Tomarry oneshots

Nothings gonna hurt you baby

Summary:

He notices the blood on Harry's hands and clothes, and he offers no reaction—simply arranges the British boy so that the blood stays away from Tom's expensive suit jacket.

"Would you like to tell me what happened, sweetie?"

The sitting room door creaks open. Tom keeps his eyes on his book, already aware of who must be standing on the other side. He silently beckons his visitor towards him with a lazy hand, and there are slow, hesitant footsteps before a slumped figure falls at his feet, a head dropping to rest in Tom's lap. He absently plays with the mop of black hair and waits for the other to speak first. When the silence stretches out for too long, Tom decides to start the conversation himself.

"Yes, dear?"

He gets no reply, he leading him to stop reading mid-sentence.

"Harry? What's wrong?"

Tom frowns, places his bookmark between his pages, and sets the book on the side table, looking down at the sullen boy below him. Now, that won't do. The elder pats his leg. Harry slowly picks himself up from the floor to sit on Tom's lap.

He notices the blood on Harry's hands and clothes, and he offers no reaction—simply arranges the British boy so that the blood stays away from Tom's expensive suit jacket.

"Would you like to tell me what happened, sweetie?"

Harry shakes his head fervently.

"Oh, baby," Tom cooes, pressing a kiss to his lover's temple. "Was it a job or someone else?"

A pause.

"Harry, darling, you know you can tell me. I won't be upset. I never am."

Harry offers a slow nod at this. Tom is telling the truth: he never gets upset with Harry. It's not even in the realm of possibility to be upset at Harry. Tom has quite the temper, sure, but the sweet boy sitting in his lap is never the target of his rage. Harry is Tom's world, his reason for living, the only person he can remember truly loving. His relatives had been beneficial to him—being a wealthy and feared mafia family—but he had never felt anything for them.

Harry, however... oh, this is a different story entirely. Which is why Tom will never be mad at Harry.

"Love, we can cover it up. Where was it?"

"...The front room."

There we go, that's a start.

"Alright. And who was it?"

A flash of guilt overtakes Harry's face. Tom kisses it off firmly, one hand on Harry's neck and the other on his red splattered cheek. Harry weakly kisses back, forcing himself to keep his dripping hands away from Tom (the man once had to destroy one of his favorite suits, and although Tom told Harry over and over again that he wasn't mad at him, it was a frustrating situation for the both of them nonetheless).

"Sugar," the American tells him, "it doesn't matter who it was. Nobody will ever be able to trace it back to you, I'll make sure of it. Was it Granger?"

A head shake.

"Weasley, then?"

Tears start to fill green eyes, and Tom wipes them away at once. "It's okay. That's not so bad. His family doesn't have the money for a decent lawyer."

Harry takes a shaky breath. "Not..." He clears his throat. "Not... his. It's... it's hers."

Oh.

Oh, yes, this might be a bigger problem.

Tom keeps it away from his features, but he is fully aware that covering up the murder of Harry's wife will prove be much harder than that of a simple friend. As he contemplates the right words for the situation, he runs smooth fingers up and down Harry's shivering back.

"That's still alright," he promises finally. "We can still fix that. I won't lie, it'll be a bit difficult, but there's no way in hell I'd let anything keep you apart from me. I'll take you back to America with me if I have to. Nothing will hurt you. I'll make sure of it, my love."

Harry lets out a sob that he had been choking back, throwing his arms around Tom's neck. At this point, it matters not if Tom has to discard this jacket. Harry is distressed, and Tom holds onto him right back, carding his fingers through the boy's unruly locks and whispering phrases of comfort in between desperate kisses. Tom figures Harry isn't crying for love of Ginevra, but rather out of fear. Tom refuses to let Harry's fears come anywhere near him. He will do anything for the boy in his embrace, no matter how many casualties they cause along the way.

"I... I had to, Tom! She... sh-she followed me here, and she found out, a-about us, and I—I had to stop her, I..."

"Shh, baby, it's okay. I understand. You did the right thing."

Tom smiles to himself.

Finally, that bitch is out of the way.

In all honesty, Ginevra was a perfectly fine girl. She would have made an excellent wife to anybody else. Tom was never too fond of her (he was never too fond of anybody), but she had a nice smile, and she was quite smart, and she had a fire in her heart that would have made her an excellent mob wife.

Just not to Harry.

No, Harry is Tom's, and it had been excruciating to keep his cool about the girl who had dared to steal him away. So good to have her gone, and without Tom needing to lift a finger.

"What did you use, baby?"

"Kn-knife..."

"...My grandfather's?"

"Please don't be angry with me," Harry begs, "it was the only thing around!"

Tom sighs with a weary smile. "Of course I'm not angry, Harry. This simply means we have to burn the body, since Marvolo's knife has such a unique blade. Extra work, but nothing to get upset over, don't worry."

He presses another hard kiss onto Harry's mouth before leaning back to take it all in. Harry doesn't get like this often. The bloodshot eyes, the pink cheeks, the swollen, quivering lips... He looks so fragile, so small, like he needs someone stronger and older to protect him. Usually, Harry is confident and brave and independent, rarely asking for Tom's help or guidance. As twisted as it may sound to an outsider, Tom adores it whenever Harry accidentally offs someone, because he always reacts like this—as if his age is much younger than nineteen, as if he needs Tom to take control and fix everything. And that look he's giving Tom...

God, he could take Harry into the master bedroom right this very second.

Instead, he remembers the little problem in the front room, and he sighs. They would have plenty of time to themselves after they cleaned up the mess.

"Come, dear. Let's have ourselves a nice big bonfire. This might be the last chance we get before snowfall."

Harry blinks and gives Tom a weak grin. The grin quickly falls when he looks at the state of Tom's clothing. "Oh... oh no, I... Shit, I'm so sorry, Tom!"

Tom merely shrugs, although he would be lying if he were to say he wouldn't miss this particular outfit. Harry is far more important than clothing. "It's not a big deal. I've been thinking about replacing this suit anyway," Tom lies easily, and then he leans in close to whisper into the boy's ear. "Besides, you're just going to rip it off me later tonight, right?"

That seems to spark something in Harry. Although he doesn't quite snap back to his normal self, the look of dread slowly slips off his face. They smile at each other, and Tom can tell Harry has remembered something: that life goes on after a kill. That even if you take someone's life, your own still stands. You live to fight another day. Harry may have just made himself a widower, losing a girl not even one year after marrying her, but frankly, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, save for the passionate, wild emotions these two men share. As long as they have each other, the murders they commit—whether for profit, for necessity, or for fun—don't mean a damn thing. Friends, family, and useless wives (Tom had gotten rid of Bella the very day after meeting Harry) come and go, in one way or another.

A love like Tom and Harry's, however, is everlasting.

By:Torent