A/N: I know some people don't like this pairing, but I do, so please just don't read it if you don't feel comfortable with it! 3
"This is ridiculous," Harry said, with a dark glare. "They can't make you do this."
"Nobody is making me do anything," Kingsley said soothingly, reclining on the long, black leather chair in the corner of his study. "I volunteered."
"You expect me to believe that? If they have something on you, you should tell me. I know we're supposed to give our all to a mission, but you can't permanently modify your body just because a bunch of snobby higher-ups tell you too."
"I don't know who you think runs the Ministry anymore, but I'd like to think we did a good job at weeding out the ones that were like that," Kingsley said, with an amused lilt. "Besides, I was one of those snobby higher-ups, once upon a time. I know how to talk the talk, and there's nothing they could talk me into."
Harry stopped pacing for long enough to scoff lightly. "Remind me why you stopped being a snobby higher-up again?"
"I found a partner who could keep up with me."
Harry stopped pacing altogether, and shot him a reluctant grin. The last of the tension drained from his shoulders. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, almost dislodging his glasses. There was a coffee stain on his shirt, and his tie was missing, his robes thrown over the back of the chair in an unironed mess. Every bit of him was unpolished and messy, tired and rumpled, frustrated and displeased. But Kingsley liked looking at him anyway.
"I still don't like this," Harry said, but he came across the room to stand beside Kingsley's chair anyway, tapping his fingers against his other wrist. "Walk me through it again."
"You know this case like the back of your hand," Kingsley said lightly.
"Walk me through it anyway."
It was an easy case, all things considered. They were both going undercover to catch a bunch of wizards trafficking dark artefacts across borders. The base of the operations was the upper rig of a club in the middle of London, where the music was painfully loud and excruciatingly bass-orientated, exactly the kind of thing that Kingsley hated. That, he thought, was probably going to be the worst part about the whole thing.
"It's just a tattoo," Kingsley said. "Everything's already set up. You apply the stencil, and then use the spells to fill it in with the ink. After that, we speed up the healing process by a few days and then add the magic that allows us access to the higher ranks. With any luck, they'll buy that we're a part of their team, and we'll be able to work out what they're doing."
It wasn't often that Kingsley ended up reassuring Harry. For all that Harry was a good few years younger than him, and despite Kingsley's superior experience on the job, he was frighteningly competent and independent. Comfort was a different matter entirely. Kingsley had a list of ways to get Harry to decompress after a job, cobbled together after years of successful work. They made a good team. They knew exactly what they each needed. They knew how much space they needed.
But Kingsley never usually had to reassure Harry before a job, and it was somewhat odd. He cocked his head while Harry examined the little metal table lined with equipment. Kingsley preferred the Muggle way when it came to getting tattoos, but admittedly there was an appeal to using magic. Less fuss and bother, less pain to worry about. He had no doubt that Harry would do a good job. But he seemed reluctant to even try, and when he came across the stencil, he glared at it so hatefully that something finally clicked in Kingsley's head.
"It's not the same," Kingsley said, catching his hand.
Harry glanced down at their hands, and then met Kingsley's gaze. "What?"
"The Dark Mark," Kingsley said. "It's not the same. I volunteered."
"So did Malfoy, and he's regretted it every day since. They all volunteered, Kingsley. Some more willingly than others."
Kingsley sighed, but not impatiently. It was an easy mistake to make, and the similarities were there, now that he was looking at them. But he hadn't even made the connection at first, and in his mind, that made it so impossibly different that it wasn't worth worrying about.
"The Dark Mark was a sign of ownership, designed specifically to tie Voldemort's followers together, and tether them to him. It was vile magic." He softened his voice, meeting Harry's unsure gaze. "This is just a tattoo. No particular design, no underlying message. The spell is the important part. That's the part that they'll be looking for. I could use any one of my tattoos, but my alias is new to the scene, so the tattoo needs to be fresh for it to work. Think of it like a stamp on the back of a hand. An access pass."
But it seemed like somewhere along the line, Harry had stopped paying attention. Both of his eyebrows were sky-high behind his glasses, a slightly slimmer set than the ones he usually wore to work. Must have broken them again playing Quidditch.
"You have other tattoos?" Harry asked quietly.
Kingsley paused, before breaking into a smile. "Would you like to see?"
He leaned back against the chair without waiting for an answer, not quite letting go of Harry's wrist; Harry stumbled forward until his thighs bumped against the ridge of the seat, dangerously close. His eyes were a little wide as Kingsley finally let go, reaching up to undo the buttons of his shirt. He was quick and efficient. It was tempting to linger, to go slow, especially as Harry couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from each new inch of skin revealed.
Kingsley knew what people expected when they heard about his tattoos. Thick, heavy lines, dense ink, vicious structures. Rings around his arms. Something cultural, perhaps. Something that proved his skin was rough and needed a heavier hand. But that had never been the case, and it never would be. He was drawn to delicate lines, to thin line-art on his shoulders, to slim birds perched on leafy vines and vibrant, beautiful colours. Pomegranates split open on his left bicep, spilling raspberry-seeds down his arm. The tattoos swept across every square inch of skin. There was only one spot left untouched, right in the middle of his sternum, a half-circle of space.
"It was always my intention to get this tattoo," Kingsley said. "I picked out the design. And the magic isn't permanent; if I do regret it, which I won't, we can get rid of it. I know a spell."
"Good to know," Harry said, but he sounded sufficiently distracted, sharp eyes scanning every tattoo with avid interest. "How have I never seen any of these before?"
"I cover them up." Kingsley shrugged. "Can't be too careful in this line of work. They're a big identifier."
Harry hummed, but didn't say anything. He reached out and skimmed the sprig of gladiolus flowers running his stomach with the barest tips of his fingers. Kingsley kept quite still, hardly breathing. He didn't want anything to shatter the moment, the perfect tension that was coiling between them, tentative but heady. Harry seemed drawn forward, mesmerized and quiet, just taking it all in. Like it was art in a gallery, not ink on skin.
"They're amazing," Harry said eventually, still quiet. "You look amazing."
The compliment went straight to his chest, where everything was fluttering strangely.
"Not what you expected?"
Harry cocked his head, still not looking at him, attention caught by a cluster of waves soaring up his side. He traced them lightly, following each curve, and Kingsley felt hot all over.
"I mean," he said, voice a little deeper, a little rougher, "that most people don't expect all the colour."
Harry snorted. "Kingsley, I've seen how you dress. You haven't met a pattern you didn't want to marry. When I think of bright and vibrant, I think of you." He caught Kingsley's eyes then and flushed slightly, as though his words had suddenly registered. He jerked his hand away and turned to face the table, laughing it off. "Even your socks are covered in colour."
The room felt a little cooler now that Harry's back was to him, now that he wasn't touching him. Kingsley didn't know if he felt awkward for not noticing or awkward because Kingsley had drawn attention to it. Either way, he wanted the easy heat back. He sat up slowly and reached for his shirt, before dropping it again, letting it pool in his lap.
"We should get this done, shouldn't we?" Harry said, fiddling with the tools on the table. "No promises, but I'll try not to mess it up too badly."
"I have a better idea."
Harry peered at him over his shoulder. His cheeks were flushed with colour, and he looked hesitant, but there was a hopeful gleam in his eye.
"I have more tattoos on my back," Kingsley said, reaching out to hold his wrist again; not tight, but gently, just to let him know that he was there, that he wanted him to look. "I think they deserve your undivided attention too."
[Word Count: 1,547]