Harry looked at his son, who was crafting a little broom with a twig from the apple tree in their garden and colourful pipe cleaners Hermione had gifted to him.
“I can’t do it,” Harry wheezed to Draco. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
Scorpius pushed his mop of blond curls back for the umpteenth time so he could look for what he needed next, then reached for a length of baby-blue ribbon to wind around the broom’s bristles.
Draco took Harry’s hand in his and gently opened his cold, clammy fingers to take the scissors from him.
“Darling, sit and watch how a parent is meant to handle this,” Draco told him, giving his shoulder a gentle push. “His teacher said his hair is in the way, not that it needs to be gone.”
He placed a kiss on Harry’s forehead, then went to sit on the ground beside their three-year-old boy.
“My star, may I try something?”
Scorpius merely nodded, fiddling with the angles of the pipe cleaners, his tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth.
Draco carded his fingers through the blond curls, bunched them together with one hand, and bound the wild hair with the blue ribbon, adding a little magic to keep it secure.
Scorpius looked up and up, as though trying to find where his fringe had gone.
“There. Now we can see your pretty green eyes again.”
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September
“Robards did what?” Ron splutters, nearly chocking on his beer.
Harry doesn’t want to say it again. He really doesn’t.
“Robards paired you with Malfoy?” Ron repeats slowly as he stares at Harry in horror.
Harry nods.
Ron’s mouth falls open. “What the fuck.”
“It’s only for a few months. For training. Until we earn our badges.” Harry sighs. “Apparently we are ...compatible.”
“Fuck, mate. How’s that fair that you of all people get stuck with the bloody ferret?”
Harry stares into his glass as he might find the answer there. He drains the last of it. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
Ron is right. It’s not fair. It fucking isn’t.
October
Harry hears them. Malfoy must hear them too--the snickers, the barely muffled snide remarks – “He doesn’t belong here. ...Unacceptable. ... should never have been allowed to enrol...Bloody unfair.”
The other trainees are not exactly discreet. He sees their sneers behind Malfoy’s back, the way their mouths twist in disgust as he walks past them. Malfoy never rises to it, pretends he doesn’t hear, keeps his head down.
He works the hardest out of them all.
That takes courage, Harry thinks.
January
Harry startles awake. He blinks, disoriented. He turns his face and sees Malfoy beside him, sitting in silence, a finger to his lips.
What--?
“Shush,” Malfoy whispers.
It comes back to Harry then. The stakeout. They’ve been sitting here for hours, trapped in a space no bigger than a closet, waiting for God knows what. “Shit, sorry. I must have dozed off,” Harry muttered, yawning.
“Tell me something I don’t know, Potter.”
Harry rubs his face. “I’ll take over.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got it. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
“Come on, it’s only fair. I’m not letting you do the whole night.”
“Potter, I’m not tired. You sleep more. You need it.”
Harry wonders how Malfoy knows, but he does need it. The night before had been hard, as it still is sometimes, riddled with nightmares and insomnia. He tries to stay awake, he really does, but his eyes are heavy and soon enough his head drops. It lands on Malfoy’s shoulder.
Malfoy is stiff but does not push him away.
He smells nice, Harry thinks before drifting off.
March
“Why’d you do that?” Harry calls after Malfoy as they leave Robards’s office.
Malfoy doesn’t slow and Harry has to catch his arm to stop him. “Malfoy.”
“What?” He turns and looks at some vague spot behind Harry’s head.
“Why did you cover for me? Why did you lie? You didn’t have to do that. I’m the one who screwed up.”
“I don’t know. It—it didn’t seem fair.” Malfoy meets his eyes then, “We’re a team. Aren’t we? Isn’t it what partners do?”
Harry’s chest tightens.
May
The Auror uniform is dark navy. Harry traces the golden embroidered words on his heart – Junior Auror Potter. He smiles then heads to the Leaky.
The pub is a sea of dark navy uniforms. It’s loud and joyful, and Harry feels alive.
Pints are raised, backs are clapped, congratulations are shouted across the room.
Harry loses track of how many pints he had. His head is fuzzy, he’s happy.
“Congratulations, Auror Potter.”
Harry jumps. He turns and sees him. Draco’s smile is big and bright. Harry’s eyes drift down to the words stitched into the fabric—Junior Auror Malfoy. Blue suits him. It really fucking suits him.
Merlin.
Alcohol is pumping through Harry’s veins, warm and reckless. He steps closer.
“It’s unfair how good you look in this.”
June
“It’s against regulation, Harry,” Draco says as he pushes him away.
Harry chases his lips. “Just one kiss.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “No”
“Jesus, you’re uptight. You’re ridiculously strict when it comes to rules, you know that. How am I supposed to resist when you’re there walking around all day in your bloody uniform.”
Draco rolls his eyes again but his mouth twitches upwards.
“Life’s unfair,” Harry whines. “Can’t a guy kiss his boyfriend?”
Draco freezes. He stares at Harry with wide eyes, then walks straight towards him, grabs his face in both hands and kisses him.
♙Pairing: Stackson
♙Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Danny Mahealani, Brett Talbot,
♙Warnings: [I tried] None
♙Words: 5139
♙ Stiles Rarepair Week Day 5: future/post-canon exploration
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for @voidstilesplease, I really hope you like it. I tried, I really did 😂
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“So,” Lydia’s dark red lips curl into a dangerous smile, “how was your date?”
Stiles slumps onto the chair next to her, gesturing for a drink. “She was… nice.”
Lydia grimaces. “That bad?”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Not at all. The girl is gorgeous and smart and such a sweetheart. They talked the whole night, Stiles yet again lied about his job while she swooned about being a kindergarten teacher. They even had the same humor and adoration for Star Wars. It should have been perfect. They should’ve been perfect. And yet, halfway through the date, Stiles found himself to be utterly bored. As nice as she is, that’s the problem.
“Sweetheart, if you describe a girl as ‘nice’ after a date, it was exactly that bad.”
Groaning, Stiles puts his head on his arms. “I’m doomed to die alone.”
Lydia pats his shoulder comfortingly. “No, no. You just need to be less picky.” Less picky. Stiles isn’t picky at all. “Or you gotta look somewhere you never thought you’d find someone.”
Squinting, Stiles lifts his head again and studies her expression. She looks so perfectly innocent behind her Martini glass, Stiles knows for a fact that there’s evil brewing behind that pretty face of hers. “What?”
“Nothing.” Lydia raises her free hand defensively. “I’m just saying that maybe dating apps aren’t your thing. Maybe you should look at those around you.” She raises one of her perfectly plucked brows. It doesn’t matter how innocent she pretends to be, she’s planning some shit. If she’s in a mood like that, Lydia cannot be trusted.
Stiles straightens again, thanking the barkeeper for his drink. Befriending Ryan was one of the best choices they could’ve made because the guy makes the best cocktails, and for some reason, he always seems to know exactly how strong his drink needs to be. Today’s cocktail concoction has enough vodka to make his Polish genes more than a little happy. He sighs and turns to Lydia. “I’m not dating anybody from my team.”
Lydia rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about your team. There are more people in your life than your team.”
“Well…” Stiles drums his fingers onto the bar, tipping his glass this way and that, “sure, there are a lot of people working at HQ.” But from another team. It’s hard enough that Stiles is working all over the country more often than not. If his partner were to work at the FBI as well, their relationship would be a tragedy before it even begins. “And there are the various people making sure I don’t starve to death or am under-caffeinated.” None of them really sticks out if he’s perfectly honest. “And then there’s you and Ryan, which…” he trails off, waving his hand around a little. Lydia and he dated for a month until admitting to each other that it feels like dating their sibling.
Lydia studies him over the edge of her glass. “Nobody else? What about deputies? Or lawyers?”
“Not since Jackson specialized in supernatural cases.”
“Jackson?” Lydia almost sounds as if that’s some kind of surprise to her… which it is not. She’s friends with Jackson and Danny. Stiles knows for a fact that they’re seeing each other on a regular basis. For her to act surprised makes zero sense.
“Speaking of Jackson,” Stiles says, running his fingers along his glass, “I have the questionable honor to spend tomorrow evening with him. Any tips?”
Lydia’s eyes widen. So does her smile. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing spectacular, it’s just a work date. We gotta go over some files.”
“What top do you want then?”
Stiles shrugs. “On how to keep him tolerable for a few hours.”
Lydia chuckles. “He’s not that bad, you know?”
Oh, Stiles knows. Jackson is not like he used to be; well, mostly. He’s still a spoiled piece of shit, but he’s not acting like a dick every second of every day. Stiles does not want to smack him either. However, it’s the first time he’s completely alone with Jackson. Stiles suggested his office, but Jackson insisted they meet at his penthouse. As if Stiles needs a reminder that Jackson is getting richer every single day. Stiles is still living in the same flat he’s lived in during his studies. It’s not that he couldn’t afford something better, but he’s almost never home anyway.
“I don’t wanna talk about work any longer.”
“Jackson does not have to be ‘just work’,” Lydia says, quirking a brow. “He can be fun too.”
Stiles furrows his brow. “You mean a friend.” He’s just making sure because her definition of fun usually involves no clothes and lots of moaning. So, Stiles isn’t entirely sure what Lydia is insinuating. “Right?”
“Yes.” Lydia looks at him, smiling a little too innocently. “What did I say?”
“How many Martinis did you have?”
She grins and sips on her drink. Oh, this is going to be a long night.
—————
"That's not enough proof."
"How is this not enough proof?" Stiles slams his right hand on the file, narrowing his eyes. "Dude had fourteen bodies in his basement's built-in freezer." He taps on the papers aggressively, as if that's going to change anything. "Fourteen, Jackson. Two of those bodies are those of missing girls." What more do they need to get this wendigo behind bars? No judge or jury would consider this guy innocent… unless his defense attorney is better than Jackson and the evidence they do have. That shouldn’t be possible. He was a fantastic defense attorney and a fucking pain in Stiles’ ass on more than one occasion.
Jackson crosses his arms, sinking deeper in his designer armchair. "And five of those bodies come from the morgue. Including papers."
"That's five against nine unaccounted bodies." Stiles crosses his arms over his thighs.
"I know that," Jackson says, now leaning forward to do the same. "But the defense is going to argue that everything he did was legal." He quirks a brow and reaches for his bottle of beer.
Stiles has the urge to bang his head against the wall. Instead, he props his chin on his hand and studies Jackson. To be perfectly honest, Stiles is glad that Jackson is finally on his team. Hopefully, he’s going to do an even better job now that he’s a state attorney. After all, they’re sitting on a powder keg. It’s only going to be a matter of time until the supernatural will be known everywhere, and when that happens, they need to prove to the humans that they don’t have to be afraid, that everything is under control and the supernaturals are treated just as strictly as any human would. Jackson as an attorney can make this happen even if working with him is going to drive Stiles up the wall.
“We haven’t found anything for the other bodies.”
“That doesn’t mean the evidence doesn’t exist.”
Stiles licks his lips. “You think he met the girls online.” It’s not impossible. Stiles knows about message boards from cannibals for cannibals. If someone offers themselves up to be eaten, Stiles doubts they’ll be bothered if it’s a wendigo instead of a human. “If that’s the case—”
“You think he’s guilty?” Jackson sets the bottle down and leans closer.
“What does that matter?”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
“Yes.” Stiles pushes the files away from him and slumps back on the couch. “Yes, he’s fucking guilty, okay? But that doesn’t make evidence magically appear.”
Jackson chuckles even though there’s absolutely nothing funny happening right now. “Good.”
“Good?” Scoffing, Stiles reaches for his own beer and takes a swig. He’d rather drink his beer before he says something stupid. The last fucking thing he needs is getting into an argument with Jackson. After all, they’re on the same team now. They need to get along. Arguing is only going to make things so much more complicated.
“Yes, good.” Jackson taps a finger against the bottle in his hand. “Because that means the guy is guilty.”
Stiles snaps his gaze back to Jackson. “What?” What? Did he hear that right? Sure, they’ve been getting along better than they did in high school — even though they haven’t really been enemies back then either — but this kind of niceness, this trust is new. Jackson doesn’t hand it out, and he especially doesn’t hand it to him. It’s a big jump from being something like colleagues to basically saying ‘I trust that your instinct is right even though we don’t have any evidence’.
“If you think this guy belongs behind bars, that’s where he’ll end up.” Jackson shrugs and leans back again.
If Stiles hadn’t known him before, judging by the way he sits in his expensive leather armchair, he would’ve pegged him as a supervillain straight out of a James Bond movie. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair then drinks the rest of his beer in one go. “But what if we don’t find anything?”
“Then that’s the evidence we need.” Jackson crosses his legs. “If we can prove he did not exchange any previous messages with the victims or received any other form of written consent, he broke the law. Simple as that.” Simple as that coming from the guy who’s only having to ask questions and present the evidence, Stiles and his team have to gather within twenty-four hours unless Jackson manages to convince the judge to decide that there is probable cause for the charge. But that should be the least of their problems. Locking him up for the rest of his pathetic life, that’s the problem.
Sighing, Stiles puts the empty bottle back on the table and hides his face in his hands. Tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day. He’s so glad Stiles managed to convince his boss and Danny to join his team. There is nobody else who could get through a workload like that as effectively as Danny Mahealani. Stiles would throw himself out of the window of Jackson’s penthouse. He still might, especially if this job is not going the way he wants it to.
This is more than a little tiring. Catching the guy has already been an exhausting mess, but making sure he stays locked up? That’s a whole other story.
“Come on, Stilinski.” God, Jackson hasn’t called him that since their early High School years. Is that how much time has passed? They’re adults. They’re fucking adults, and they’re both in charge of the safety of humanity by making sure the nutjobs in the supernatural world will be trialed and locked up. “You caught the guy. If you cannot lock him up, nobody else can.”
Stiles rubs his cheeks then lowers his hands and squints at Jackson. “How come you’ve been so abnormally nice to me all of the sudden?”
Jackson quirks a brow, studying him over the rim of the bottle of beer. “What do you mean?”
Did the guy not hear himself talk? All these little compliments, his reassuring Stiles. That’s not Jackson. “You just seem nicer than usual is all.”
With a chuckle, Jackson empties his beer. “I can come up with a couple of insults really quick.” He puts the bottle on the table and folds his arms over his thighs. The shirt tightens around his shoulders and upper arms. He works out. Those biceps are definitely new. Stiles would’ve noticed them before. Right? Right. “Or punch you in the face if you want.”
“Okay, that’s a little excessive, don’t you think?” Stiles presses his lips together, trying his best not to smile. “You never punched me.”
“No,” Jackson agrees, nodding slowly, “but you punched me. Hard.”
“To be fair, you called my dad useless, and Scott expected me to throw my dad to the wolves. Literally.” Stiles bounces his left leg and sighs, running a hand over the nape of his neck. “Still, sorry about that. I should’ve handled that better.” He really should’ve. His anger issues have followed him around for a lot longer than he’d like to admit, but his teenage years really were the worst. “And if it makes you feel better, you’re not the only supernatural creature I’ve punched in the face.” He wriggles his fingers then lowers his hands.
Jackson shrugs. “I did deserve it.”
“Not really.” Shaking his head, Stiles gets to his feet. Nobody deserves to be punched that night. They were all stressed to the max, being hunted by Peter. “Anyway, I should get going.” Jackson being nice and talking about the past makes him feel nostalgic, and he really doesn’t need that right now. He needs a clear head.
“You don’t have to go.”
Stiles hugs the file to his chest, feeling strangely lost as he looks down at Jackson. Part of him doesn’t want to leave. At all. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.” He brushes his finger along the side of the file, swallowing heavily. “I’ll call you the second we’ll find something.”
Jackson nods slowly, following him to the elevator. “I’ll keep you updated on the judge.”
“Great.”
“Good.”
They stand there for a moment, and Stiles feels even more lost now. So much more than only a second ago. Maybe he should stay? Just for an hour. Not too long. It’s still early after all. No. No. Stiles hits the button for the elevator. “See you soon.” Why did that come out like a question? “Oh, and thanks for the beer.” The elevator doors slide open with a quiet ding.
“Hey,” Jackson says when the elevator doors slide open, “I can swing by the office… tomorrow? Judge McLoughlin should make his decision before lunch.”
Stiles nods, feeling strangely — what? — hopeful? “That sounds nice.“ He presses the button for the ground floor, suddenly wanting tomorrow to come sooner.
“Great. I should be there around twelve.” Jackson smiles.
Fuck, Stiles really forgot how handsome he is. “It’s a date.” The elevator doors slide shut. It’s a date. Groaning, Stiles smacks the folder against his forehead. What the hell?
———
"Someone didn’t get laid last night, huh?" Brett crosses his ankles on Isaac's empty chair. "I tol—"
"You are about one stupid comment away from ending up in the obituaries, so proceed with caution." Stiles quirks a brow. “Now, get your shoes off that chair and make yourself useful.” Being in a leading position is nothing Stiles enjoys a lot. It’s especially weird to be the leader of a team that consists of his high school buddies — and then there’s Brett. Usually, working with the guy is easy, but Stiles really isn’t up for his humor today.
Brett huffs out a breath. “I’m better in the field.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then why didn’t you send me with Isaac?”
“Because we need to gain the girls’ trust, not their phone numbers.” As amazing as Brett has been at his jobs for the last three years, Stiles is not about to send him to a few cute college girls in order to get information. He may be a fool, but he’s certainly not a fucking idiot. Besides, they both know that Kira and Isaac are the best people to convince others that they can be trusted.
Danny isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. They’re all getting along wonderfully, but schadenfreude is still written in capital letters here. Mostly because they’re all assholes. Well, everyone aside from Kira. Stiles has no clue how she’s handling all of them, day in and day out. The poor girl really doesn’t have it easy.
Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. “Any news, Danny?”
“Not since the last time you asked me—” Danny leans back to check the clock on the wall “— seven minutes ago.”
Stiles huffs out a breath and folds his arms over his chest. They’ve been at it for two hours, and so far they haven’t found anything. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But having something in his hand is better than trying to prove nothing is exactly the evidence they need. There’s gotta be something. A picture. A text message. Stiles would sell his soul for something to prove that this fucker belongs behind bars. Maybe he’s missed something in the files. Maybe the evidence has been sitting right in front of them all along.
Biting his bottom lip, Stiles glances back at the clock. Jackson should be here any second. Hopefully, he’s coming with good news. At this point, Stiles cannot handle any more negative news, or he is going to lose his fucking shit. "Yo, Stiles?"
Stiles looks up from the file, massaging his temples. "Yeah?"
"What car's our guy driving?" Brett leans back in his chair, looking at Stiles with raised brows.
That's a good question. Drawing his eyebrows together, he flicks through the file and scans the personal information. "A light-blue 2012 Honda Accord." He gets to his feet, anticipation making it impossible to sit down. "Please, please, tell me you got something."
“Oh, Babe, you're gonna love this,” Brett smirks way too confidently.
Stiles flicks the side of his head. They talked about his lack of professionalism multiple times in the very beginning, but nobody else seems really bothered by Brett’s love for pet names, and as long as he only does it while they’re alone, it’s hard to argue against. Still, Stiles wouldn’t mind a better pet name than ‘Baby’. It doesn’t exactly show a lot of creativity. Well, it’s still better than Sugarplum. Poor Isaac.
“So,” Stiles says, propping his hands on the edge of Brett’s desk, “what do you got for me?”
“I noticed it in the last story before she disappeared.” Brett pulls up a short little video and points at the right corner of the screen. “Look here.” He hits play, finger still pressed against the corner of the screen.
And Stiles saw it. Just for a second. A light blue 2012 Honda Accord. The license plate is impossible to decipher like this, and there is no way to see who is sitting in the car. Still, it is the car they are looking for, and it happened only a day before she disappeared. Also, Brett probably would not have called him over if this was the only instance of spotting this car. In fact, Brett showed him two more stories and three pictures spread out over the last three weeks. Chances are that’s the same car with the same fucking driver. Chances are this is their guy.
Grinning, Stiles ruffles Brett’s hair. “I could kiss you right now.”
“Not at the office.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Send them to Danny.” He pushes away from the desk. “Danny, I need you on this ASAP. Try to get a clear image of the car. We need to know if that’s him.” Because if that is him, they got him. There’s no way out of this one. “Brett, text Isaac. Maybe her friends noticed something about the car. I’ll try to get a hang of Jackson, maybe—”
“Jackson just texted me.” Danny leans back in his chair, frowning at his phone. “Something came up… and he wants me to tell you that the judge is on our side. Dude’s gonna stay locked up for the time being.”
Stiles should be thrilled about the news. That’s what he wanted, isn’t it? He wanted the wendigo to stay behind bars until they found proof. Now, they found proof, and he will not be released. Ever. Period. But… but. He’s not as excited as he thought he’d be. Stiles would’ve preferred if Jackson told him directly. They were supposed to go to lunch too. “That’s great news.”
Brett snorts. “You couldn’t have said that with a bit more enthusiasm?”
For the peace of his own mind, Stiles decides to ignore him. However, looking at Danny doesn’t make this thing any easier because the look Danny is giving him is making his skin crawl. It’s not fun. “I’m starving,” he says, turning away from Danny and his searching look, and grabs his jacket. “I’ll be back in ten.” Without waiting for an answer, Stiles rushes out of the room.
—————
“You look like you’re ready to consider if the hangover is worth it.”
Stiles draws his eyebrows together and looks up at the man sitting down next to him. Oh no, he’s really not up for small talk right now. He still tries to be polite, knowing all too well how easily pissed-off intoxicated people can be. “You know how it is.” He certainly does not, but Stiles isn’t about to elaborate. Sighing, he checks his phone again.
Isaac and Brett insisted they needed to celebrate their success. Which, okay, it’s something they’re always doing, but today is one of the days he’s rather have stayed home and watched a stupid Netflix show to drown out whatever the fuck is going on with him. He wishes he could say that it has absolutely nothing to do with Jackson basically ghosting him. The guy has really left him on read for two days now. Stiles even invited him for tonight, remembering Lydia’s words, but nothing. No text, no call. Zero. Zilch. Stiles is almost a hundred percent sure he did something to piss Jackson off. Not just because he’s completely ignoring him. Danny has been giving him weird looks as well ever since Jackson didn’t show up for lunch.
Oh god.
Is it because of the date comment? It can’t be because of the date comment. Please, let it not be because of that stupid fucking date comment. Jackson should know by now that his mouth doesn't always work properly. He didn’t mean date date. Did Jackson really think it’s a date, and that’s why he didn’t come?
Stiles swallows and drops his phone. Fuck. It’s not like they were flirting or anything. Sure, their meetings became progressively easier, but they were never too friendly, right? Right? Scrunching up his face, Stiles downs the contents of his whiskey.
The guy next to him chuckles. “I don’t think I know how that feels.”
“I really don’t need a running commentary on my life, Buddy.”
“I wasn’t trying to intrude.”
Stiles raises a brow and finally turns to look at the guy next to him. He’s quite handsome, probably in his mid-to-late-thirties. His suit costs undoubtedly more than Stiles makes in six months. It’s also not his unless he’s got a terrible tailor. The shoulders are just a little too loose. The suit jacket doesn’t fit properly around his waist either. The perfectly trimmed three o’clock shadow doesn’t help his case. Neither does wearing a suit like that in a bar that’s filled with people in comfortable clothes. The dude either used to be rich, or he’s got some serious self-esteem issues he thinks he can cover up with his best friend’s suit.
“Okay.” The guy grabs Stiles’ glass and shakes it at the barkeeper. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“I really don’t—”
“I insist. As an apology.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Listen, I’m waiting for someone.” Actually, he’s waiting for four someones, but clearly, his team isn’t in the mood for being on time today. Then again, Stiles arrived very early as well. Because he was sitting in his flat, staring at his phone and the last message that went unanswered.
“They’re not here yet, aren’t they?”
Ryan places a drink on him, and, judging by the look on his face, it’s none alcoholic. “You good, Mate?”
Even though Ryan is staring at the guy, Stiles is highly aware that he’s talking to him. “I’m good, thanks.” It’s not the first douche he’s had to deal with, and it probably won’t be the last; especially in his line of work. “Thanks though.” Smiling, Stiles grabs the drink and gets to his feet. His team should arrive shortly, hopefully, and he’d prefer to have already saved them a booth by then. He turns around, not paying the guy any more attention.
Who clearly is not done with him. “Hey,” he says, loud enough that the people closest to them turn around. “I got you that drink.”
Ryan chuckles and props himself onto his elbows. “It’s on the house.”
The guy shoots him a glare then turns back to Stiles. His neck flushes. Oh, someone’s not handling being turned down very well. And mocked. And stared at. This has to be his worst nightmare.
Stiles loves it. He probably shouldn’t, but he does. So much. Trying his best to keep his expression under control, Stiles turns and faces him again. “You wanna say something to me?” He quirks a brow then leans a little closer, lowering his voice. “Like, I don’t know, that I owe you because you took time out of your evening to talk to me? Or because you tried to buy me a drink I didn’t want?”
He’s gnashing his teeth now, shoulders going rigid.
“Come on,” Stiles urges, fingers itching for a fight for the first in a very long time, “be that guy. You know you want to.”
“Or just move along.”
Stiles steps aside, whipping his head around. Jackson is standing next to him, arms folded tightly over his chest. His white button-down and black jeans make him look extra attractive, and Stiles cannot believe that thought just crossed his mind. He’s been thinking a lot about Jackson… which isn’t much better now that he thinks about that.
The guy narrows his eyes. “And why would I?”
“Because I just asked you politely, and I only do that once.” Jackson’s expression remains firmly neutral, probably because he’s more than used to people doing whatever he wants.
Much to Stiles’ relief and dismay, the dickhead actually does move away. It’s good. It really is because Stiles probably would’ve provoked him until he stepped out of line. Still. “You know, I could’ve handled that myself.”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you did a stellar job.”
Like he needs anyone to judge his methods. Stiles huffs out a breath and walks over to one of the empty tables in the corner. “What are you even doing here?”
“You invited me, remember?” Jackson slips into the booth, motioning Stiles to sit down next to him. Which, seriously? First, the guy ghosts him and now he’s expecting Stiles to pretend like nothing happened and sit down next to him?
Narrowing his eyes, Stiles collapses onto the bench, bumping his leg against Jackson. He crosses his arms. Fine, maybe he sits down next to him, but he’s not gonna be happy about it. “I didn’t expect you’d show up after not replying to any of the texts I’ve sent you in the past 48 hours.”
Jackson nudges a napkin with his index finger. “It was a misunderstanding.”
Stiles stares at him. “We didn’t talk?!”
Jackson shoots him a look then returns his attention to poking the napkin. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh no. No way, Sir.” Stiles is so not going to let him get away with this. Seriously. “First, we agreed on meeting during lunch, then you tell Danny that you’re not coming, who then proceeded to look at me as if I insulted his grandmother, and you fucking leave me on read for two fucking days.” He turns around, swatting Jackson’s upper arm. “I think you owe me a fucking explanation.”
“I think you can chill with the expletives.”
“I don’t think I fucking will.” Stiles narrows his eyes. “It’s not fucking fun to have Danny glare at you from across the room every two seconds.”
Jackson lets out a breath and finally looks at him. “You really don’t know.” It’s not a question, and for some reason, Jackson seems to be amused about his own realization. “Can’t believe Lydia’s right.”
“Right about what?” What the hell is he talking about now? Is he trying to confuse him on purpose?
With yet another sigh, Jackson leans back, studying Stiles’ face for a few seconds. He’s still smiling a little. “That you wouldn’t notice that I like you until I spell it out for you.”
“I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you alone if I thought you’d hate me.”
“No, Stiles…” Jackson trails off. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. “I’m talking about the ‘I booked a table at your favorite restaurant and ordered a bouquet of flowers for our lunch date’ kind of like.”
Stiles opens his mouth then closes it again, squinting a little. “Wha— oh.” Oh god. Jackson thought it was a date date. He wanted it to be an actual date? Jackson Whittemore… the Jackson Whittemore booked a table and bought him a bouquet of flowers because he thought Stiles meant a date date. He can’t believe it. That’s gotta be a joke. “Wait… you like me?”
Jackson nods very slowly.
“For my personality?”
“Nobody was as surprised as me.”
“Rude.” Stiles boxes Jackson’s upper arm very lightly, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Wait… then why did you cancel everything?” That doesn’t make any sense. If Jackson thought Stiles was talking about a date date, and he wanted it to be a date date… then why drop everything and run? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.
Jackson shifts on the bench, left leg now pressing against Stiles’. “I heard Talbot call you babe.”
“He has pet names for all of us.”
“Danny told me as much.” Jackson nods and runs a hand over the nape of his neck. “Then Lydia reminded me that you’re stupid and that I need to get my head out of my ass if I wanted to go on a date with you, so… here I am.”
Stiles bounces his leg, feeling stupidly giddy all of the sudden — giddy enough that he decides to ignore Lydia’s comment. “You… still wanna go on a date with me?”
“I would like that, yeah.”
His heart did not just flutter. Nope. Never. Stiles clears his throat and grins. Oh god, this… he didn’t expect this at all. “I don’t have an expensive suit, so…”
Jackson puts a hand on his thigh, and Stiles’ pulse goes sky-high within the flicker of a second. “We could rent a movie. Order in.”
Stiles likes that idea so much more than going out. He places his hand on Jackson’s, running his thumb over the side of his index finger. “And no flowers, I can’t even keep a cactus alive.”
Unexpectedly, Jackson lifts their hands and kisses the back of Stiles’, just above his wrist. Fuck. He’s never going to admit what this small little gesture is doing to him. “That works for me.”
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Unfortunately, Draco was very used to hearing but.
“Mr Malfoy, thank you for your Healer application. Your NEWT scores are exemplary, and we thoroughly enjoyed reading your dissertation. We would love to offer you a position at St Mungo’s, but we’ve decided to move forward with a candidate whose public profile is less complicated.”
“Draco, I know our parents want us to get married, and whilst I think it wouldn’t be a terrible arrangement, I just can’t do it. You’re lovely and all, but I have to think of any children we might have. It would be so difficult for them to have a Death Eater as a father.”
“Darling, you know I adore it when you visit. I really do live for them… but perhaps it would be easier if you came when it was dark out? So the press didn’t see you.”
“You can work in the DMLE admin department, Malfoy. The pay is as shit as the hours, but it’s probably more than you deserve.”
So used to hearing but was Draco that he lived in a constant state of flight. One foot out the door. His heart tucked away safe and sound. It was easier to keep his guard up than risk the pain of letting someone close enough to wound him properly.
You would think, with so much practice, that his walls would be impenetrable. It took Harry Potter returning to England after years abroad for Draco to learn this was simply not true.
Polite smiles as they passed each other in the corridor became small talk in the cafeteria queue. Small talk became shared jokes over lunch. Shared jokes became Harry waiting by Draco’s desk at the end of the day, asking if he wanted to get a drink. One drink became two, became Harry’s hand on the small of Draco’s back, became trysts in the supply cupboard, nights at each other’s homes, weekends away, until somehow—impossibly—all of it became whispered promises between the sheets that Draco didn’t believe.
But gods, did he want to.
He wanted to believe so badly that, despite half his heart constantly bracing for the inevitability of but, the other half lived in hope of a full stop.
It came on a Wednesday evening. Harry and Draco stood side by side at the hob, both tired from work, both still in their shirtsleeves, cooking dinner together like they did most nights.
“You’re going to burn the garlic,” Draco said, reaching past Harry to turn down the heat. “Add the stock now.”
Harry did as he was told. “That enough?”
“Perfect. Add the rice and let it simmer for fifteen.” Draco glanced at the oven. “I think the chicken is almost done, you know—”
“I love you.”
So sudden it was that Draco froze. He braced himself, waiting for the but.
I love you, but this is difficult.
I love you, but people will talk.
I love you, but I don’t know if I can.
Only, it never came. Instead, Harry took his hand, threaded their fingers together, and stood so close that they were chest-to-chest, and Draco began to wonder.
“I love you,” Harry said, softer this time. “That’s all.”
Draco swallowed. His heart was no longer tucked away safe and sound. It was right there in his throat, beating itself half to death because it was true.
Harry’s late to Advanced Potions. Again. He opens the door, and the room is loud enough with whatever they’re making that no one notices him coming in. He mumbles some apology to Slughorn and sits with Ron and Hermione.
“Oh, look at that, you showed up,” Hermione says, stirring something in the cauldron. Ron is leaning his head against the desk and looks like he’s about to fall asleep, clearly not paying attention, like he usually has been for the past few weeks of their Eighth Year. The room is filled with the wispy smoke of everyone’s potions.
Harry rolls his eyes at Hermione’s tone. “I slept in.”
Ron begrudgingly gets up to get some of the ingredients, and Hermione lists them from the supply closet. It looks like they’re all doing potions with their tablemates, so Harry sits down and tries to decipher whatever the fuck the instructions were in the textbook.
Harry inhales and nearly has a coughing fit at how strong the smell in the room is. A shit ton of cologne, like someone must’ve spilled a whole bottle right by their table. It’s the expensive kind too, with how it reeks; Harry’d know, it’s exactly how Malfoy wears it.
Harry clears his throat. “What the fuck? I thought Malfoy wasn’t in this class. How much fucking cologne can a person put on?” He asks, wrinkling his nose in mild disgust.
“He’s not? I’m fairly sure he’d be taking Alchemical Potions instead of this class for his Healing NEWTS.” Hermione says conversationally, not fully listening.
But she seems to suddenly process what he said, because she abruptly stops stirring. She turns to face him. The shift in her expression is so quick that Harry nearly has a fight-or-flight response.
“It smells like Malfoy in here, you said?” She asks, deathly slow. Harry didn’t know where this was going. He feels mildly scared.
“Uh… yeah? Like his bougie ass cologne.” Harry says. She continues to stare at him like he’s grown three heads.
Then Hermione says quite possibly the worst sentence he has ever heard in his entire life.
“Harry. We’re making amortentia.”
Oh.
Fuck.
Shit. Fucking fuck FUCK.
“Oh my god, I’d suspected-” Hermione says, running a hand over her face “I should’ve known.” She says into her hands.
“Hermione, it’s not-” He says, mildly frantic, knocking something over. He did not fancy Malfoy.
“Hey guys, I got the stuff.” Ron suddenly says, unceremoniously dumping everything onto the table.
“You two, uh, good?”
Great. They were great!
“Yep!” Harry says, smiling so hard his face hurts.
Ron looks at him with a mildly concerned expression. “...alright then.”
He grabs some root-looking-things and starts cutting them, hands trembling slightly as he avoids Hermione’s gaze.
“How long have you suspected?” Harry asks quietly when Ron steps away.
Hermione sighs. “Since fourth year.”
Harry nearly cuts off his thumb.
“FOURTH YEAR?” He whisper-yells. “I only found out, like, now!”
“Well, it’s a good thing we see him next period then, isn’t it?” She asks, a bit dryly.
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My idea for this was what if Steve and Billy left Hawkins after hearing the song by Tracy Chapman
“You got a fast car
I got a plan to get us out of here
I been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
Won't have to drive too far
Just 'cross the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living…”
Cr: Fast Car by Tracy Chapman
Harry held Draco’s hand, who lay pale against the pillows, hair spread around him like a halo, one hand pressed to his chest. His breathing was shallow. His eyes, usually so silver, were a glassy grey.
“Harry,” Draco whispered.
“I’m here.”
Draco’s fingers tightened weakly around his. “You have to promise me something.”
Harry’s throat closed. “Anything.”
“When I’m gone—”
“Don’t.”
“When I’m gone,” Draco repeated, devastatingly, “you must take care of Mother.”
A helpless sound broke out of Harry. He pressed Draco’s knuckles to his mouth. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Draco smiled faintly. “Always so stubborn.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” Draco’s thumb brushed Harry’s wrist. “That’s one of the many terribly irritating things I love about you.”
Harry leaned over him, heart cracking wide open. “I love you too.”
Draco’s eyes fluttered shut. “At least I can go in peace.”
Ron stood in the doorway in his Healer trainee robes, holding his clipboard, and wearing an expression of pure disdain.
“The dramatic git only has a bloody cold,” Ron said flatly, “He’s going to survive, obviously.”
Harry turned slowly back to Draco.
Draco sniffed. “That remains to be seen.”
Harry glared at him. “I thought you were actually dying!”
Draco opened one eye. “I am suffering. Now get back to telling me you love me! And Weasley, get out of the room, we were having a moment.”
When he looks at Billy, it’s like everything he’s ever felt in his entire life is crammed tight inside his chest, making it hard to breathe.
It’s like looking at the sun. Or the flash of a camera. Maybe even the sunlight rippling off of the lake.
Either way, he can’t find the words to describe exactly how Billy makes him feel.
The flash of anger in those blue eyes, the way his canines show when he smiles just big enough, the freckles on his nose bunching together as he scrunches his face in disgust, the way his tongue runs over his teeth, the way his laugh sounds in Steve’s car, the sleepy murmur of his voice in Steve’s ear late at night, the heaviness of his limbs as they’re thrown across Steve’s body.
It’s like he’s drowning when Billy’s around.
Which is ironic, he supposes, as he thinks of those red swim shorts that come out from June to August.
And yet, when he’s gasping for air when Billy’s kissing him, he doesn’t want to be helped, or saved, or anything.
He holds his breath and closes his eyes, feels the tightness of his chest as Billy pecks at his lips and holds him close, mumbling something dirty-sweet into his ear as he grabs Steve’s ass, like he always does.
His chest has been tight and full for so long, he’s used to being short of breath, but he’s breathless when he hears Billy mumble something new.
“I think,” the blond whispers into his ear, so low that Steve can barely hear him over the buzz of nothing, “I love you.”
He feels like his ribcage is cracked, suddenly. His eyes are wide and his heart is beating quick, not fast.
Billy pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, a vulnerability there that’s poorly hidden under his usual bravado as he huffs, “And you better love me, too, or I’ll beat your ass.”
He laughs. He can’t help it. It’s startled out of him, his eyes are wet as he grins and shakes his head in amused disbelief, which makes Billy eye him.
“I love you, too,” Steve whispers, pulling the blond close.
As their lips meet again, the crack in his ribcage bursts open, and then he can finally breathe.
When Eddie gets home he heads straight inside. Buck follows a minute later, the door shutting with a click that sounds too loud in the silence surrounding them. Eddie rakes his eyes up Buck’s body, hungryily drinking him in. He can’t wait to get his hands and mouth on every inch of him.
“Okay so I know we talked about this - us - at dinner but afterwards we kind of got a little bit distracted with the kissing and —”
Eddie pushes Buck against the door and crashes his lips into Buck’s, effectively cutting off his sentence. He licks into Buck’s mouth and relishes in the moan that reverberates through Buck’s chest.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to shut you up like that?” Eddie breathes into the scant space between their mouths after he breaks their kiss.
“I’m guessing probably since the day you met me.” Buck grins, a cheeky and beautiful thing that Eddie absolutely has to taste. He swoops in and captures Buck mouth again, enjoying the feeling of Buck practically melting in his arms.
“Yeah,” Eddie pants after he’s pulled away, “pretty much.”
“Mmm I bet there were other ways you imagined shutting me up” Buck says around a smirk before he’s devouring Eddie’s mouth in a kiss that has Eddie’s toes curling.
Eddie is so thoroughly distracted by the taste of Buck, by the way he is taking him apart with just his lips and tongue that he doesn’t notice Buck’s muscles tensing in preparation.
One minute they’re kissing, and then the next, photo frames are rattling as Eddie is pinned to the wall, Buck’s body caging him in as his lips seek purchase against Eddie’s neck. Eddie lets out a moan as Buck kisses and nips and sucks his way up to Eddie’s mouth, capturing Eddie’s lips in a kiss that has him seeing stars.
And then all too soon Buck is pulling away and Eddie has a complaint on the tip of his tongue but clamps down and swallows it as Buck drops to his knees.
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Harry had only had two pints, which wasn’t nearly enough to explain why he was openly staring at Draco Malfoy after weeks of trying his absolute hardest not to do exactly that at work.
He blamed the Veela thing. Honestly, it was unfair. The long white hair spilling over Draco’s shoulders. The pale skin that seemed to shine at his throat where his collar sat open. The sharp line of his jaw. The—
“Mate,” Ron said, following Harry’s gaze. “Do you want to relax a bit? You’ve been making googly eyes at Malfoy half the night.”
Harry flushed. “What? Everyone thinks Malfoy’s fit. He’s part-Veela.”
The table went quiet.
Draco, who had been bickering with Pansy over something, looked over very slowly. “Pardon?”
Harry gestured helplessly at all of him. “Come on. The shining hair. The glimmering skin—”
“Potter.”
“—the mouth, obviously—”
“Potter!”
“What?”
“I take suppressants.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“For the allure,” Draco said. “I have since eighth year, when I started presenting. No one here is magically compelled to find me attractive.”
Ron choked on his beer and Pansy made a small, delighted sound. Blaise sighed and handed her three Galleons.
“Oh,” Harry said.
Hermione leaned forward, eyes bright. “Actually, if Harry is perceiving Draco’s Veela traits without being influenced by allure, that might suggest a mating bond—”
Draco went completely red and looked away.
“—and judging by that reaction,” Hermione finished, crossing her arms, “Draco seems to have known.”
“Fine, I knew,” Draco snapped. “But I didn’t say anything because Potter is not obligated to—”
“I don’t feel obligated,” Harry interrupted, heart hammering. “I think I’m just… er, well, interested.”
Draco’s mouth parted.
Harry looked at Draco’s flushed cheeks and his beautiful, vaguely worried face.
