Author's Note: This was written for the 2019 D/Hr Advent fest. It is a sequel to my fic "Caroled". The read order goes "Caroled" - "Merry Mark, Ministry Narc" - "Lovebirds".
Thank you to everyone who nominated me for Advent. It's always an honor to write for this fest. Thanks as well to the mods for hosting. My prompt this year was: Elf on the Shelf.
This fic is an unofficial sequel to one of my previous Advent submissions, Caroled. Though you don't have to read that fic for this one to make sense, I certainly wouldn't stop you!
Thank you to Quickhidetherum and Colubrina for their help with the first 1500 words of this fic.
Endless gratitude to my beta, eilonwy, for polishing my grammar and asking the right questions. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Merry Mark, Ministry Narc
"You're staring again."
Draco Malfoy had the good sense not to startle. He dropped his eyes to the intelligence report he should have been drafting and inked his quill. Unnecessarily: the parchment blotted as it absorbed the extra liquid, then thinned to near uselessness as Draco cast a too-strong Scourgify. He frowned.
"Gods, you're hopeless."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Draco said. He crumpled the ruined template and chucked it into his and Theodore Nott's shared wastepaper bin.
"We're still doing this?"
Draco opened his desk drawer and retrieved another form, his composure beginning to fray. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement woke slowly on Friday mornings; only a handful of people had arrived. The risk of being overheard was low, but not nonexistent.
"Nott." His tone implied warning. It might've worked on someone else, but Theo knew him too well.
"I've already lost the office pool," Theo said. "I had you and Granger going at it within three months of you starting here. You've been a spectacular disappointment on that front, by the way."
"Glad to be of service."
"But you're going on a year now. I don't even have any skin in the game—I think Weasley's closest, in fact, with his estimate of Never—but as your friend—"
"Debatable."
"—And officemate, I must insist you shag her."
"Please, keep talking," Draco said, reviewing the topmost form fields for errors. He found none. "I'm sure Human and Being Resources will love this."
"You know I'm right."
Draco set down his quill and turned to his intractable interrogator. Theo had been bringing up Draco's bachelor status with increased frequency over the past few months. If now was the time to have it out, then so be it.
"Not that it's any of your business," he snapped, "but Granger and I have an understanding."
Theo's eyebrows rose. "You've discussed this?"
Color crept into Draco's cheeks. "No," he admitted to Theo's self-satisfied smirk. In fact, he and Hermione had been dancing around each other for months. Friendly chats over lunch, coffee, or drinks—and always with a group—were as close as they'd come to a date. There was one time when Gawain Robards ducked out of a meeting early and left Draco and her to finish up together, but he wasn't sure that counted.
He followed Theo's gaze across the office. Hermione sat at her desk, bent over a piece of parchment. Her quill followed the lines, darting down to slash, scribble, and scrawl in bright red ink. Her shoulders were up near her ears; she always tensed when she reviewed someone else's work. As the department's sole Compliance Officer, this was a daily occurrence.
He had long entertained a fantasy of coming up behind her, setting his hands on her shoulders, and pressing. He imagined her relaxing under his touch, melting into the warmth of his hands, and looking up at him with a grateful smile. Like she didn't know how she could manage without him.
He sighed, his eyes drifting to her navy-blue pencil skirt and matching pair of high-heeled shoes. Her feet were crossed, and one shoe dangled delightfully off her toes, bouncing in a rhythmless pattern as she made her corrections.
"Disgusting," Theo noted. "You ought to be ashamed."
Draco tore his gaze away from her. "It never seems to be the right time," he confessed. "It wouldn't have worked when I started here. It was too soon, and I wanted to focus on my work. Then I had trips abroad almost all summer, and she was tied up in that Internal Affairs inspection from September to October. Now it's Christmas."
Theo gave him an incredulous look. "It's December first."
"The holidays are always difficult, with family obligations and time off..."
"Her family doesn't remember her. They're in Australia, clueless to the fact that they even have a daughter."
"That wasn't her fault!"
Theo raised his hands, placating. "Not saying it was. But for her, family isn't a concern."
"There's the Weasleys—"
"No relation."
"Like family," Draco countered. "Potter, too. And then there's my family to consider. Mother might not care, but Father?"
Theo scowled. "Who gives a damn? He's in Azkaban for the next decade."
"It's not that simple."
"No, Malfoy, it is. You fancy this girl, and she at least tolerates you. You've got nothing to lose, everything to gain, and if you don't go after her, I just might."
Draco's glare was sharp and immediate. "Come again?"
Theo leaned close, his grin a clear threat. "I've known her for longer. We're friendly. My intel reports are just as flawless as yours."
"Unlikely."
"If redemption is her kink, I've got that covered, too: just another Slytherin boy with a troubled past and a complicated family. I'd even dye my hair blond."
"Nott, I swear to Circe—"
But what he swore would forever be a secret as Hermione straightened. She reached her arms overhead in a stretch, eased her dangling shoe back onto her foot, and crossed the office to the kitchenette, hips swaying with each step.
"She didn't always wear heels, you know."
Draco shot him another glare.
"Morning tea time," Theo said, nudging at his shin. "Go get her, mate."
"Nott—"
Theo drew and cast. Draco gasped as his chair disappeared, sharp pain shooting up his rear as he landed on the thinly carpeted floor.
"You get your chair back after you talk to her." Theo flicked his wand toward the kitchenette. A flashing, neon arrow appeared, pointing the way.
Draco picked himself up and dusted off his robes. "You're an arse."
"You'll thank me later."
Draco scowled but headed toward the kitchenette. As much as he wanted to ignore it, logic laced Theo's threats. Draco's life had assumed a comfortable routine. His role in the Investigation Department, where he worked with the Aurors to track and monitor dark wizards and witches across the world, brought challenges and uncertainties, but he could handle those. He'd proven it. Maybe it was time to introduce a new variable into the balanced equation of his every day.
His fledgling plans for casual conversation faded once he crossed the kitchenette's threshold. Hermione stood with her arms crossed and her brow furrowed, staring at the top of the communal refrigerator. What he saw unsettled him.
The being appeared to be constructed of red felt and stuffing. It sat with its legs crossed and its white-gloved hands resting upon the thin hinges of its knees, its pose expectant, maybe a little impatient. Its pinched smile, rouged cheeks, and bright, blue eyes were undoubtedly intended to give it an air of innocence, but to Draco, the poppet's side-eyed glance looked scheming. Puckish. Like it knew a secret and would reveal it unless the proper tithe was paid.
Draco joined Hermione before the refrigerator.
"What is it?" he asked.
A poster appeared on the adjacent wall. On it, a horizontal line hashed with regular tick marks, the left end labeled Naughty and the right end labeled Nice. As they watched, two icons about the size of Draco's thumbnail materialized at the scale's center. One was a book with a red cover. The other, a rather pointy snowflake.
Hermione leaned closer and muttered, "What the hell?" The book icon moved a tick to the left. "Hey!" She shot a glare up at the elf. Draco made the connection with a creeping sense of dread. He turned away from the elf and busied himself with the kettle. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.
"Fancy a cuppa, Granger?"
"This is outrageous."
Despite himself, Draco turned to look: his snowflake had drifted toward Nice. His stomach sank.
"Best not to worry about it," he said, too loud and cheery for the small space.
"Why are we the only ones on it?"
"Maybe we're the only ones it's seen?"
She frowned, then brushed past him, exiting the kitchenette. A chill crawled down his spine as he felt the elf's dead eyes boring into the back of his skull, watching and judging. He kept his thoughts to himself as the tea steeped and straightened from his lean against the counter as the click of Hermione's heels grew closer. He was ready with small talk when she reappeared, but the opener died on his lips when he realized whom she had brought.
"Potter," he said with a terse nod.
"Malfoy."
"Ah ha!" A gold lightning bolt appeared at the scale's midpoint. Hermione rolled her eyes. "How original."
Harry removed his glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his robe, still half asleep. "It appeared this morning?"
Hermione nodded.
"Probably not Dark magic," he said.
Draco suppressed a snort.
"Anyway, don't touch it. I'll ask Robards. Maybe he's heard something."
"What do we do until then?" Hermione asked.
Harry shrugged. "Be nice?"
"Tea, Potter?" Draco asked.
"Please."
Both the snowflake and the lightning bolt moved to the right. Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation.
"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," she said, storming from the kitchenette once more. Awkward silence hung between Draco and Harry.
"Weird morning," Harry noted.
Draco made an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, searching for a way out. His gaze landed on Hermione's mug. "Ah, she forgot her tea. I'll bring it to her." His snowflake moved another tick toward Nice.
Hermione wasn't at her desk, so Draco left the mug under a warming charm and lost himself in the Friday bustle.
By early afternoon, the office buzzed with the elf's presence. Already, its limitations had been defined. It only judged what it could see and hear; actions performed outside of its range were not counted. Good deeds, like being polite, tidy, or helpful, were rewarded with movement toward Nice. Bad behavior, which so far included swearing, leaving one's dishes in the sink, and participating in office gossip, resulted in the offender's icon moving toward Naughty. Theo, who had always been suspicious of corporate incentives, vowed to remain true neutral throughout the elf's office occupation.
Near the day's end, Hermione reappeared, cheeks pink and wind-bitten. She dropped a book on his desk.
"The Elf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tradition," he read aloud. He flipped through the pages, the watercolor illustrations bright against the white backing. "I've never heard of it."
"Because it's not a tradition. It started a year ago." She paused, letting the tension build, then laid the metaphorical gauntlet: "It's used to manipulate children."
Draco looked up at her, fighting a smile. Righteous indignation was a familiar and attractive look on her, but this felt like a stretch. Maybe she heard it, too.
"Parents tell their children that the elf is watching them, and that it reports their behavior back to Santa. It's extortion: good behavior for more gifts."
"Isn't that how Christmas has always worked?"
"It's never been so explicit."
"I've heard a few carols that indicate otherwise."
She waved his argument away. "Those are just songs. This is a physical object that children believe is real. The parents are supposed to move it every day to trick the children into thinking it moved on its own. This creates an environment of paranoia and fear, which can lead to childhood anxiety. Further, it encourages a link between good behavior and extrinsic reward—i.e, more presents—instead of intrinsic reward."
"Instead of being good for goodness' sake, you mean?" She glared at him; he set the book down and leaned back in his chair. "It's a game, Granger. A silly office prank."
"It's a subjective measure of perceived friendliness, which is inappropriate for the workplace." She placed her hands on his desk and leaned in with a tight, conspiratorial grin. "And guess who's responsible for its implementation?"
He didn't need to guess. He already knew.
Color high on her cheeks, she straightened. Draco lunged as she walked away, his fingers brushing the back of her arm. "Wait! Granger, don't—"
She whipped around. "Don't?"
Draco swallowed thickly and glanced around the office. At five p.m. on a Friday, their workplace was close to empty. No one would witness his disembowelment. He couldn't decide if that was a good thing.
"Remember last year?" he asked.
The humiliation Draco had suffered during his first month at the Ministry, when their department's overzealous Administrative Assistant had taken it upon herself to indoctrinate him with her distinct version of holiday cheer, had also been the starting point of his and Hermione's friendship. He waited until her expression softened before continuing.
"It won't stop her. In fact, it might make things worse."
"What's the alternative? We all just deal with it?"
Before he could answer, a collation of flying memos sped across the office, making sloppy, skidding landings across desks, toppling parchment pyramids, and disappearing under chairs. Draco snatched his from midair, just before its sharp point pecked his forehead. He unfolded the parchment and read it aloud.
"My dearest friends and colleagues—" Hermione barked a laugh. "By now, you will all have met my new friend, Merry Mark. Merry Mark is a special ambassador from the North Pole, and he is here on a Top Secret Assignment. To make Merry Mark's mission a masterpiece, we must maintain a mirthful and magnanimous mood. I know we are all up to the task! Signed…"
"Carol." Hermione practically spat the name. "Merry Mark… More like Mark the Narc."
"It's just until Christmas."
She leaned a hip on his desk. "I know, but it's only been a day and I'm already halfway to naughty."
"You had a rough start," Draco acknowledged. "You've got three weeks to redeem yourself."
"I can do it," she said, talking more to herself than to him. "Thanks."
Only when she had walked away did Draco realize that he had missed the perfect opportunity to ask her out, using the safe and unassuming guise of strategizing her comeback over drinks.
He put his face into his hands and groaned. Theo was right: Draco really was hopeless.
The office had taken to the elf's challenge of good behavior with malicious compliance. His colleagues had made a game of excessive joy and goodwill whenever they were in Merry Mark's sight line, sending their tokens soaring toward Nice and forcing the poster, which traveled with the elf, to extend its reach around corners and across cubicle walls.
Draco watched, fascinated, as Hermione's bad luck persisted. The elf knocked her for correcting the grammar on Ron's draft field report (too nitpicky, was the working theory for her penalty), answering a question that had been originally posed to Harry (too nosey, with a consensus vote), and quoting the department's Peacekeeping Procedure when Jerry O'Riordan had made an inappropriate joke within her earshot (here, a tie between overly bureaucratic and know-it-all).
His judgments were taking a toll. Hermione had become twitchy and paranoid, prone to looking over her shoulder even when Merry Mark was nowhere nearby. One day, the elf had been placed on a supply cabinet near her desk, and both Draco and Theo had watched as her productivity plummeted. Her quill, instead of moving with its steady, sweeping grace, staggered staccato over the draft report, her attention split between her work and the stuffed overlord.
Determined to remain neutral, Theo declined to interfere, but Draco did what he could to help. With a week until Christmas, there was still plenty of opportunity for Hermione's score to sink or rise. For the former, Draco ran interference, making sure she avoided the elf. For the latter, he arranged some indisputably Nice moments where Merry Mark was sure to see.
Though he was now reasonably confident he could get her past neutral, the effort was not without cost.
Draco prodded the kettle with his wand, the motion petulant and sharp. His first heating charm hadn't worked; it was too bloody early for magic, even if it resulted in a mug of strong, black tea. He thought he would've grown accustomed to the earlier-than-normal rise time by now—he'd been beating Hermione to the office for a solid week, after all—but it seemed that his body, like his magic, refused to function properly in the morning.
"Good morning, D—"
He held out his hand, palm up, and sighed: he hadn't even heard her coming.
"He's in here today." Draco nodded to the refrigerator. She stepped out of the kitchenette's threshold and hid around the corner, out of Merry Mark's sight line. "Fancy a go at raising your score?"
"Be hard for it to get much lower," she groused. "But sure. Tell me when."
He kept his palm raised until the kettle began to whistle, then motioned her forward.
"Good morning, Draco!" she said, voice bright and dripping with cheer.
A measured, "Morning," was all he could manage.
"May I have some tea, please?"
"Of course."
She passed her mug. Draco added a sachet of English Breakfast and a single sugar cube without asking.
"You know exactly how I like it," she said, pressing a grateful hand to his forearm. Her touch warmed him more than tea ever could, and his prickly morning mood softened. "You're the best tea brewer we have."
Draco breathed a small laugh—what a compliment—and glanced at the poster. Her book icon, which had grown tattered and stained from its journey toward Naughty, twitched to the right. Their eyes met, and she took a half step closer.
"I appreciate what you've been doing over the past week," she said, voice dropping low.
Draco's heartbeat quickened. "What do you mean?"
"You never come in this early," Hermione said with a smile. "I've noticed. And you've been helping with the red menace." She gave his arm a grateful squeeze, her eyes soft with sincerity. "Thank you."
"You're on your own next week, unfortunately. I'm traveling until Friday."
"Woe is you," Hermione said, bringing her hand to her forehead and fluttering her eyes, like a woman with the vapors. "Wined and dined in Italy: the tragic life of a Ministry spy."
Draco handed off her tea. "I prefer the term detective. Think you'll be able to manage without me?"
Her joking expression fell, replaced by what looked to Draco like genuine concern. "I don't know. The only time I've been able to raise my score is when I'm with you. Whenever I'm alone, it all goes to shi—Shiitake mushrooms."
They looked at the poster, but the tattered book icon remained in place, the penalty for swearing successfully avoided.
Hermione sighed. "See? I'm not used to being surveilled. I can't deal with having to look over my shoulder and worry about how my work and interactions with other people are going to be perceived."
Having been under surveillance for most of his Sixth and Seventh years, Draco knew only too well the pressure and paranoia she felt.
"Fancy another try?"
Her expression brightened at the challenge. "Sure."
"I'll start this time." Draco cleared his throat and spoke clearly. "Thanks for returning that intel report draft. I appreciate your quick turnaround time."
"No problem," she replied, enunciating just as carefully. "You always take such care in your work that my reviews are easy. You're very good at your job."
Both of their icons moved toward Nice, and they shared a smile.
"See, Granger?" he said, following her out of the kitchenette. "There's hope for you yet."
After four days of briefings, subterfuge, and interviews, Draco returned to England brimming with information and stuffed with pasta. He collapsed into his chair and withdrew a blank intelligence report form from his desk drawer. He had completed the report's top few lines when Theo set a mug of steaming tea before him.
"Welcome back," Theo said, taking his seat.
Draco took a sip. The tea was strong, bitter, and just what he needed after a week of nothing but espresso and cappuccino. "How was your week?" Draco asked.
"Mine was fine." The way Theo said it gave Draco a sinking feeling.
"What happened?"
"Bloody big row between Granger and Jerry O'Riordan. O'Riordan and Fischer raided an unaccredited potions manufacturer that was running a side business of synthetic opiate production. They submitted their draft report for review, and Granger had some pointed questions on O'Riordan's use of force."
Draco grimaced. Jerry was a local field agent and, though he got the job done, he'd never much cared about how.
"Mark the Narc was in the conference room that day," Theo continued. "Knocked both of them down, but Granger had more to lose."
"When did it happen?"
"Wednesday."
Just two days ago. Draco took another swallow of tea.
"She okay?"
Theo shrugged. "She's been quiet." Draco frowned; quiet was a bad sign. "You can comfort her at the potluck this afternoon."
Draco settled himself with a sigh; there was nothing he could do for Hermione, at present. Best to just focus on filing his report and hope that she had developed a sudden apathy toward Merry Mark's scoring system.
At fifteen minutes to noon, as his colleagues began migrating to the largest conference room with dishes covered by charmed silver cloches, both Draco and Theo called it quits. They joined the trickle and assumed positions near the eggnog, pointedly looking elsewhere as Weasley tipped a bottle of rum into the bowl. The ginger was good for something, after all.
Theo nudged Draco's elbow and nodded toward the door. Merry Mark sat on a side table in his usual, uppity pose, the poster with the current scores pasted across the long wall facing the food. Hermione's book icon, commensurate with its place on the Naughty/Nice continuum, had seen better days. The red cover was so stained that it looked brown, and its once crisp, sharp corners were dented and worn. The icon was very near Naughty, and the lowest ranked by a wide margin. Draco's was just north of neutral, and Theo—as promised—had maintained his status of true neutral for the entire three weeks. Potter's lightning bolt was the only icon that occupied true Nice.
Figured.
Carol, who had dressed to match Merry Mark in a too-snug red dress with white trim at the collar and cuffs, clapped her hands together, drawing the crowd's attention. "Welcome, everyone, to our non-denominational holiday potluck event! This year's theme was Our Holiday Traditions, and we requested that you bring in a dish that has special meaning in your family. One by one, I'll ask you to come forward and reveal your dish. Please tell us what it is and why it's so special to you."
For the next ten minutes, the woman gushed over gyoza, praised an obviously store-bought fruit salad, and lauded the offering of homemade pork tamales. Hermione, Draco noticed, stood at the very end of the line. The furrow of her brow deepened as her brown eyes flicked between Merry Mark and the ranking poster. She looked calculating, and after watching three people explain their dishes, Draco understood why. Everyone who participated in the potluck event saw their Nice score increase, but there was a catch: the more heartfelt the story, the more precipitous the rise.
Finally, Hermione stepped forward.
"Everyone here knows what happened to my parents," she started. Her words sucked the air from the room. Hers was a cautionary tale: an Obliviation, cast in desperation by a young witch who had just wanted to protect her parents; a post-war trip to Australia with an expert from the Ministry's Memory Modification Department; the return of two where there should have been four, and the publishing of a needlessly cruel column by Rita Skeeter: Hermione Granger's Biggest Mistake: Arrogance, Obliviation, and the Erasure of Two Lives.
"While I was in Australia, when it looked like we weren't going to be able to reverse the charms, I snuck into my parents' house late one night while they were asleep. My mother…" She dropped her eyes, a sad smile crossing her lips. "My mother is a wonderful baker. She likes the precision of it—how one mismeasurement could ruin a rise or change the texture of a dish. I grew up learning to bake at her elbow. I know all of her tricks. But there was one treat she always made alone, like a personal tradition. It was a complicated recipe, with lots of steps and ingredients, and it took about three weeks to make it properly. She could have used the extra set of hands, but she always refused. This was something she did for us, for my father and me. A gift from her heart and hands. To honor her memory, I've brought it to share today."
She lifted the cloche and revealed a bundt-shaped cake. But this cake was… Wrong. It was lumpy and misshapen, without frosting, bright colors, or apparent gustatory appeal. Its dark, unappetizing brown color made it look overcooked, and even from his spot across the room, Draco could smell its brandy miasma like a cloud of too-strong perfume.
"Homemade fruitcake," she said, with another soft smile. "My family tradition."
She scanned the room, her eyes catching the poster at Draco's right. Her jaw dropped. The elf, apparently disgusted by Hermione's offering, had judged it in kind. Hermione's beaten book traveled another two ticks toward Naughty.
He looked back at her, eyes wide, but could do nothing to further delay the inevitable.
Hermione withdrew her wand from its forearm holster with a flick of her wrist. With weeks of frustration and unfair judgment burning like fire behind her eyes, she aimed and cast. Potluck attendees sidled out of the way. Shouts of surprise and fear created a cacophony in the crowded room, but nothing could drown out the ear-ringing explosion of the hex striking Merry Mark's chest. The corner lit up orange as fire consumed the poppet's felt exterior and poly-blend innards. Before the last scraps of him had burned to mere carbon, Hermione's book transfigured into a skull and crossbones.
She was now, officially, Naughty.
"Why, I never!" Carol stood with arms akimbo and glared at Hermione, who stowed her wand up her sleeve.
"That thing had no place in the office," she said with forced calm. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
The group watched in silence as she left the room. Draco downed what remained of his spiked eggnog, shoved the empty glass into Nott's hand, and hurried after her.
"Hermione?"
She fast-walked down the corridor, stride and speed limited by the height of her heel and the give in her skirt.
"Sod off!" she yelled over her shoulder.
He jogged down the hall and caught her by the arm. "Hey—"
She wrenched out of his grasp. "You think I don't know what they're saying about me? How I'm not Nice, and that bloody elf proved it?"
Draco looked behind him. A few heads had poked out of the conference room, eager for a show. He put a hand at her back to usher her somewhere a little more private. The kitchenette was closest. He locked and soundproofed the door, just like she had done for him almost exactly one year ago.
He leaned against the counter. "Go ahead."
Instead of shouting, Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to hold herself together. "That elf doesn't know me," she said. "I'm not a bad person, I'm not—"
She trailed off as Draco crossed the kitchenette. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her shining eyes.
"You are not a bad person. In fact, you're a good person. Quite possibly the best person, and I say that as a man without bias."
A smile cracked her miserable expression. "No bias at all?"
He grinned. "Maybe a little." Without thinking too much about it, he moved a hand to her face, cupping her cheek with his palm. "Merry Mark was yet another one of Carol's poorly conceived holiday ideas. That poster doesn't mean anything."
"But I came in last." Her voice was small; she looked on the verge of tears.
"Someone had to." She stiffened under his touch. Draco quickly amended: "It could've been me. It just happened that Merry Mark wasn't around when I was being a dick to Weasley or sniping at Nott. It was luck. Bad luck," he allowed as her eyes narrowed. "No one in this place thinks less of you for it, and who gives a shite if they do? You're Hermione Granger. You're above their judgments, and those of a bored old bat whose only joy in life is torturing her coworkers."
She nodded. He let go as she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "I know, I know… It's just that, every time I saw that damned book slide toward 'naughty,' I…" She groaned and looked back up at him. "You're right," she said. "You're right, and I'm fine, and I'm sorry about all this. The holidays are always hard for me, and this just felt like…. I just didn't need this, on top of everything."
He took her hand. "I understand, and I'm sorry that this month has been hard for you." He let the sincerity hang for a moment, then cracked a devious grin. "But I have an idea. I have a large back garden, several bottles of whiskey, and a truly obscene fortune at my disposal. How about we get out of here, buy all the Merry Marks we can, and practice our aim?"
She gave him a considering look. "Leaving work early to explode a children's toy… That doesn't sound very nice."
He took a deep breath for courage and leaned in close, a suggestive grin playing across his lips. "I can think of no one else I'd rather be naughty with."
"That sounds like a promise." She swayed close. The front of her sweater brushed against his chest, and she looked up at him with a saucy grin. "And it's about bloody time."
The End