A/N: Onward, friends. This chapter originally had a quite different ending, much longer and more of a scene, but it wasn’t quite working and I stressed over it endlessly so I switched it out for this new bit and we will see how that goes. Will post to A03 tomorrow when I bit less bleary-eyed and can read it through again more properly har har harrr
Link to: PART 1 + PART 2 + PART 3
+ + +
DAY
FIVE
James
manages to survive his Day Five training session through a rather astounding
combination of creative ingenuity, blissful self-delusion, and some timely
assistance from unlikely places.
The
creative ingenuity comes first—though perhaps it can be called creative only in
the loosest of senses. James’s left shoulder is so stiff he can hardly reach
out to grab the Quaffle, much less run drills with one. He doesn’t really have
a choice but to find a way to skive off real training…without anyone
actually realising he’s skiving. Scouts watch training
sessions. Players—competitors—watch, too. He can already spot a few up in the
stands, their faces too far away to discern identities. It’s a dangerous game,
this being-vaguely-injured-without-letting-anyone-know-you’re-vaguely-injured
dance. It’s creativity out of necessity.
So after minimal
warm-ups, as Marcie and Dooster line up to begin a series of tosses, James
pulls a face and waves them off (with his right hand).
“Get
started without me,” he says. “I’m off to grab Yates for a few speed trials. I
was too slow yesterday.”
“Too
slow?” Marcie looks nearly insulted. “You were faster than either of us.”
James
would shrug if he could. “Never fast enough.”
Dooster does shrug.
This is an exhibition training session. They have two more matches, and
Dooster’s only in this for publicity anyway. What does he care? “Off you go,
then, mate,” he says, saluting.
James
salutes back (with his right hand) and goes to find Finnerty Yates, one of the
training coaches. For the next hour, he works on flying that didn’t need to be
worked on in the first place, but which requires absolutely no extraneous usage
of his left shoulder. He’s joined a half-hour in by Lorri Jackson, whose sharp
gaze watches him speculatively as they run through the paces. If the seeker
suspects the true reason behind James’s new preoccupation with speed, however,
she says nothing.
Creative
ingenuity cuts training by half, but James can only wriggle his way out of
actual play for so long. As the first hour comes to a close, one of the
training coaches calls for team drills. There is no way James can pull out
without calling considerable attention to himself. Lorri gives him a
sympathetic look, but remains silent. He’s grateful, and resigned.
Lufty
slaps a friendly arm around James’s back, and James nearly yelps like a child.
“See you
up there.” Luft grins—the oblivious bugger—and kicks off to the sky.
James
follows miserably.
Enter:
blissful self-delusion.
While his
teammates fly amuck around the pitch, James tries half-heartedly to rally up a
decent amount of participation. To keep from hissing or wincing or (Merlin help
him) sobbing like Moaning Myrtle on one of her worst days every time he’s
forced to touch the Quaffle, James deludes himself into believing he can swap
out thoughts of pain for thoughts of something far more compelling.
Something
like Lily Evans, Jr. Quidditch Correspondent.
Lily.
The
hisses turn to sighs. The winces, to grins. He rather reckons he could still
muster up a proper Myrtle sob, but the reaction would stem from something far
more confounding and consuming than pain.
Joy.
Bewilderment. Rampant sexual frustration.
He’s not
certain he can aptly describe what it felt like to wake up that morning with
Lily Evans curled around him like an extra extension, like part of one, all
lengths, limbs, hair, and breaths mingled together in a single small bed. He’d
been in pain then too—the purple potion she’d given him the night before had clearly
worn off in the dwindling hours—but one sensation combats the other. It’s
early. It’s just the two of them. Her leg is hitched up over his; her arms wrap
around his torso. His good hand had drifted up beneath her shirt, resting on
the cool skin of her hip. He can’t suck in a single breath without sucking in
some of her, and it is beyond baffling that he doesn’t seem to mind this in the
least.
He stays
terribly still, like a statue or a painting. If he moves, he might ruin it. The
moment will be gone. And then he won’t have any luck trying to figure out this
blasted conundrum of a woman, and why in a matter of five short days, he’s
become a bit obsessed with her.
He still hasn’t
made much progress on it by the time she stirs.
“Wu’tim’st?”
she murmurs, more to his shirtfront than directly to him. (Nuzzles rather
unabashedly into him, actually, seeming not even vaguely startled by his
unexpected presence in her bed.)
(Bloke
can get used to that, James thinks.)
“Dunno,”
he manages. There’s a clock on the nightstand, but his specs are still off and
he can’t even imagine attempting to reach for them. The clock hands are
decidedly bleary. “Early?” he guesses.
She lets
out a long moan. It takes a bit, but she eventually lifts her head and squints
at the clock herself. Her hair is knotty and rumpled, and there is a crease
across her cheek from where it had been pressed against him. In this light, her
eyes are quite a dark green.
“Shit.” Her
head drops back down. “We have to get up.”
“Wu’tim’st?”
“Shuddup.
Seven.”
“Then why
the sodding hell are we getting up?”
“Because
of you. Have
to be back to the Healer at half-past, don’t you?” As if suddenly recalling,
her head pops back up and she leans away. “How’s your shoulder?”
“A fiery
joint of blinding pain,” James reports, hoping to dull the agony with jokes. If
he doesn’t shift, it’s bearable. Sort of. “Hope you don’t mind, but I reckon I
may need to live in your bed. Not even for perverted reasons. Movement is
simply not an option.”
“Thanks
for the clarification.” She shifts upward. The bed creaks beneath them. “But if
you’re open to other ideas, I reckon I might have more Tedemod—”
She
rises—likely to fetch him more potion, brilliantly helpful bird—but just as she
lifts, James grabs hold of her hip (with his right hand). “Wait.”
She
pauses, gazing down at him. There is a single window in the tiny room, but it
limns her features with dim morning sunlight. He’s still half-blind. He’s in
furious pain. But his first thought is still: she’s lovely.
Also: I
would very much like to shag this woman. Though at this point, he’s
really just as eager for a single paltry snog, and doesn’t that say it all?
“Good
morning,” he says.
She
smiles. “Good morning.”
“Just
thought I should…er, you know. Apologise. Again.” He clears his throat. “For
stalking your address. And showing up uninvited. Injured and inebriated.
Forcing you to nurse me and feed me. And then stealing into your bed. Which I
will now live in. Permanently.” He squints. “Have I left anything out?”
“You also
snore,” she provides helpfully. “Not like a foghorn, thankfully. Little snores.
Distracting, but reassuring too. I knew I hadn’t overdosed and killed you.”
“Ah.”
James shifts. The pain radiates up his arm and down his spine, and he hisses
out a curse. “Ah. Well, then.” Grunt. “Sorry about the
snoring, too.” Shit. “Thank you for not killing me.”
She pats
his cheek, looking worried. “Any time.”
She slips
off into the loo, tossing him his glasses on the way. James slides them on (with
his right hand), and the world comes back into focus. Before she drugs him
again, she badgers out the necessary appointment details (except he’s
apparently already told her most of them—when had he done that?). James insists
she doesn’t have to come along, and gets only the dirtiest of looks in return.
He downs the potion.
They
Side-Apparate. She doesn’t let him splich himself or fall over into a puddle or
rubbish bin on landing. He is quite convinced she is an angel. An
absolute angel.
…For
twenty minutes, anyway. Then the truth comes out.
She is
Satan. Satan.
(Or at
least, Satan’s Spawn. The Yelling Healer—still on call—is Satan.)
“You
did what?” one of them yells.
(They
both yell this quite often. All the yelling, yelling, yelling.)
“You put
a Reichter’s Binding Spell on your arm?” This one is Lily,
outraged.
He
answers in the affirmative. Maybe.
“Are you
out of your mind? Do you have any idea how strong that spell
is? How much residual magic is left? Were you trying to cement your
shoulder back in the socket? No wonder she couldn’t set your arm properly
yesterday!”
“Still
can’t set it entirely,” the Yelling Healer laments, sounding regretful, but
James knows better. She’s rotating his arm back and forth and Satan has nothing on
this woman. Nothing. “I did warn you this might happen, Mr. Potter.
Why you thought to handle this yourself instead of immediately going to a professional—”
(There is
nothing professional about this virago.)
“—I will
never know. Of all things—”
“He
Apparated to my flat last night after taking the Shivren Potion, as well,” Lily
pipes in, the bloody traitor.
“YOU DID
WHAT?” Yelling Healer’s eyes are bulging. “Mr. Potter—”
Yelling,
yelling, yelling.
By the
time they depart, Lily and the Yelling Healer (“She’s called Lucinda, James.
Honestly.”) are kindred spirits practically weeping over their separation and
James is grumpy and disillusioned and forced to make the grueling decision over
whether to spend the next several hours lucid (but stiff and sore), or
pain-free (lost in loopy stream of potion-dazed rapture). He has training in a
few hours, so grudgingly chooses the former, which is attached to a goopy blue
potion that feels like frog slime as it goes down. He tries to rotate his
shoulder, and it’s like attempting to twist a wooden plank. When she sees him
struggle, Lily finally recalls whose side she’s meant to be on.
“I don’t
think you should go to training,” she says, nibbling at her lower lip as they
depart hospital. “It isn’t smart.”
“I have
to,” James argues. “You know—”
“Cliff
Tufton. Yes, I know.”
“Right.”
“You’ll
be no use to Puddlemere—or anyone—if you permanently injure yourself.” She’s
becoming increasingly agitated. “You need to remember to take that potion again
this afternoon. And if your fingers begin to feel numb, you have to
stop. I don’t care if Cliff Tufton is riding on the back of your broom,
demanding demonstrations. It can be a side effect. A fatal one. Or nearly
fatal. I don’t know. Where’s the potion vial? It said something on the label—”
James
lifts the potion vial (in his right hand) out of her reach. To her credit, she
doesn’t hop for it. Just folds her arms over her chest, tapping her foot and
looking cross.
“Why
exactly is Cliff Tufton riding on the back of my broom?” he asks.
“Up-close
assessment.” She scowls. “Wait. No. Stop. This isn’t a joke.”
“No?”
“It can
be incredibly serious—”
“Hardly.
Even your best mate Lucinda seems more concerned about scolding me than healing
me. All my most important bits are still intact. And think of it this way: an
unexpected death will make a brilliant turn for your article,
eh?”
She
pinches the bridge of her nose, perhaps praying for patience. James’s mum
strikes a very similar pose from time to time.
“I don’t
know what to do with you,” Lily mutters.
“Ride on
the back of my broom?” James offers.
“Stop
it.”
“We’d
have to make room. You, me, and Cliff. A tight fit, but I reckon if we really squeeze—”
She’s
stifling laughter now, changes it to a groan instead. “You’re terrible.”
James
reckons she doesn’t really mind his terribleness.
They
Apparate back to his hotel. She won’t come up to his room, even though he is at
his most helpless and charming. Instead, they stand in the corner of the lobby
behind a tall potted fern, and Lily rises up on her toes and drops a kiss
somewhere in the vicinity of his chin.
“Sorry,”
she says immediately, cringing. “I was going for your cheek, then changed my
mind, then changed it again. Ended up lost.”
“I have a
few directions, if you need them,” James offers, chief among them: Come
closer, and let me bloody kiss you already.
She
shakes her head. “Survive your training, and maybe I’ll borrow your map.”
It’s
something, at least.
They
finally separate after a dozen more warnings and one last thorough read-through
of the potion label (“All right, maybe the numbness isn’t fatal.
But it isn’t good.”). There is a lot of talk of symptoms and
broomsticks and cartography and James just wishes she would stay. But she’s
Very Important and Busy, and Has A Job To Do, and Is Working On His Article, and
Haven’t You Heard Of Integrity Or Boundaries Or A Hairbrush, For Merlin’s Sake?
James
finds he Really Doesn’t Care.
But she
leaves, and he leaves, and here he is now, hours later, on the brink of
Quidditch-compelled suicide, and he doesn’t even have a single proper snog to
show for it. He tries to concentrate on not killing himself in the sky. He
tries to concentrate on catching the Quaffle, on avoiding the Bludgers, on
maybe occasionally doing something worth his pay grade. He manages a handful of
six-Knut tosses, and one exceptionally painful twelve-Galleon goal. He imagines
what it might have been like to not leave bed this morning. (Blissful,
blissful self-delusion.) That prompts an attempt at a gutsy fifty-Galleon
Feegan Frisk with Marcie that he regrets immediately.
It is all
infuriating and sad and almost humorous, and he’s beginning to wonder if he’s
going a bit mad.
Dodge.
Twist. Catch. Throw. Lily. Throw. Catch. Lily. Fly. Fly. Lily. Catch. Throw.
“Oy,
Potter! Get down here!”
Mid-throw,
James’s gaze snaps down to the grass. Yates is standing by the tunnels, one
hand holding his wand to his neck, amplifying his voice. The other waves James
to the ground.
Shit
shit shit.
That
could not be good.
Panicking
that he’s given himself away, James takes his time getting to the ground,
though he can’t say he isn’t wildly ecstatic for the reprieve. There are
approximately forty-eight minutes left in the training session. He reckons he
could have lasted one or two more of them. His shoulder feels like a metal
weight. Survival has never seemed such a farfetched conclusion.
When he
reaches the turf, he approaches Yates warily. The two other coaches are still
watching his teammates in the sky. There’s a young boy jostling from foot to
foot beside Yates, one of the Exhibition lads who was always running around
doing errands. He stares at James eagerly.
“Good
flying, Mr. Potter! Brilliant Frisk! I’ve a note for you. You’re my favorite
Chaser here! Note’s very urgent. Can I have an autograph?”
James
eyes the boy, then Yates. “What’s this?”
Yates
holds up a piece of folded parchment. “Note for you. Apparently something
important.”
James
takes it slowly. “From who?”
Yates
looks down at the grinning boy, who shrugs, still bouncing. “Was just told to
bring it down.”
That
sounded ominous. James has a moment of dread—could it be from Hoff? Tufton?
Merlin’s beard, what if it was from Frederick Fords himself? What if the
Puddlemere owner had decided to dismiss James this time with a paltry few
written words, figuring him not even worth the effort of a proper meeting?
Something akin to: “Better luck next time, failure. Unfondly, FF”?
Was
someone dead? Dying? Or maybe just his career? Bloody stupid goalpost
has ruined his bloody stupid life and now everything has
gone to shit—
He flips
open the parchment.
Very
IMPORTANT message !!! Urgent business etc etc. World domination. 007. Maps
lifesblood numbness??. Etc etc.
Get
off the pitch now.
xxxx
There
isn’t anything beyond that.
James
stares at it. Reads it again. A third time.
Was…?
(Bloody
genius, meddlesome, heroic, barmy, cleverly insane girl.)
He
strives to keep a straight face. He’d like to laugh and cry and shout and then
possibly sing with joyful relief, but he does none. Instead, he busies himself
with ripping off the blank bottom half of the folded parchment.
“Got a
quill?” James asks the errand boy.
Looking
like he might wet himself with delight, the lad hands one over. James scrawls
his signature onto the parchment, gives that half to the beaming boy, then
folds up the remaining half. He sighs regretfully at Yates as he tucks it into
the pocket of his training robes.
“I have
to go handle this,” he says. “Hopefully I’ll be back soon.”
(There
was no way in fucking hell he’d be back soon.)
Yates
nods, unconcerned. He’s already yelling something up at Lufty, who has
apparently just clocked a Bludger in the direction of Jools Betteridge’s very
valuable head.
James
departs the pitch to the sound of coaches shouting and Lufty’s cheerful
apologies.
And just
like that, the torture is over.
Done.
Kaput. Finto. James speeds through the tunnels leading from the pitch feeling
like an escaped convict: elated, panicked, and increasingly paranoid. He’s out,
saved…but what’s he meant to do now? Where is he meant to go? Urgent business
was quite a difficult thing to tackle when it didn’t actually exist. He could
go back to the hotel perhaps, hide in his room. If anyone asked, he could be on
a very important business Floo call. That sounded legitimate, didn’t it? He
should head back to the locker room first, change out of his gear. Though would
a bloke facing “urgent business” really stop off to make himself presentable?
How urgent could it be if the situation allowed time for an outfit change? In
fact, why was he strolling? Ought he to be running? But if he started running,
where would he run to? His shoulder likely wouldn’t appreciate the
jostling, either. So running was out. Running was desperate, anyway. It
was too much. Amateur move. Bloody hell, he used to be better
at this. He was overthinking. He was supremely overthinking.
He just ought to—
A hand
shoots out from a doorway to his right, grabbing hold of his robes and yanking
him inside.
James
yelps. The door slams. His gaze swings around wildly—it’s a cupboard-sized
therapy room. Prime location for a kidnapping—before finding Lily, back pressed
against the recently slammed portal, her expression mulish.
“Don’t be
angry,” she orders.
James’s
head is still spinning. Lily. Lily! “What?”
“I know,
I know,” she says. “Important future, Cliff Tufton, kissing Puddlemere’s
arse…all very vital. Not my place to interfere. Shouldn’t have done.”
“Well—”
“But
after pulling that barmy Frisk, you looked like you might very
well keel over. So I thought, ‘Is it really interfering if he’s about to kill
himself? Isn’t it intervening, then?’ Very different thing,
intervening. So I intervened. Carefully. With the best of intentions. And since
you’re here, accepting the intervening, and not back on the pitch,
ignoring it, that proves I should have done. Right?”
Interfering?
Intervening? “What?”
“You
don’t look cross,” she observes, like he hasn’t spoken. “Are you cross?”
“I don’t
look cross?”
“Not
visibly, no. But I’ve only known you five days. I’ve never seen you cross.
Maybe you’re one of those stony-faced angry sorts.” Her head tilts, considering
this. “You don’t seem that sort. Are you that sort?”
“The
silent and seething sort?”
“Exactly.”
“Er, no.
I don’t think.”
“Oh.
Good.”
“Yeah.
Good.”
Very,
very good.
There is
a long moment of silence. Then:
“Can I
kiss you now?” he asks.
She
starts, surprised. “Can you what?”
“Kiss
you. Now.”
She grins
slowly. “Well. You’re really not cross, are you?”
James
shakes his head, stepping closer. “Opposite, really. Hero. Saviour. Am
considering erecting a statue of you. Very big and glorious. Goddess
Divine, they’ll call it, and people will come from all over to worship.”
Her lips
press together. “Subtle use of ‘erecting’ there.”
“Slipped
it in. Hardly noticeable.”
“One
would hope it’s noticeable when it slips in.”
He has to
stop, laughs. “You’re so much better at this than me. It’s hardly fair.”
“You hold
your own,” she replies, but keeps him from proceeding even closer—the most closer.
The necessary closer—with a palm against his chest. “Wait. I
have a trade.”
“A
snogging trade?”
“Not
quite.”
“Lily—”
“Take off
your clothes.”
James
freezes (takeoffyourclothestakeoffyourclothestakeoffyourclothes). What? No.
She. No. What—
She
bursts out laughing.
Oh,
bloody hell.
“Oh Merlin.
Your face.” She very nearly collapses
against him in her hilarity. “Your—”
His face?
His breath putters out in an indignant huff. Blood has traveled. His voice is
scratchy. “That wasn’t nice.”
“I’m
sorry. I couldn’t resist.” Her fingers curl against his chest. “I’m also
serious. Robes off. Shirt, too.”
He
scowls. “Beat the dead hippogriff, why don’t you?”
She
snorts at that. Her body twists, and she grabs something off a side table to
her left. “Here,” she says, presenting it to him. “Apology gift.”
James
takes the small tin she offers (with his right hand). His body continues to
spark eagerly. As far as presents go, it’s a poor substitute for nudity.
There’s no label, nothing indicating what might lie therein. He glances at Lily
in question.
“I have a
mate who’s a trainer with Falmouth,” she explains. “Quite familiar with asinine
Quidditch players and their injuries. She concocts these sorts of remedies all
the time. This should help with your shoulder.”
James
pops open the tin top. The smell of lemons hits him immediately. The salve is a
glossy-looking peach. He dips a finger inside, and immediately feels the balm
heat up against his skin. His hand begins to tingle.
“Potent,”
he observes. The cream absorbs into his skin. “What’s in it?”
Lily
shrugs. “Merlin only knows. But it will help.” She takes the tin back, then
motions with it. “Go on. Off with it.”
Bossy
bits, wasn’t she? Probably a poor precedent to acquiesce so easily, but he’s
simply not that strong. He removes his gloves first. Finger by finger. Tug.
Discard. Then shrugs off his robes slowly, careful to keep his shoulder as
still as possible. It is methodical, not the least bit tantalizing. He’s never
felt more like a ponce. Still, from the way she’s grinning, you’d think he was
gyrating on a pole. “I’m beginning to feel a bit objectified here, Evans,” he
says.
The grin
does not dim. “Poor thing.”
Chest
pads next. Then the test. He’d gotten the shirt on this morning with a measured
threading bad-arm/head/good-arm process, and would likely have to employ the
same tactic here. But even that had been misery. It’s all a bit post-traumatic.
He’s slow to start.
“Need
assistance?” she offers.
He shoots
her a look. “I’m injured. You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Is there
a ‘too much’?”
“Where
have your stringent ethics gone?”
“On
furlough presently.”
“Ethics
have furloughs?”
She
pauses for a moment. Then: “I turned in the article to my editor this morning.
Furlough.”
James
stops. Everything stops. The whole bloody world. “You’re done? The article is
done?”
Lily
holds up a hand as if anticipating he might lunge at her at any moment,
uncontrollably overcome (clever witch). “It’s turned in,” she is
quick to clarify. “A draft. That’s all. For all I know, my editor will red-mark
the whole thing. He’s done it before. I could need to start from scratch.”
All James
hears is turned in. “But it’s finished.”
“A draft is
finished.”
“When? How?
I’ve been with you most of the time.”
Her
eyebrows lift. “And were sleeping for most of it, weren’t you?”
It’s a
fair point. “But it’s done.”
“A draft is
done.”
“Still.
Furlough.”
“Yes.
Furlough.”
James has
never stripped out of a shirt so quickly in his life.
“You’re
going to hurt yourself—” The warning dies on her lips. She’s laughing now. Or
choking. Or wincing. Maybe all three. “Bloody hell,” she says. “It looks even
worse than this morning.”
James
glances down, seeing the blotchy, purpling bruises as clearly as she. “But very
dashing, yes?”
She rolls
her eyes. “Supremely dashing. Sit down, idiot.”
There’s a
long therapy table in the center of the room. It’s stark but cushioned, and
when James sits, Lily follows him over. At this height, his face is nearly
level with hers. Furlough. If I just—
She gives
him a look, and quickly dodges behind him.
He tosses
something resembling a sigh over his shoulder.
“Tell me
if anything hurts,” she says. He hears the tin top pop open. Lemons. “Marlene
said it should heat up. Loosen your muscles. Ease the sore. Then—”
As she
continues to list off reactions, James waits for the first touch of her hands.
When it does finally come, he feels the frigid cream first. Cold, cold,
cold. He jolts, just as it begins to rapidly heat. Hot, hot,
hot. Then her fingers—more tentative than he would have expected from
her—prod the salve around.
Warmth.
Touch. Tingling. Everything tingles.
Fucking
hell.
He moans
quite loudly.
Lily’s
hands immediately jerk back. “What? Does it hurt? Should I—”
“Nononono.”
He’s babbling like a lunatic. “Good. Really good. Don’t stop. Fuck.”
She
breathes a relieved laugh. Her hands move back onto his skin. The salve—her
hands?—continues to work its magic. He wants to howl, and sing, and cry. (Too
much of that going on today.) The soreness, stiffness…he feels his shoulder
relax for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours. It’s such a sodding
relief, he really could weep for it. Whoever this mate of hers is, James wants
to find her and kiss her. (Kiss Lily first, you know, but this mate…she gets
one, as well. Maybe two.) Then introduce her to the Yelling Healer. “See?” he
will shout. “This is how you treat a poor, suffering patient!”
Yelling Healer will be sad and chastised. James will be victorious and dignified.
Lily will be there—likely consoling Best Mate Lucinda, but there.
That counts.
He is
making sounds he will definitely be embarrassed about later. He’s a bit
embarrassed about them now, frankly, but the relief is stronger. Lily spreads
her fingers over his collarbone, then down across his back, to his arm. In lieu
of actually knowing where to focus, she seems to be covering all possibilities.
James does not mind this in the least.
Everything
is silent for a few moments, save his very feral noises. It is practically
transcendent.
Then,
still massaging, she says, “I’ve been thinking.”
(Merlin
help him, he sincerely hopes she doesn’t expect him to think right
now.)
He
manages an inquisitive enough noise, and she continues.
“This
thing between us?” Swift, cool fingers.
Heavenly salve. “I reckon we’ve made it much worse. Built it up. Overloaded
it. Circumstances and anticipation and all of that. Like Bobby Cartonali.”
“Who?”
“He was
this boy I fancied in school. Very fit. Played striker on the football team. I
used to watch him nearly obsessively, wildly infatuated. And then one practice,
he finally managed to look over in the stands and catch my eye. That was it.
Asked me out that very afternoon. I spent the next three days waiting for our
date in a frenzied daze of anticipation. Every time I saw him I went mental.
When I didn’t see him, I was thinking about seeing him, and that drove me mental. All very
dramatic.”
James
frowns. “I don’t like this story.”
She continues
anyway. “So the night of the date comes. He picks me up at my house. And
because we are randy, impetuous teenagers, and are finally in this sanctioned
moment, very nearly the first thing we do when we get to his car is snog.”
Brilliant.
Fucking Bobby Cartface gets a snog?
He really doesn’t
like this story. “And let me guess. It was wonderful. Mindblowing. Bobby
Cartonali and his magical mouth. Where’s he now? The one that got away, clearly.”
She
pinches his neck. James twitches at the sting.
“Aren’t you listening?
That’s just it.” She sighs. “He wasn’t. It wasn’t.”
He’s
still bitter about the pinch. “No?”
She rubs
the spot, apologetic. “I mean, it was fine. Pleasant, even. Nothing
to go home crying about. But see, Bobby and I, we’d built it all up in our
heads. All the anticipation. All the drama. It turned this perfectly normal
attraction into this big, heady thing that was more mirage than anything else.
And what good was that? We had to pop the bubble. The rose-coloured glasses,
crazy, anticipation bubble.”
James
finally starts to see where she’s going with this. “You reckon we need to pop
our bubble?”
“You have
to admit. It has become this creature unto itself, yeah?”
He
doesn’t answer right away. He’s considering this, the big metaphor and the
questionable whereabouts of Bobby Cartface, fit striker, mundane snogger. But James
seems to wait too long for her tastes. No one likes admitting to seeing a
mythical attraction creature without someone else admitting they believe in it,
too. So she adds, a bit more hesitantly, “Hasn’t it?”
It’s so
rare to see her uncertain. The pair of them have run the Getting to Know You
gauntlet the past few days, but it’s only been a few days. Still, he seems to
know instinctively that it’s not a comfortable or usual thing for her, this
uncertainty. It’s not comfortable or usual for him, either, and Merlin knows
he’s been drowning in it lately. Which is why he answers quickly, “Yes. Big
creature. Very big. Bigger than Bobby Cartonali, certainly.”
She
laughs at that, relieved, and her hands finally drop from his shoulder. He can
feel the salve still seeping into his skin. He hears her pop the tin cover back
in place, performs a quick cleaning spell likely to get it off her hands. Then
she slowly steps around to the front of the table.
“Feel all
right?” she asks.
He nods,
watching her carefully.
She takes
a few steps closer. “Don’t move.”
“Why?”
The tops
of her thighs brush against his knees. “Because I’m going to pop the bubble.”
Then she
kisses him.
Kisses him. Is kissing him. Is finally, finally
kissing him. Her
mouth on his mouth. Slow, slick slips. The taste of her and the brushes of
skin. It only takes a few moments. One,
two, three. She pulls back with a sudden groan.
“Shit.” Her
forehead drops to his, exasperated. “You’re not at all like Bobby Cartonali,
are you?”
James
doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Words are beyond him. He just cups her face (with
his right hand) and brings her mouth back down to his.
He’s kissing her.
Five days later, with too many false starts. They launch nearly immediately
into hard swipes, into open lips, hard and glorious pressure. The bubble is
popped. A messy, eager popping. He is
messy and eager, his mouth rampant. If she minds, she doesn’t indicate. Is
perhaps too busy being messy and eager herself. They are two messy and eager
people with mouths attached who were vaguely hoping that this might have proven
a bit less than what it’s seemed. But now that it hasn’t done, there’s nothing
quite to do but relish it.
James
does relish it. Headily.
More
lips. More. She’s too good at this.
Too bloody good at everything. Her mouth is warm and quick and she does this bit
with her tongue that should be outlawed in seven out of ten countries. His hand
skims from her jaw to her hair. He pulls it from whatever concoction she’s got
it tied back in. It’s even softer than he remembers. Her fingers are clumsy, knocking
into the curved end of his specs, tilting them askew. All he can smell is
lemons. All he can taste is her. His lips are chapped and she nips at the lower
one with her teeth.
His body
is aflame. He wants to imprint on her skin. He’s presently complacent to just imprint
his mouth with hers.
Then it’s
gone.
“Waitwaitwait,”
she breathes out shakily.
James
buries his groan of protest into her neck.
“Rules,”
she says.
“Rules?” He whines it. He knows he does.
She
stokes his hair, placating. “It’s a furlough. Not exoneration.”
“Technicality,”
James complains, but nearly immediately shuts up when she prods him backward
and climbs atop the therapy table, too. She’s astride his lap, knees hugging
his hips.
Oh, bloody glorious hell.
“Rule
one,” she begins, holding up a finger. “No more clothes come off.”
“Well, that’s unfair,” James says. “One of us
is decidedly less clothed than the other.”
She
sighs. “Fine.”
Then her
top is gone.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Very nearly all smooth
skin and one paltry bit of black lace and wire. James grunts. He gawks. He
gives himself thirty seconds before he can no longer resist exploring. If she
would just hand over her bloody map, they can all be happy.
“Oy.” Her
finger taps his chin. “Eyes up here, mate.”
There are
several things coming up. James very
diligently requires his eyes to be one of them.
“I’m
listening.” (Twenty seconds.) “Rule
two?”
“Rule
two,” she says. “Don’t let me hurt you.”
“Is this
a sadism thing?”
“It’s a
dislocated shoulder thing.”
“Ah.”
Good point. “Excellent suggestion.”
“I
thought so.”
Her hands
move between them, drifting up his torso until they’re at his face. She
carefully slips off his glasses, tossing them onto the table beside them. The
movements are slight, the friction minimal—little more than a brush—and yet
James feels it everywhere.
Ten seconds.
“Is there
a rule three?” he asks. He bucks up into her. Deliberately. Toying. There must
be six layers of clothes between them, and yet there might as well be nothing
at all.
She makes
a keening noise, bites her lip.
“There
was,” she admits. Her hands sift into his hair. She grinds back. “Can’t
remember it now.”
Fuck. Yes. There. That.
“Onward,
then?” he asks.
She laughs.
“Onward.”
Three, two, one.
+ + +
DAY
FIVE (Later)
Dear Messrs. Padfoot,
Moony, Wormtail—
URGENT NEWS FROM
EXHIBITION-LAND, RE: YOUR IMMINENT ARRIVAL TOMORROW:
(Aside: v. v. chuffed to see you lot, reunions
huzzah etc. Third formal request to please leave “Hot for Pot” banners at home.
They are neither funny nor clever, you are only embarrassing yourselves.)
Sometime tomorrow evening after matches and
Quidditch and jolly good times etc, we will be taking a trip to the most
properly brilliant of dives, The Cornish Pixie, where I will be softening you lot
up with liquor and introducing you to a VERY IMPORTANT WITCH. This witch is
called Lily and she is a Junior Quidditch Correspondent with the Prophet and also
a woman I fancy—VERY VERY MUCH. Some of us have already made dubious
impressions (Sirius—though m. thks for the expletive loyalty) and have I
mentioned I fancy her VERY VERY MUCH?
She is lovely, and bloody gorgeous, and
hilariously clever, and v. v. smart, and knows Quidditch, and has let me do all
sorts of unmentionably dirty things to her upon therapy tables (DO NOT TELL HER
I TOLD YOU THIS). I cannot overstress the point: DO NOT SCARE HER OFF.
She is…quite the thing, lads. Quite the serious
thing.
Have told her bloody lies, extolling you all as
the most brilliant of mates. Please do play along.
Until tmrw, you worthless curs—
Prongs
P.S.—Am even willing to barter one “Hot for Pot”
banner for good behaviour. But for the love of Merlin, please not the one with
the picture.