#kas writes

Your grip shifts on the stack of books already in your hands, definitely listening in, but pretending not to. A hand lifts to pull down a particularly stunning cover of Poe – all matte black leather and crimson foil lettering, silver iconography of a raven perched on a crumbling mansion – to admire, while half-hardheartedly keeping up the ruse.

The deep seated sigh was almost hidden by the distant sound of the cash door slamming shut on the register up front. In your peripherals, Jason’s head tips back to stare at the ceiling.

Somehow, that already tells you all you need to know.

“Well, cant -”

He’s cut off, effectively, and the grip on his stack of books tightens. If he had a third hand, you could almost see it pinching the bridge of his nose.

That, you think, is a pretty solid indication that date night is officially over.

Poe finds his way back on the shelf, your eyes taking in the small, cozy bookshop Jason had wanted to show you before dinner. A new discovery of his, and he swore you’d love it. Wanted to share it with you.

The four books in your arms confirmed that within the first ten minutes.

“Alright – fine. Just give me ten,” he grumbles into the receiver. Your eyes find him again – eyebrows furrowed, phone held tight in hand, still looking very much like this is the most inconvenient thing to happen to him all week. “Oh, ha ha. Shut up.”

With that, he hangs up. Shoves the phone back in his pocket, eyes lifting, always, to find you again.

An eyebrow slowly lifts, and Jason starts to apologize.

You almost laugh in the middle of his explanation, because all you feel is tension bleeding from muscle and bone and a brain going blissfully fucking quiet by the sheer force of relief alone.

“Oh, thank god,” it comes out on a sigh, half under your breath, shoulders slumping with a bit of drama that’s entirely your own.

Jason stops, mid-sentence.

“What?” the look he gives you is curious, stack of books dangling idly by his side as he approaches you once again. It’s only when he’s halfway there, that he clocks it – the tell tale signs officially written all over every single aspect of you, finally out in the open for all to see. “You didn’t want to go out tonight, did you?”

Not an accusation, but not necessarily a true question, either.

Your expression turns a little sheepish.

“Didn’t really wanna leave the house, really.”

Truth. But before you can elaborate, Jason’s already beginning to question why you hadn’t said something before, how you could have rescheduled and had a night in, instead -

You wave him off immediately.

“- yeah, but we’ve had to reschedule this, like, twice already. You were looking forward to it. I wanted to go. I just, y’know – woke up this morning and didn’t actually wanna go anywhere.”

Jason won’t hear an apology from you, but he does fix you with a look that says ‘take out and a movie would have been perfectly fine’ and ‘we are so talking about this later.’

You simply grin at him.

He sighs. Tells you to stay put – and returns with a basket moments later, his books set safely in the bottom of it. Presses it into your hands while setting your books on top of his. Smoothly plants a soft kiss to your forehead and tucks some cash into your pocket at the same time.

“Stay. Finish looking around, get whatever you want. I’ll come home with a late dinner.”

“Second dinner. Technically.” for you, anyway. Because like hell your night will be spent haunting the halls like some long dead ghost awaiting a loved one to return from war.

That’s never been your style.

Jason snorts, and lets you kiss his cheek before, reluctantly, he turns and goes off to be a badass.

And you? A few more books are added to the basket – some for yourself, and a few more you find for Jason.

You’re home free after that. An armful of books and your favorite takeout complete with pastries accompanying you through the front door. Date night attire swapped blissfully for something comfy before settling in for the cozy night in you’ve been craving all night.

The first time it happens, Robby thinks it’s just a coincidence.

Abbot is standing across the trauma bay, arms folded, listening to a nurse run through vitals on another one of their seemingly dozens of waiting-on-ICU patients. Even only half-glancing at him earlier that morning, Robby can tell that he hadn’t slept well by the uncharacteristic unkempt of his auburn curls and the shadow of stubble a little too overgrown. Robby, meanwhile, is the one at the bedside of a trauma, elbow-deep in a 16-year-old MCV’s chest cavity; a situation that has veered quickly from routine to potentially complicated to requiring an attending to take over. Nothing they couldn’t handle—just enough variables stacking up that he’s moving a little faster, talking a little sharper.

“Pressure’s dropping again,” someone says.

“I see it,” Robby snaps, not unkindly, just focused.

“Hanging another blood bag—”

“Dr. R, I can’t see anything in here.” A resident, throwing stitches as fast as Robby’s ever seen them. (There’s something to be said about how the pressure of having a life in one’s hands brings out the best in them, but Robby can’t think of that right now.)

“Yeah, I’m getting it, keep doing what you’re doing,” he grits out, raising his voice over the blaring monitors. “Where the hell is surgery?”

And round and round they go, putting out fires as they crop up, trying to keep this kid’s stats up, her blood circulating, her heart beating, until finally, finally, the fires all go out and she stabilized enough to be taken up to surgery. When he steps back, tearing his gown and gloves off, he pauses for a moment—just a moment—and takes a breath. Slow, deep, grounding. And when glances up, Abbot’s eyebrows are… doing something. Not the usual neutral line. Not the mild furrow he gets when he’s thinking. No, this is different. Drawn together, pinched tight, like someone physically scrunched them inward and forgot to release.

Under different circumstances (or maybe because of the circumstances), it might have made Robby laugh.

He doesn’t (because he can still smell that teenager’s blood) but there’s a curiosity interlaced with a touch of humor there. Maybe it’s the shock of the trauma. Maybe it’s the 12 hour shift. But it’s such a specific look, so out of place on Abbot’s otherwise carefully controlled face, that it sticks. By the time the room is clear, the eyebrows are back to normal.

Robby files it away as a fluke.

—

The second time, it’s less subtle.

Robby is late.

Not dramatically late—fifteen minutes, maybe twenty—but late enough that the board’s already filling and most of the night shift hand-offs are finishing up without him. He walks in mid-sentence apology, shrugging off his jacket, already scanning for where he’s needed. Abbot is at the central desk. And his eyebrows are scrunched. There’s no patient in front of Robby this time. No crisis. No immediate reason for concern.

Curious.

“Relax, Abbot,” Robby says automatically, easily, tossing his bag down. “I’m here. I’m not playing hooky.”

“I’m aware,” Abbot replies, voice uncharacteristically tight.

The eyebrows don’t unscrunch.

Robby cocks his head at him. “You good, brother?”

He blinks, like the question itself is odd. “Yeah.”

“Did something happen?”

“Nothin’ special.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

Jack balks at him. “Like what?”

Robby gestures vaguely at his own face, mimicking the expression. “Like you’re trying to fold your forehead in half.”

Abbot’s expression resets instantly—smooth, neutral, controlled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh,” Robby says. He lets it go.

But he doesn’t forget about it.

—

The pattern becomes obvious embarrassingly fast.

Robby takes a stray elbow breaking up a fight in chairs, takes his hospital-mandated ten minutes to ice his face; Abbot appears in the break room doorway ten minutes later, eyebrows scrunched.

Robby fumbles over a stool coming out of a patient’s room; Abbot looks up from across the bay, eyebrows scrunched.

Robby coughs once (although, admittedly, with more force than strictly necessary) after inhaling coffee wrong; Abbot’s head snaps over, eyebrows scrunched so tight it’s almost impressive.

It’s consistent. Immediate. Unconscious. And the best part? Abbot clearly has no idea he’s doing it.

Robby tests it, just a little; climbs up on a wheeled stool in the supply room to reach something he probably should not be climbing for, positioning himself conveniently in Jack’s line of sight.

When Abbot reacts to the sound of a small crash, he looks up to see Robby half-braced against one of the upper shelves, still trying to reach upwards. And, lo and behold: scrunch. Immediate, deep, concerned.

“Rob, what the hell are you doing”

“Just—holy fuck—” Robby wobbles a bit, then quickly regains his balance. “Just grabbing—this.” He hops down, stumbling forwards a bit, and triumphantly holds up…

Abbott narrows his eyes. “Is that a notebook?”

“Yep. Needed a new one. Mine’s full.”

There’s a beat, like Abbot needs a moment to process. Then: “Just grab one from my locker next time. Do that acrobatics shit again and I’m telling Adamson.”

Robby barks a laugh. “You’re gonna tell on me?”

Abbot just rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot.” But the scrunch lingers for another second before fading, like he has to manually smooth it out.

Very, very curious.

—

The thing is, Abbot is not, by any reasonable definition, a visibly soft person. He’s steady. Competent. Thoughtful, in a quiet, deliberate way. He cares, obviously—Robby’s not blind—but it’s usually expressed in actions. Showing up. Staying late. Catching details other people miss. Not, at least not usually, facial expressions that look like a worried accordion. So Robby keeps noticing. Keeps collecting instances. Keeps enjoying them more than he probably should. It becomes a game. Not one he tells Abbott about—because that would ruin it—but a private one.

How fast does the scrunch appear?

(Answer: instant.)

How long does it last?

(Depends. Minor concern: a few seconds. Major concern: persistent.)

What triggers it most reliably?

(Anything involving Robby being even mildly not-okay.)

Robby doesn’t abuse it. Not really. But he does occasionally lean into it. Like the time he rolls his shoulder with a quiet wince after a long shift. Abbot, from three feet away: scrunched.

“You good?”

“I’m just fine.” Then grunts a bit as he reaches for a chart.

“That wasn’t a ‘fine’ noise.”

“It was absolutely a ‘fine’ noise.”

Abbot steps closer, already assessing. “What happened?”

Robby shrugs, which only makes it worse. “Gurney transfer on a bigger patient. Lifted weird.”

The scrunch deepens.

It is, Robby realizes, ridiculously endearing. (He’s not supposed to think that. He definitely does.)

—

The moment it really clicks isn’t dramatic. No life-or-death stakes. No high tension. Just the quiet lull after a shift, lingering in the ER to finish charting. Robby’s sitting, finally, shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion he’s been ignoring for hours. He presses his fingers briefly to his temple, like he can manually reboot himself. Just across from him, Abbot is charting. Robby looks up, squinting uselessly against the overheads of the break room. And his eyes, as they so often do, wander over to where Abbot is sitting. When he finds the other is looking at him, there it is again. The scrunch. Softer this time. Not sharp with alarm—just there. Settled in. Concern, worn lightly but unmistakably. Abbot holds his gaze for a second, then lets it drop back to his notes.

“You look like that again,” Robby says.

Abbot doesn’t look up. “Like what?”

Robby studies him, something warm and a little dangerous unfurling in his chest. “Like you’re worried.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Abbot finally glances back over. For a split second, the scrunch is still there. Then—gone again.

“I’m not,” he repeats.

Robby tilts his head. “You do this thing with your eyebrows.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I think I would know if I did.”

“That’s the best part,” Robby says, a smile creeping in despite himself. “You don’t.”

Abbot stares at him for a moment, assessing, like he’s trying to determine if this is a joke he’s missing or a problem he needs to solve. “…What thing?”

Robby leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, easy and relaxed and letting the tension from the entire shift slip away. “They scrunch. Every time you’re worried.” (“about me” he doesn’t add.)

Abbot flushes a bit. “They do not.”

“They do. It’s like a tell.”

“I don’t have a tell.”

“You absolutely have a tell.”

Abbott shakes his head, dismissing it—but there’s a flicker of something uncertain there now. “That’s not a real thing.”

Robby grins. “Oh, it’s very real.”

Silence lingers for a moment. Then Abbott says, carefully, “Even if that were true—which it isn’t—it wouldn’t mean anything.”

Robby’s smile softens, just a fraction. “Sure,” he says.

He doesn’t push. Because the thing is, it does mean something. Not in a loud, declarative way. Not in a way Abbott would ever phrase out loud. But Robby sees it. Every time. The immediate, unfiltered reaction. The split-second loss of control. Worry, written plainly across a face that otherwise gives very little away.

It had been a shock, to say the least, to be woken up in the middle of the night. Not by one of her students deciding on a late night trip, nor by a professor come to tell her of terrible news. She was roused by a skinny Slytherin, the boy staring up at her with wide eyes and looking as though his shoulders were shaking. To be frank, he looked like death itself. "Password," she asked him with none of the usual fuss, more than a little interested in this turn of events.

He started, watching her. When he spoke, it was with a slight stutter, and hesitation. "T- Tandem… libertatem?"

They all asked her afterwards if she knew about the goings ons between them. Of course she knew. She was a portrait, they whispered everything to each other. She knew who he was, and she knew why he was giving her the password. Still, it was the correct password, and she was not ruled against allowing other students to enter, so she opened the door for him at approximately one in the morning.

In the morning, she watched them both walk out far earlier than she'd ever seen him awake. Ah, but young love did make them do foolish things.

Of course she watched them whenever they came or went, she had no other true option. The portraits around her snickered and giggled, and she occasionally joined in on the gossiping. She thought it was sweet, at the very least. It was about time they got over all this foolish nonsense and called a truce.

It did come as a sad shock when he came to her at midnight, battered and bruised. His light hair was now limp and sticking to his forehead. He just barely choked out the password, though she couldn't be certain if it was the pain or the tears trying to hold him back. Without a word, she swung open, and as she closed the door, she just barely heard a gasp, then a hissed, "Draco!" He didn't come out until late afternoon the next day, but at least he looked much better for it. It appeared to her that he'd been healed for the most part, and it seemed he'd had a shower as well. He took his wand out as he left until she opened again and the other one stepped out, standing beside him. "I'm not letting you go alone." Some silent argument passed between the two of them before they both nodded and started on their way.

When they entered the Common Room together in daylight, she thought that the poor dears' hearts would thump right out of their chests! Her little one had his magic practically in a whirlwind out of control around him, and his dear one was red as a rose. The moment they had entered, she was cooing over how adorable they had been and how she'd seen this coming for just ages.

But then, it did come as a bit of a surprise to her when they left late into the night. Often it seemed they didn't leave until morning, but- "I really should go. I promised Pansy I'd be there after her date."

He brushed his hair back, seeming to be unable to step too far away from him for long. "You'll be okay getting back by yourself?"

Then he leaned forward and kissed his cheek! "I'll be fine. You don't always have to be a savior."

"I know," he said with a bright grin. "Go, before Pansy gets upset at you." He ruffled his hair, turning it into a complete mess from where it had looked so nice and combed.

"I'll see you in the morning."

He turned back to the portrait, still smiling up at her. "Tandem libertatem."

"Apparently so," she said as she allowed him in. That ought to stir up some scintillating gossip. And maybe it would bring them one step closer to really uniting this school.

Of course, nothing could be cured so easily. There were still many afternoons and evenings where he came to stand in front of her, looking worse for wear and on the edge of tears, but she never said anything, only letting him inside. The other portraits told her about the Hogwarts students that felt they'd been slighted when someone like him had been allowed back into the school. That just wasn't right.

And watching either of the two of them come up to her, half the time, they both seemed so drained and listless. Where had gone her two boys so full of energy she had worried they would bring Hogwarts crashing down around them? Some days were better than others, but some days they just muttered the password and passed through her so similarly to a Hogwarts ghost that it had her worried. She expressed her concerns to the Headmistress, of course, but without seeing any of the attacks personally, there was nothing she could do for either of them unless another student reported it, or a portrait that had seen it all reported it. It wasn't fair. The two of them both tried so hard.