To steady Arthur Shelby was no easy task, to hold still the man made of nervous energy, to anchor the body configured purely by static electricity, it was like trying to catch smoke, handling him with equal firmness and care was a delicate formula you'd learned.

Whether it be from a night at the Garrison or coming home in the early hours of the morning from some lavish party, still buzzing about the place with that hopped up air he always wore at those things, practically refusing to take off his tuxedo for fear of leaving the reverie of the night behind, finally admitting it was over.

You'd woken to him bumping and banging around, essentially tumbling up the stairs to your bedroom, muttering nonsense about someone or other, practically vibrating with anger and rage.

Incandescent as he was, you knew he'd never raise a hand to you, he'd sooner cut off his own hands than lay them on you in anything other than happiness or love.

He sat heavily in the chair by the foot of the bed, staring at the embers in the hearth, his fingers digging harshly into the arms of the chair, growling and snarling under his breath.