This is a Gift (sadly not an auction gift, just a gift!) for Bex/DobbyRocksSocks because she fuelled this with her disgust for Marmite, and I am nothing of not diligent in my rebuttal. I hope you like it, Bex!
A/N: Kingsley and Harry are all grown up in this, so if anyone has anything to say, no you do not. Warning for possibly one swear? Who knows! Otherwise, it is very soft.
Auction: Day 12, Auction 4: (Character) Kingsley Shacklebolt.
There's nothing Kingsley loves better than the sound of Harry shuffling down the hallway towards him. But it's a little less loveable when it's paired with the most disgusted look known to mankind, and an offended little grunt.
"What's that?" Harry croaks.
"What's what?"
Harry squints, but evidently forming words is too hard at this hour. He rubs his eyes on the sleeve of Kingsley's jumper and mumbles something indecipherable.
It was a good jumper when Kingsley bought it from an expensive Italian boutique, exquisitely soft and tailored to fit him perfectly. What can he say? He likes to indulge. Now it's stretched out and a little worn from wear thanks to Harry's tendency towards theft, but Kingsley thinks it looks better this way. He'd gladly pay double the original price.
"Good morning to you too," Kingsley says, lifting his toast in greeting when no further explanation appears forthcoming. "There's coffee."
Harry grunts again, slouching his way across the kitchen. He leans up to press a distracted kiss against Kingsley's mouth, catching the corner. With the coffee in sight, he's largely useless until his fifth sip, at the very least. Fifth cup on a bad day. Kingsley eats his first slice of toast diligently, leaning back against the counter while Harry yawns and scratches his stubbly jaw.
"Work called while you were asleep," Kingsley says, when he thinks Harry is a little more alive. "There's no breakthrough in your case, but Weasley's taking charge of it for the day, so there might be news when you get in tomorrow."
"You can call him Ron, you know," Harry says, playing idly with the teaspoon. "You beat him at chess. I think that puts you on a first name basis."
"Not while we're discussing work."
"We're not at work though," Harry says, catching his eye, a glint of humour lingering there. "We're at home. Eating breakfast. Nothing to do with work."
At home. It sends a little jolt through Kingsley's chest. Not that this is new, but it isn't old yet either. It hasn't been worked into the ground like elephant paths through the city. There's still time, but every reminder that they're moving forward, steady and slow, makes his heart trip over its own beating feet.
"Coffee isn't breakfast," Kingsley says, reaching for his last slice of toast. "I'll make you something if you're good."
"I'm always good," Harry says, but he's distracted, frowning at Kingsley's hand. "What is that? You never answered me."
Kingsley glances at the toast, but there's nothing untoward there. "Toast. You make it with bread. I can teach you if you like, but it's a pretty simple recipe."
"Not that." Harry lifts his mug, wrinkling his nose. "That."
That can only be Marmite. Kingsley forgot, in his soft morning haze of affection, that Harry has some kind of personal grudge against the condiment. He chuckles, taking a neat bite and savouring the taste.
"Is that why you looked so disgusted with me?"
"Not with you," Harry denies, still scrunching up his face. "Just your breakfast habits."
"I take it you don't want Marmite on your toast this morning?"
Museums famously display beautiful expressions of art, or moving tributes to science and history. Personally, Kingsley thinks there is some specific artistic flair to Harry's revolted expression that makes it worthy of a museum display case.
"I don't know how you can eat that stuff. It's disgusting."
"You're just a fussy eater."
Harry snorts around a long gulp of coffee. "I grew up eating leftovers and table scraps. You could put a plate of shoes in front of me and I'd probably eat it."
Cool, clinical rage settles in Kingsley's stomach. He wants to say something scathing, but Harry hates any conversation revolving around his childhood. He can't quite separate Kingsley's righteous anger on his behalf from pity. He can't see Kingsley's love through his own shame. It is better, for now, to shift the focus away, as much as it grates on him to do so.
"Fussy isn't the right word," Kingsley amends, taking another delicate bite. "There's no such thing as fussy people. Only people with bad taste."
"Sorry, whose kitchen are we in?"
Kingsley cocks his head, a little amused despite his determination to stay stern and aloof. "Yours, I believe."
"Exactly," Harry says, darting closer, mug caught between their chests. "We're in my kitchen because I invited you to stay. I can't believe you're standing there, dressed like that and using that mouth to tell me I have bad taste."
Sometimes, Harry is too bold for his own good. And sometimes, Kingsley is abruptly reminded that Harry didn't end a war by acting meek or laid-back, or being too afraid to speak his mind.
"You're living proof that I have very excellent taste," he adds.
"I got the message," Kingsley says, chuckling. "All I'm sayin' is, you might like more things if you give them a try."
Harry leans up on his tip-toes and takes a big bite out of Kingsley's toast. He chews very slowly, making thoughtful noises every few seconds. Kingsley arches an eyebrow, waiting for the verdict. He cannot deny that the closeness makes something swoop in his stomach. But he waits anyway, the way Harry wants him to, playing the game to keep that glint in his eye alive.
"Nope," Harry says, swallowing loudly and pointedly. "Still disgusting."
Kingsley laughs again, low and full of fondness. He discards the last of the toast and leans down, kissing Harry soundly. He's not a fan of coffee, but it tastes a little sweeter on Harry's tongue. When the kiss ends, they stay in each other's space, drinking in the quiet.
"Shower," Kingsley urges him. "I'll have breakfast done when you're ready."
"I can cook," Harry protests, but he ends the sentence with a yawn, and comes out of it looking bewildered and rueful. "Alright, maybe not. I don't want to burn anything. Except the Marmite. Where've you hidden that, by the way?"
"Somewhere you'll never find it," Kingsley promises him. "Shower. Go."
Harry kisses him once more, quick and sweet, and shuffles off to shower. The coffee floats after him, and Kingsley laughs to himself, fetching eggs from the fridge. The oven is already warming; it doesn't take much to have a small feast ready by the time Harry ambles out of the bathroom, accompanied by a cloud of steam.
And if the eggs and mushrooms contain the faintest hint of Marmite to bring out the flavour, much to Harry's delight, nobody ever has to know.
[Word Count: 1,096]