DAY FOUR

Cliff Tufton is a big-boned Welshman with a graying handlebar mustache, a sharp receding hairline, and a bulbous nose that sits a bit too large on his face. He is dressed casually in black trousers and a plain white shirt, and every so often he pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabs at his perspiring brow. He does not seem to be much of a smiler, nor much of a talker, but when he grips James's hand in his, he pumps it firmly and wishes him luck in the upcoming match.

"Good fingers," he observes, holding the clasp a second too long. "Always keen on a lad with good fingers."

From beside him, James can practically feel the strength of Hoff's beaming.

"Yes, he does," the agent agrees readily (too readily). "And speed like you've never seen. Did you get those times I sent over from training yesterday? Really quite spectacular. It's—"

"They do the job," James interrupts, shooting Cliff a commiserating look.

The man does not move a muscle. Not even a single twitch of the too-large nose or the perspiring brow.

(Likely, Greta Moors has good fingers, too.)

"Play worthy," Cliff says before he departs, and James immediately recognizes the phrase—an old Puddlemere adage the coaches had sprouted before every match, even in the minor league. Hearing it again now is more disarming than James would have expected. He is compelled in equal parts to puff out his chest with pride, and keel over to vomit.

(He does neither, thankfully. Just says goodbye and continues on his way.)

(Very gruff, a bit of a codger, James thinks, watching Cliff go. Then reprimands himself to quit mooning over witches and start focusing on his match.)

(This is successful for a minute or two. James is frankly impressed.)

He passes the entrance to the press box on his way to the locker room, Hoff jabbering a litany of warnings and encouragements in his ear all the while. James's match is set to begin in less than an hour. The previous exhibition had just ended—Greta had scored the opening goal, and James had asked not to be told anything after that. But from the sounds that had been streaming in from the pitch all afternoon, it had apparently been an exciting game.

A Junior Quidditch Correspondent would likely be hard-pressed to leave. Was likely still in the press room doing post-match follow-ups. Might even arrive late to the next match, finishing.

(I'll be there.)

Hoff can't get past the entrance to the tunnels leading down to the locker rooms, not with his paltry credentials, though he does his best to wave them about with authority. The security stops him as he's still hollering words of wisdom and inspirational catchphrases at James's back ("Tuck your legs on your turns! Go for the goal! It's your day, mate!"), and the whole scene is funny enough for James to finally crack a smile.

Good ol' Hoff, always there for a laugh.

(I love Hurley. What a laugh.)

(Focus, focus, focus.)

Quidditch players are by rote a superstitious lot. When James enters the locker room, he's not surprised to find Harvey Klinderson already there. The hulking Beater spent fifteen years playing for Chudley and was now looking for a comeback, but eagerness isn't what motivates his promptness. Klinderson's ritual is to always be the first to arrive. Likely he's been here for hours. And in the far corner, Lorri Jackson is stretching with her eyes closed, counting out her usual pre-match movements in a muted whisper.

"Anyone seen my other glove?" Padrig Dooster calls, throwing things about his cubby before diving to the ground, disappearing beneath a bench. "Where the bloody fuck is it?"

"Quiet," Lorri orders.

"Check Lufty's space," Klinderson says. "Wanker's like a bloody Niffler. Gathers things like it's his job."

"Bloody Lufty," Dooster grumbles, heading in that direction.

James's own space is orderly, immaculate. He is not by norm a particularly neat person, but a sportsman is only as good as his equipment, and James honors that. His broom is locked in the nearby cupboard along with the rest of his teammates'. His robes hang on the hook, clean and pressed, a gleaming scarlet. His own gloves poke out of the top of his bag, lying over a sturdy pile of pads. Goggles, tape, water, ointment…all in their proper place.

Which is why James realises almost immediately that something else is not.

He looks once, twice. Up and down. Left and right.

Nothing.

"Oy, Doos?" Don't panic. "Lufty doesn't happen to have my portable wireless over there too, does he?"

"Wussit?" Dooster's voice is muffled, likely stifled beneath a heap of Lufty's rubbish. "Dfft?"

"My wireless!" James calls again. "Is it over there?"

"No wireless yet," Lorri warns, stretching her arms down to her toes. "Give me ten more minutes."

"You may have more." Shit shit shit. "If I can't find—"

"Good morning, good morning!" someone sings from the locker room entrance. Jools Betteridge, their Keeper. "A beautiful day to play!"

"It's late afternoon," Klinderson says.

Jools frowns. "It's my thing, all right? Can't you leave me my thing?"

"You seen my wireless, Betts?" James asks. "Or Dooster's glove?"

Betts's eyebrows rise. "Lorri will murder you if you turn on the wireless now."

"I'm going to murder all of you if you don't quit yapping," Lorri corrects.

"Can't turn it on if I can't find it, can I?" James snaps.

Betts moves toward her locker, shooting him a look for his churlishness. "Have you checked with Lufty? Bloke's a sodding klepto, I swear."

"Who's a sodding klepto?" chimes another voice, and a moment later, Lufty himself arrives. He's a goofy-looking fellow, all giant limbs and stretched-out features. He's carrying no less than three bags of indiscriminate origins, all overflowing with things James does not have time to contemplate uses for, nor account legitimate ownership of (though one does always wonder).

"You," Klinderson answers, eyeing the bags too. "You got Potter's wireless somewhere in there, Luft? Or Dooster's glove?"

"No luck on the wireless," Luft reports cheerily. "Dooster's glove is with Marcie. He left it at training yesterday."

"Bugger," Doos mutters, popping up from beneath another bench.

"Where is Marcie?" Betts asks.

Lufty wiggles his eyebrows. "Chatting up a scout from Holyhead, from what I hear."

"Bullshit," Klinderson scoffs. "She's playing games to up her renewal contract offer. She wouldn't leave Falmouth."

"Not what I heard."

"She'd destroy their entire offense! Besides, I heard—"

The conversation continues; talk of which scouts were arriving today and the various comings and goings of the players at the exhibition. It's the Professional Quidditch equivalent of mealtime school gossip, and normally James would be as immersed in the tidbits of information as his teammates (—with the exception of Lorri, a longtime Appleby veteran, who had lost patience with the lot of them and huffed her way out of the locker room to finish her warm-ups in peace).

But James's opportunity for his first arrival, his pre-game stretch, his "good morning, good morning", had now been stolen from him. He feels the loss of the wireless like a twist in his gut, a forbidding omen. The irrational part of him takes over, quickly and nearly uncontrollably. Perhaps talking about it last night with Lily had jinxed it. Perhaps this whole day was jinxed. Greta Moors had scored the first goal. Marcie York was leaving Falmouth. Dooster's glove was missing, Lufty was one theft away from conviction, and Cliff Tufton couldn't even bother to give James a smile. All this, and James did not have so much as a single chance to hear a comforting "Slllllleeeeekeazy…!" to make it all better.

Of alldays. Of all bloody days.

He goes through the rest of his pre-game motions in a bitter daze—dons his equipment, slips on his robes, listens with half-an-ear as Lorri returns, much happier now, and Marcie finally arrives, smiling all secretively like the cat that got the cream when questioned about Holyhead. One of Lufty's bags unearths a bottle of Ogden's and he takes a shot for luck before getting dressed. James is strongly tempted to ask for one, too.

You've got good fingers, James reminds himself, even if right at that moment, the appendages in question are feeling a bit numb.

Quit being a pansy. This is ridiculous. Then: I reckon you might be a bit spectacular, James Potter.

Lily would be laughing her arse off at him right now, wouldn't she?

Spectacular, mate. You're spectacular.

It's a prayer, a mantra, and James latches on and takes hold. Spectacular people don't fall to shambles because of a bit of superstition. Spectacular people don't surrender in defeat before the battle has even begun. Spectacular people don't need luck. They're spectacular. They make their own luck.

Sllllleeeekeazy! he hums in his head, garbled and desperate. Two drops for hair to pleasy…! Dare to care and have fine haaaaiiiiirrrr…

"Oh, hey, you found it?"

James startles. Flushing red (bloody hell—he hadn'tbeen humming aloud, had he?), he turns to find Betts standing beside him.

He clears his throat. "What's that?"

"Your wireless," Betts says. "Where did you find it?"

"Find it? I…didn't." But his voice breaks on the last. He stops, blinks. For a moment, he wonders how he's speaking and singing in his head all at the same time.

Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy!

But he's not singing in his head. Not singing out loud, either (thankfully). The jingle…it's there, but it's not coming from him at all.

"…two drops for hair to pleasy! Dare to care and have fine haaaaiiiiirrrr. Make your hair potion-perfect with Sleekeazy's one-of-a-kind formula—"

What in the hell…?

"What is that?" James spins around. "Where's that coming from?"

The jingle continues.

Betts's brow furrows. "It's not yours?"

"I never found mine."

"Not mine!" Lufty calls, but he's snapping along to the advert now. "Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy, the best care for your haiiiiir! Damn, that's catchy."

The commercial ends and James is still searching. "Whose wireless is it?"

There are a few seconds of silence. Then:

"Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy, two drops for hair to pleasy!—"

The whole locker room laughs and groans.

"Someone's broken wireless, clearly," Lorri grumbles.

"I like it," Lufty proclaims. He's still snapping. "Hey, Potter—didn't your dad create this stuff?"

James nods mutely. As the jingle plays a second time, there is something in his chest, expanding, exploding.

"Hey, guys?" Betts is glancing upward. "I reckon…is that coming from the vent?"

"The vent?" Dooster is looking up now, as well. They all are. "Who the fuck would stick a broken wireless in a locker room vent?"

The advert begins to play for the third time.

"You know, Potter," Klinderson says, "if you needed money, you could just ask. Don't have to push your products on us like this."

"Caught me," James somehow manages, hoping he doesn't sound as breathless as he feels. "Anyone got a few Galleons?"

Lufty chucks a Knut at him, and Marcie punches his arm good-naturedly. Everyone begins to laugh and jibe as the advert plays over and over, like a quiet locker room soundtrack. By the seventh or eighth time, they are all groaning. They're quite lucky it's time to leave. Lorri throws something at the vent as they depart, but the advert continues to play, undeterred.

"Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy, two drops for hair to pleasy! Dare to care and have fine haaaaiiiiirrrr…!"

Spectacular, James thinks, grinning. Then he leaves the locker room.

DAY FOUR (Later)

The large, chipping wooden door wobbles in front of James.

Or—hm. Perhaps James wobbles in front of the large, chipping wooden door. One or the other. Something is wobbling. Wobbling, wobbling, wobbling. What a funny word, wobbling is. As he reaches out (wobbling) and knocks on the door (wobbling), he is just not quite certain which it is. Him or the door, that is. With the wobbling.

Wobbbbbling. He laughs.

Wobbling.

Knock knock.

Wobbbbbbbbling.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The door opens.

Light. Too much light. His good hand flies up to block it as he squints, disoriented. It is otherwise dark inside the corridor. It had been dark coming up the four flights of stairs, too. The whole building had shotty lighting—how did anyone get around? It's not quite that dark outside just yet, and it certainly hadn't been dark earlier in hospital. Regardless, it's clearly quite bright in Lily Evans's flat. James is momentarily blinded.

He finally drops his hand to find her standing on the opposite side of the door. Her. Lily. She's wearing flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized Prophet t-shirt. Her hair is wet and hangs over her shoulders. In her hand, she carries one of those Muggle fellytones, the curved end pressed up against her ear.

She looks positively mystified to see him.

James grins. "Hullo."

"Mum?"

"No, not Mum. James."

The shock quickly morphs to exasperation. "Mum, I'll have to ring you back. My stalker's just arrived." She pauses briefly. "Well, of course I'm going to let him in. What else does one do with stalkers?" An eye roll. "Yes, Mum, I'm kidding. I'll speak with you soon. Bye."

As she hangs the curved end back in the other bit, James wobbles (ha) against the doorframe. "Your mum sounds nice," he says.

"She'll call again in fifteen minutes to make sure you haven't killed me." Lily places the fellytone on a side table beside the door, then crosses her arms over her chest. "What are you doing here?"

"Hullo."

"How did you know where I live?"

"People who know people who know people." He waves a nonchalant hand. Or tries his best. Really, it's a good thing he's still leaning against the doorjamb—he wobbles (ha) with the wave. The stern curve of her mouth only makes him grin more. "Hullo."

"Yes, you've said that." Her eyes narrow. "Are you drunk?"

"No." Well, not quite. He digs in his pocket and produces the small vial the healer had given him. "This."

Lily takes it from him, squinting to read the label. "Shivren Potion?" Her eyes dart upward, gawking. "This is a sedative. An extremely strong painkiller."

"I dislocated my shoulder."

"What? When?"

"Hm?"

"When did you dislocate your shoulder?"

"Oh. Earlier."

"Earlier when? During the match?"

James nods. She hasn't invited him in—hasn't really welcomed him at all, come to think of it. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all—but he reaches out and plucks at a few strands of her wet hair, anyway. The moisture feels cool and lovely against his fingertips. She would feel cool and lovely against his fingertips.

She grabs his hand. "James. Focus. You dislocated your shoulder during the match? When did—" She sucks in a sharp breath. "Oh, hell. When you flew into the goal post?"

James nods again. Or thinks he nods. He really means to. But mostly he's just happy. She'd watched his match, just like she said.

Merlin, she's so pretty.

"James." She pulls at him. She's frowning even more now. "You dislocated your shoulder when you flew into the goal post?"

"Y -es."

"But…you played forty-five more minutes after that!"

James nods one last time, sadly. "Not well done that was, the healer said. Not well done at all." Too much nodding. It's really done a number on him. He feels a bit dizzy. The floor is spinning. Or he's spinning? "D'you reckon I can sit?" he asks.

"For the love of—get inside!" She goes to yank him in, then recoils. "Which one?"

"Hm?"

"Which shoulder?"

"Oh. Left." Immediately, she's at his side, propping herself under his right arm and being unduly careful not to jostle his left. He lets his head drop neatly atop hers as they stumble through the doorway. "Hullo," he says again.

"Idiot," she replies, and leads him toward a small, plush sofa that sits in front of an ashy fireplace. It only takes a few steps to get there. The whole flat is rather tiny, and has a hint of shabbiness to it. But she's done it up nicely with pictures and knick-knacks and lovely, homey things. The mantle is filled with mismatched picture frames—James recognises Lily in a few of the photos, but doesn't get a good look elsewise—and the sofa has two huge pillows with brightly-coloured stripes. On one wall, there are a slew of framed newspapers—perhaps Lily's articles, or maybe just favorites. James ought to ask—but he gets distracted by the coffee table before the sofa, which is filled with piles and piles of parchment.

"Is that my article?" he asks.

"Yes." She guides him onto the sofa, then quickly begins gathering up the parchment.

"Wait, I want to read it!"

"I don't reckon you could read right now if your life depended on it, mate."

"Psh-aw. Lemme try."

"It's not finished."

"Don't care. I—"

"Don't move," she warns, and her sharp tone alone is enough to have James collapsing back in his seat. He is quickly engulfed by the sofa's soft cushions, and the piles of parchment are secreted off elsewhere.

"Um." He leans his head back. Everything spins again. Bugger. Articles, articles, articles…"Er, by the by…this's all…y'know…off the record, yeah?"

There is a loud scoffing sound behind him.

"You're supposed to say that before you say or do something stupid," she informs him. She's returned with a large glass of water. She holds it out to him. "After doesn't count."

"Oh." He takes the glass, then a long, hefty gulp. "So… 'JAMES POTTER: CHASER, STALKER, CRIPPLE'?"

" 'JAMES POTTER'," she says, " 'CHASER, STALKER, LARGEST TWIT TO EVER LIVE'."

James sighs heavily. "That's what the healer said, too. Was terribly rude about it. No bedside manner at all. Ought to report her. How was I to know, anyway? Thought I was helping, snapping the stupid thing back in place and sticking on a Binding Charm on the pitch. Had a match to finish. Just the opposite, as it turns out. 'Look what you've done!' she yelled. 'Now I can't heal it until tomorrow!' Yell, yell, yell. 'What's there to heal, anyway?' I asked her. 'It's back in there now, isn't it?' Wasn't keen on those questions, let me tell you. I'd like to see her license. Honestly. So much yelling…"

He relaxes into the cushions and closes his eyes. His head is still doing slight twirls, but the wobbling (ha) is better now that he's no longer on his feet. He feels the sofa sink in as Lily sits down beside him, then feels her fingers brush along his hairline before settling on his forehead. Likely she's checking his temperature, but James relishes it like a caress.

"Why in the hell would you have kept playing if you dislocated your shoulder?" she mutters. "I didn't even realise you were hurt."

"That's the point," James says. He turns his head and blinks open his eyes. Her fingers are a cool, oasis balm. "No one did. They couldn't. Cliff Tufton."

It's explanation enough. She understands, but is still not satisfied. "Idiot."

"We won."

"I know."

"I played spectacularly."

"You almost killed yourself."

"Spectacularly."

"Hmph."

"Spectacularly."

"Fine," she concedes, exasperated but clearly amused. "Spectacularly."

Her fingers are still near his forehead, now slowly stroking his hair. Ah. An actual caress. James nestles into the motion like a needy cat, utterly shameless. In the quiet, he finally has a moment to think. Or not think. It's been ages since he could just blissfully not think, which ultimately allows for the remembrance of other blissfully significant things.

"Someone stole my wireless from my locker," he tells her. "Before the match today. Someone filched my wireless, then stuck a rigged one in the locker room vent. It played the Sleekeazy advert, over and over."

"Did it?" Her tone is casual. Unsurprised. "Fortunate for you, then."

"It doesn't count if it's on purpose."

"Doesn't it?" Her smile is rueful. "I thought you played spectacularly?"

"Was it you?"

"Was what me?"

"Lily."

"Of course it wasn't me," she answers, and for a moment, James's heart sinks with disappointment. Then, nonchalantly: "Because if I had done, that would mean I would've had to sneak into a restricted area of the exhibition, filch something from one of their star players, and vaguely tamper with the complex's ventilation system. I'd get my credentials revoked for certain. Possibly even sacked. So of course it wasn't me. Couldn't be."

"Couldn't be," James agrees, but his head is feeling light and floaty again for reasons that have nothing to do with the Shivren Potion, and he wants to kiss her. He really wants to kiss her. But he can't kiss her. It's not allowed. Not yesterday, not today. Business and pleasure, etcetera, etcetera. But he is renegade—a spectacular renegade—so he grabs her hand and kisses the back of it. Take that. Even afterward he doesn't let go, just gathers her fingers against his chest and closes his eyes once more.

He'd like to fall asleep like this. He really would.

"What am I going to do with you?" she mutters, likely rhetorically, though James can offer a few suggestions if she's open to it. "You shouldn't be here. For a hundred different reasons. You're injured. You should be resting."

"I am resting."

"On your own sofa. Doesn't the exhibition set you up in some posh hotel?"

"Stark and swotty. Everything's white. There are no pillows."

"High standards, Quidditch stars."

"Kicking me out?"

"Ought to."

"Will you?"

She hums something noncommittal. "Have you eaten?" she asks instead. "You shouldn't have that stuff in your system without any food."

James tries to think back to earlier in the day, but it's all a bit hazy and it's hard to clasp hold of moments that aren't this moment, sitting on the sofa of Lily Evans, Junior Quidditch Correspondent, with her fingers sweeping softly through his hair and the others caught against his chest and the world looking all bright and shiny. There's a vague recollection of the Yelling Healer thrusting some sustenance at him, but he's not entirely certain that actually happened. Which would mean his last meal had been…?

"Reckon I ate breakfast?" More question than answer. "Right. Breakfast?"

"Breakfast."

"Yes. Definitely."

"Fucking hell."

"Might've gotten something from the Yelling Healer," he's quick to defend. "Can't really recall. Didn't vomit anything up when I Apparated over here, in any case."

"When you—" Her fingers stop. She inhales loudly. "You Apparated like this?"

"'Course." Really, the things she asked. "How else was I meant to get here?"

The cushions shift as she rises to her feet.

"Stop talking," is what she tells him, quickly, sharply. "Please stop talking before I feel the need to murder you myself." He hears her footsteps stomping away. "Apparated over here. 'How else was I meant to get here?' Sodding mental neanderthal…"

There is the sound of cupboards opening and closing with angry enthusiasm.

A shrill ringing fills the air.

"Your fellytone," James calls.

"Telephone," she corrects. A second later, the ringing stops and Lily says, "Yes, Mum, I'm alive. Honestly."

James drifts into a light doze listening to Lily's low voice reassuring her mother that, no indeed, James has neither murdered nor mutilated her, thanks for asking. The soft timbre of her voice, the quiet sounds of her bustling around the kitchen…he tries to recall the last time he'd been with a witch like this, just two of them, doing silly mundane things. He can't. Not with anyone really, save maybe Sirius. But Sirius is never quiet or mundane. Living with him has always been a study in surviving normalised chaos.

Sirius would like Lily. Not at first, of course—Sirius never liked anyoneat first, and there was that whole "Fuck off" hurdle to overcome. She would not go quietly into the night with that one, James was certain of it—but eventually they'd get on. Remus and Peter would like her from the start. They were easily pleased, and Lily pleased easily. He should Floo them. They'd be here in a few days, of course, but…

Hm. Thinking. Too much thinking. Far too much thinking.

Eventually Lily comes back to foist some eggs and toast on him. James devours the simple fare readily, not realising until that moment just how ravenous he is. The simple act of eating causes a sharp pain in his shoulder, which means the potion is likely starting to wear off, and with it comes some lingering sense of sanity. He's in pain, and utterly knackered, and likely smells like hospital. He tells her this, and she sniffs sympathetically.

"You can shower if you'd like," she offers.

James takes another hefty bite of toast. "You're just trying to get me naked."

She snorts. "Something tells me I wouldn't have to try too hard."

James cannot argue with that. He continues to eat instead, because states of nakededness are not something he ought to be considering presently.

"Can I ask you something?" she says next.

A distraction. swallows. "No, I will not strip for you. Really, Evans. I'm injured. Have a care. Maybe tomorrow."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't play along. Her expression has gone oddly serious actually, and she regards him speculatively.

"Go on," he urges.

Her fingers begin to twirl at the ends of her hair. "Why are you here?" she asks softly, different from the first time. "You go through all this—popping joints back in, Binding Charms, furtive hospital visits—all I assume in an attempt to keep an injury secret so it doesn't get back to Puddlemere. But then you show up here. At my flat. The reporter already writing a story on you." She bites at her lower lip. "Do you…do you really trust me that much? Or was it the Shriven Potion, pulling a fast one?"

James considers the question carefully. And her. "Would you rather I say it's the second?" he asks.

Her lips press together. "Honestly? Both are a bit frightening."

She speaks the truth. So James feels he ought to, as well.

"Honestly, then? I reckon it's the first."

She takes that in with a solemn nod, as if expecting it, prepared for it. She doesn't look pleased or displeased, merely contemplative. But then, sighing heavily, she says, "Shit."

"Shit," James agrees.

They both laugh.

Reality is returning, slowly but steadily. He knows he ought to get back to the hotel and go to sleep. He ought to rise from this sofa, thank her kindly for the food and the patience and the stalking allowances, and depart like any decent (sane) wizard would do. He's known her four days (Merlin's beard—four days?), and one of the only things she's asked of him is for some space. Not even permanently. Just a few days. And what's he do? Beg her address off some spotty Prophet intern and show up at her door the very next day, dithering and damaged and decidedly uninvited.

And demented, clearly. Because she's right. He'd gone through extraneous pains to keep this bloody dislocation a secret so that Puddlemere couldn't use it as the paltry grain of salt to tip their fickle scales toward Greta Moors, and he seems to have been successful thus far. But then he shows up here, to her—a reporter's flat—and expects…what? That she'll keep mum? More, that she'll coddle and comfort and cater to his madness?

Except she has done. Not without a bit of shock and scolding, of course, but she'd let him in and looked after his damages and fed him sustenance and doesn't even seem to be particularly unhappy about it. She'd rigged up a wireless to wish him luck, but James's semi-bleary mind has since been thinking that the luckiest damn thing that's ever happened to him was getting his stupid lanyard caught on her trousers.

So he doesn't leave.

He lets her lead him into her bedroom—a space barely big enough to fit the nominal furniture, though there are mountains of homey pillows here, too. She pops into the ensuite loo and returns with a small vial of something purple, which she holds out to him.

"Tedemod Brew," she explains. "Quicker and less potent than Shivren. You can't take any more of that so soon. But this should keep away the pain and help you sleep."

"Don't need much help," James says, punctuating the admission with a wide yawn. But his shoulder is throbbing, so he takes the potion and downs it swiftly.

He feels the effect almost immediately. He blinks, and wobbles (ha).

Lily smiles and reaches out a hand to steady him. "O true apothecary. Thy drugs are quick."

"Wuz?"

She snorts and nudges him toward the bed. "We'll work on your Shakespeare in the morning."

"Shake what?" He kicks out of his trainers, stumbling otherwise fully clothed atop the coverlet. He lies on his back, staring up at her. "You sleeping?"

"It's barely gone eight, mate." She shoves his legs aside to maneuver the blanket out from beneath him, then plucks off his specs and drops them on a nightstand. "I think you and my eighty-five-year-old neighbor are the only two ready to be tucked in for the night."

Tucked in sounds nice. "Hm."

Tucked in with her sounds better.

She flicks off the light, leaving the room quiet and dark. James can already feel himself succumbing to the day, to the potion, to the daysweeksmonths of tension and indecision and the lack of a single moment of this: heavenly nothing, with the scent of warm vanilla and clean sheets around him. Nothing to do and nowhere to be and with one of the only people he can think of to share it with.

He feels the bed shift. Lily tucks herself neatly against his right side.

As their bodies intertwine, he glances down at her in the dark. "Thought you weren't sleeping?"

"I'm not." She nuzzles his neck. "You'll be asleep in three minutes. I'll leave then."

"I think I want to marry you."

"All right. Ask me in the morning."

He drops his cheek against her hair. "Okay."

Less than three minutes. It's the last thing he recalls saying before he's asleep.