19
[AN: hello! before anything else, this is messy, and kind of ends abruptly, so be prepared for that. i asked for jily prompts on tumblr a bit ago (two months ago?) and i got a "they keep meeting in the same elevator and one of them keeps making the dumbest, most ridiculous small talk" prompt from alex-ithymia on tumblr, among others. i was just writing a short drabble, but as usual, i got carried away. another one asked for a "confessions somewhere where they are trapped" fic or something along those lines from someone else (i lost your message or the note was deleted i'm so sorry!). the second prompt i sort of have already done in the fic constant, which i wrote years ago and is still on my profile here, but i might make a part 2 of this fic and incorporate that kind of scene again, only in an elevator... fine, i already have definitely thought of a scene like that that's connected to this fic, and there are already parts written. that might follow. i'm super busy and things are cooking so slowly fic-wise and i'm sorry! i'm publishing this just so i'd have something out. how have you guys been?!]
15th floor. The doors open, she steps in, the doors close.
It's only a little past 4 AM, and the air conditioning isn't even on yet. Just in the lobby, maybe. The place is more or less deserted; he passed by two janitors on his way up, and then by Dorcas, who seems to perpetually be around. She was cross-legged and asleep on the floor in front of the Starbucks branch she works in, already (or still?) in her uniform. James wonders how many others are in the building at the moment. The first time he found himself here this early, he thought he was special or some shit.
It's the view. This early, it's a quiet sort of stirring dark. At dusk, see, the traffic is horrible. The triangle park's bustle hums all the way to the penthouse. The lights are erratic. At dawn, the city just… breathes. Awake, but stays put in its bed of dying stars and unheeded traffic lights. Just a few more minutes. Just until the sun rises. He discovered all this, waking up in the penthouse at 4 AM a few months ago, hungover as all flying fucks. Also with no memory whatsoever of what happened the night before, but he skips that part when he tells the story.
Head pounding, muscles sluggish, cheek squished and spectacles lopsided against the glass between him and plummeting to sure death, he looked down at the lattice of fire trees and used-to-be-runways high streets, and saw the city as — as soft — as it had never been in his entire life thus far. None of the wasp-hum of the evening. A different kind of hum. A lullaby.
And that inspired him. 'Course, it was hell even just getting up then, much more trying to get the words straight. But it was there. The melody. The instruments. The beats. It was all there in the time, in that exact space of cold floor, that exact spot by the window. It was impossible to be awake and just ignore it. That song became the next big hit for the Marauders after so many stale productions, and last week they received their biggest annual music show award yet.
Now here he is, getting over the shock of the elevator stopping on the 15th floor, trying not to gawk at this red-headed girl.
He's wearing headphones, she's wearing her own pair of earbuds as well, so he doesn't say anything.
He thinks she might have been crying. Before he can decide whether or not to say anything, it's the 19th floor already, and she's getting off.
He doesn't see her until exactly a week after. Thursday, same time, same floor. The song — sorry, The Song — is almost halfway done by now.
This time she says something. He's wearing his headphones again (he almost always is, although he was immediately distracted by her entrance and is barely listening to the demo now), so he doesn't hear. He removes them. "Sorry?" he says, talking to her reflection on the closed doors.
"I love the Smiths." She has a funny expression on her face. "You have good taste in music."
"Er, this isn't…"
She steps out onto the 19th with a smile that's a sigh away from a giggle.
"She doesn't know you?" Sirius asks, sprawled on the couch. He sounded genuinely confused, which is some semblance of interest, even if his eyes don't leave his phone screen.
"She didn't seem to."
"I doubt that." Remus's scratchy laptop-voice asks. The screen is still frozen on him drinking from his Gryffindor mug. "She said she loved the Smiths?"
"Yeah."
"You were both in a lift. You were listening to the demo — like, headphones, yeah? And then she says, just out of the blue, that she loves the Smiths."
"Yes, yes, and yes, and how is that relevant," deadpans James.
"500 Days!" exclaims Peter from the kitchen. The microwave dings.
"That's what I was gonna say," says pixelated Remus on the screen, moving now, albeit still sluggishly.
"What?"
"Oh, yeah," says Sirius in understanding. And then he frowns again. "Weirdo."
"500 days?"
"Yeah. The movie!" says Peter, walking in and joining them in the living room with a giant bowl overflowing with cheese popcorn. He plops down to the floor beside James. Some of the popcorn spill over onto the floor in the commotion, and Peter promptly picks the piece nearest to him and eats it without ceremony. Remus sips from his mug again, although in reality he probably did this a couple minutes ago and their shitty Internet connection is just catching up. Sirius is staring at the telly now, his fingers idly flipping his phone around in his hand. The television is still paused on the title credits of Marlene's new movie though. There is silence, comfortable and unminded, save for Peter's content munching. James cranes his neck to look at Sirius. Sirius meets his eye and says at once, "No, James, we are not watching 500 Days of fucking Summer."
James takes a piece of popcorn and throws it at Sirius's face. Sirius catches it with his mouth without problem.
"Fine," says James.
He watches it anyway, when everyone else is asleep. I love the Smiths, Zooey Deschanel says, and James smiles like an idiot.
On the 14th floor, he removes his headphones, just in case.
On the 15th, she steps in. She smiles.
He just goes for it: "So, er… Did everyone call you anal girl in college?"
She doesn't respond, but only because she's laughing so much. She stumbles a little on her way out, stays there, just there outside the lift, grinning at him till the doors close. He thinks she tried to chase the doors closing with a "thanks", but he can't be sure.
"What's your name?" It is Thursday again, and they are here again. There are so many other things to ask, but there is only so much time between the 15th and the 19th floors. He's got to to prioritize.
She's expectedly taken aback.
James holds out a hand. "I'm—"
"I know who you are," she says.
"Oh, you do?"
"Of course, I do. I've got a telly."
"Just — you know, I assumed, because—"
"Because I wasn't throwing myself at your feet?"
"No! No, no. No, that's not—" He drops his hand. He raises it again, to rub the skin beneath his wristwatch on the other. "Sorry."
To his great surprise, she stands on her toes and ruffles his hair. The distinct, corporate lift bell sounds, and the door opens. "Always wanted to do that," she says. "See you around, Potter."
He doesn't know if he's more enchanted or weirded out, and he can't write anything for The Song until the sun sets later that day.
"So she does know you," says Remus. Not pixelated this time. They are all in the flat for once. Peter has a bowl of popcorn again.
"Of course she knows him," says Sirius. "Who doesn't know us?"
"I legit thought she didn't," says James.
"She's being such a manic pixie dream girl," says Sirius.
"You think all girls are being manic pixie dream girls," says Remus.
"Well, this one especially."
"Maybe she's just weird," says Peter.
"I like weird," says James.
"What if she's a serial killer?" suggests Sirius, after some thought.
"A manic pixie dream girl who's a serial killer," deadpans Remus.
"Yeah, like… She goes after superstars. Lures them in with elevator… weirdness."
"Stop reading Tarry Bean," says James.
"I'm just sayin'," says Sirius.
"She's not a serial killer."
"She ruffled your hair."
"So? It was cute."
"Maybe her name is Ruffles," muses Peter.
The other three stare at him.
He swallows his food in haste. "You ask her her name, she ruffles your hair."
Just — incredulity. Over cheese popcorn.
"Or Muss," says Remus at length. "Maybe her name is Muss."
"Or Tousle," puts in Sirius. "Pronounced tooz-lay. Maybe she's French."
They all look expectantly at James. He rolls his eyes, sighs, but also, "Dishevel. And you three are useless idiots."
"My friends think your name is Ruffles."
She raises an eyebrow at his reflection. They seem to talk only through reflections here. "Why?"
"Because — well, because they're crazy."
"Ha. The whole country knows that."
"How do you know I mean the rest of the group?"
"How do you know I meant the rest of your group?"
"No, seriously. What's your name?"
The elevator dings. "Nine."
"Nine?"
"Yep." She's leaving again.
Nine. Fine. Okay. Maybe it's not fake. Maybe it's just — she's weird, right, so maybe that's just her name. "Nine what?"
"Teen," she says, amused. And then the doors are closed.
Right. James looks at the floor indicator and watches it change from 19 to 20. There goes Nine Teen then.
"Okay, why didn't you just follow her?" asks Sirius.
"I don't know." It did occur to him. It did. "It feels like… like if I go after her on that floor, we stop being strangers on the lift."
"What's bad about that?"
"I don't know," he says again. "Failure lies beyond the elevator doors."
"Failure lies in bed in a red hoodie, and his name is James Potter."
"I'm in the kitchen making pesto."
"I don't care." A pause. "Actually, yes, would you leave some for me?"
James rolls his eyes. "There'll be some in the fridge when you get home."
"Thanks." Someone comes to talk to Sirius just then, and James waits for them to finish. There's the sound of a car pulling up, its door opening and closing, greetings, instructions… Three minutes later: "Hello?"
"Yep."
"Right. Seriously, mate, just follow her out, see what she does there at 4 goddamn AM —what's even on that floor?"
"Oh." Now that never occurred to him. He drops the ladle and pulls out his phone. Moments later, a frown has found itself on his face. "The Dungeons."
It's like he can hear one of Sirius's eyebrows shoot up. "Slytherins?"
"Apparently."
"She's a Slytherin?"
"I mean, she can't be."
"You have a crush on a Slytherin?"
"Hey, they're not all that bad. You come from a family of Slytherins."
"My family is rotten."
"Regulus isn't."
"My family is rotten." Like he hasn't heard.
"Andromeda," says James, mildly exasperated.
"Except her."
"Jeanne Marchbanks."
"Prongs, shagging someone does not unrot—"
"Unrot is not a word, Jeanne is not rotten, and the longest relationship you have ever had with anyone that was not me or a leather jacket was with Gabriel Greengrass, who was — wait, I'm forgetting? Remind me? What was Gab's house in Hogwarts?"
"We were together after Hogwarts. Technically, he wasn't—"
"You're saying you're not Gryffindor anymore?"
"Fuck you very much, Prongs."
"You're most welcome."
"Still. Even if elevator girl were a decent Slytherin, she works in The Dungeons."
"Yeah… Yeah, that might be a problem."
"What if… hey, what if they're spying on you? On us?" Sirius pauses. "You haven't let her listen to any of the demos, have you?"
"No, I'm not stupid." God, he totally would have though. If she'd asked. God.
"You would have if she'd asked," says Sirius. Not an accusation; more a proud, confident claim that he knows James more than anyone, really.
James doesn't say anything, but his admission crackles louder than the static.
"Alright, that's it," concludes Sirius. "You're going. Next time you see her, you're following her out — actually, just never talk to her again."
The thought of that rouses a protest from every part of James. "Come on, she can't be—"
"The Dungeons! Prongs, remember the last time they fucked us over? Is this girl worth that? You met her like three seconds ago."
Is she worth it? No… Well. Yes? Kind of? A little. No! That's crazy. Like, properly bonkers. Even for you.
"Prongs," presses Sirius.
James sighs. "Alright."
to be continued (most probably)