for alice (watching stiricide). i do not own.
The best songs, Rose thinks, are love songs. Not that she's a romantic – because she's not, no matter what Scor – anyone – says – but love does seem to give the singers a certain something that adds ten thousand levels of depth to their songs.
She ponders this while tuned into the wireless, lying on the window seat, staring out at the streaming sheets of rain and reading The Great Gatsby. It is late Sunday morning, and Scorpius is at church.
In all honesty, she has no idea why he attends – she's the self-proclaimed cynic of the two of them, and she doesn't believe in God.
He does, though, she supposes that's why he goes. She doesn't pretend to understand it.
A few minutes later, she glances away from Gatsby and Daisy and Nick to see Scorpius, smiling. "Good book?" he asks.
She reaches her hand out to him and their fingers interlace automatically. "The best," she replies.
"Oh, really now?" he says. "Come on, you have to admit that Animal Farm is an ingenious work –"
"You're wet," she points out unnecessarily, as his blonde hair has been darkened by water and his jacket is dripping.
"Duly noted," he says dryly. "It's raining, love."
She sticks her tongue out at him. "Duly noted," she counters, her eyes grinning.
He smiles, because the action is just so Rose, and shrugs out of his jacket, drying it with one quick wave of his wand and draping it over the back of a chair. He sits beside her – or rather, around her, wrapping his jean-clad legs around her cross-legged ones – and folds his arms around her from behind. She leans back into his embrace, marking her page with a finger – because she would never maltreat her books like Scorpius does by leaving them spine-up – and for a moment they simply sit there, content, and the rain streaks down the windows.
"I love rain," she announces a few moments later.
She knows he is smiling, even though she cannot see it, because his face is pressed against her hair. "Of course you do," he says amiably.
Rose twists around to face him, sparks flashing in her eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Scorpius allows his smile to spread across his face before answering, "Nothing, love." He pauses. "It's just that – well, you really are a romantic at heart, aren't you?"
She sighs exasperatedly but then relaxes into a shrug. "Maybe you're right," she concedes. "Maybe."
He laughs, momentarily brushing his lips against her cheek. "That's all I ever ask for, darling."
She snorts. "Right. And you know I hate when you call me that."
He drops another kiss onto her hair. "Yes, I do," he says cheerfully.
"Then why do you do it?"
"Well, That, I don't really know…" he trails off, green eyes dancing.
"Shut it, you," she grumbles. "And I take it back."
"Take what back?"
"I'm not a romantic after all."
He chuckles, making what is possibly her favorite sound in the whole world (tied with the New World Symphony), and sighs. They both know that she will never admit defeat, and so the argument will return again and again and again. The rain pours on, and they are in love, and everything is colored a tiny bit perfect.
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