in the slightest, but the man’s kicked puppy expression seemed to be more effective.
“Lachlan, why are these scars such a problem?” He asked. He’d have crossed his legs, if he’d had them, but as it was he was sitting there, almost imperiously.
