We're Just Friends
A/N - Happiest birthday to mabeltothknows! I love having friends to write fics for
James Potter is in love with his flatmate.
There. Best to get that out of the way before he is accused of being in denial or drowning in obliviousness. Because he isn't—in denial that is; he's more than aware of how his heart kicks up speed and palms sweat oceans and air catches in his lungs every time she so much as touches any part of him. And considering the fact that they share a space together on the regular, there are several touches that are inflicted upon his person, much to James's utter dismay and delight. Some of these touches are accidental; like when they reach for the same jar of cookies together, or when they run into each other, bleary-eyed, in the early morning hours—Lily dressed in her sinfully short shorts that he absolutely does not stare at. And some are deliberate; like when she swats at his chest, laughing hard enough that water snorts out of her nose, or when she bumps her hips against his while shimmying to some song on her playlist as they cook meals in their little kitchen.
Point being: thanks to all these touches, James has had several moments of painful realisations about the glaring intensity of his feelings towards the ridiculously beautiful woman he shares his living space with.
The problem? She only sees him as a friend.
Yeah.
It's been four months of the best hellish torture.
When he returns home from his jog that morning, the door to Lily's bedroom still remains shut.
James frowns a little, eyes travelling to the wall clock as he absentmindedly grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, cheeks warm and red from exertion. The hands read eight, and the furrow between his brows deepens, mind quickly running through the week to make sure he hasn't completely lost sense of time and toppled into the weekend without track. But the reassessment still brings to his notice that it's Friday, and it's thereby uncharacteristic of Lily to still be asleep.
Having chugged half a bottle of chilled water, he closes the fridge, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and heads towards the closed door of her room.
A quick rap of knuckles against wood. "Lily? Are you up?"
Nothing audible emanates from inside, so he attempts another knock. "Lil, wake up, you'll be late for work."
And that's when the slightest muffled groaning penetrates through the door and enters his ears. James's eyes widen, all manner of abhorrent possibilities flashing through his head—he quickly dismisses the smuggled-in lover and jumps to a vicious serial murderer—before he decides, fuck it all, and roughly shoves open the door to find—
Lily groaning in her bed, sheets tangled around her legs and thighs, body flush from head to toe.
For a fleeting, horrifying—sexy—moment, he thinks he's walked into something he definitely shouldn't witness, but something that is sure to be imprinted to the back of his eyelids for him to replay when he has his hands down his own pants. But a longer, careful, open-mouthed look makes him realize the burn of her skin seems to be making her genuinely miserable than inducing any sort of pleasure.
Jesus, he feels like a right cad.
"Lily?" James approaches the side of her bed cautiously. "What's on? Are you alright?"
She grumbles and whines something that could potentially be construed as 'does it look like I'm alright, jackass?' or maybe it's an 'I know the gutter your mind went to when you saw me' but James figures the latter one is just his own consciousness targeting well-placed disgust at himself.
"I think I have a fever," she eventually manages, voice thick and breathless with cold.
Alarmed, he crouches next to her head and reaches out to press the back of his hand to her face, making himself focus on the heat that scalds him at the contact instead of how soft her skin feels (very soft).
"Fuck, you think?" he mutters, stomach twisting as he pulls back to properly look at her; red splotches bloom on her cheeks and neck, green eyes glassy, soporific, lips slightly chapped and parted as she breathes warm puffs of air through her mouth. "Right. Have you called in sick to work yet?"
She shakes her head, groaning.
"Okay. Okay, I'll call them up. I'll also make you some soup. Do you like soup?" He frowns, mouth pinching. "Doesn't matter. You'll have to drink it anyway. We'll get you on your feet in no time, Evans."
A raspy sort of chuckle escapes Lily at that, the sound of which she presses into her pillow, expression twisting into a grimace at the movement.
"James," she sighs after he has watched the whole thing play out sadly. "I'm not dying. You know that right?"
"I know," he replies, and doesn't think much as his hand moves to shift away the strands of red hair toppling into her eyes. His delusional and clearly affected brain seems to think her lashes flutter at the touch. "But only because I won't let it get to that."
Lily's lips quirk up on one side. "Sure, Potter."
He knows he's being a tad pathetic when he watches her for a beat too long, and then gets on his feet and strides out the room before Lily can ask if his hand has frozen to her hair. Outside in the living room, where sense prevails, James first pulls out his phone and calls the one person he probably shouldn't.
"You better not have tripped down the stairs again," Sirius greets upon accepting the call. "I'm already on my way to work and it would be a massive pain in my rear to have to take a detour to your place."
"Don't know what the hell you're talking about. I never tripped down the stairs; that was Peter."
A pause on the other side. "Oh. Right, it was him."
"Padfoot," James exhales heavily, hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose under his glasses, wariness already stacking up his spine in anticipation of what's to follow. "I can't make it to work today."
"Finally slacking off, eh?" Sirius's voice turns smug. "Not that I don't approve, mate, but why suddenly? Feeling alright?"
"I am, yeah—" Rip the band-aid off. "But Lily isn't. She's got a fever, so—"
"Aaaaaaah," Sirius says, and it's almost as if he stands in the living room next to James, unbearable smirk splitting across his face. "That makes all the sense in the world. Well, who am I to reject your leave when the missus is sick—"
His eyes bug out. "Whose missus—"
"Now, now, you mustn't raise your voice, not when Evans is suffering so terribly. Think of her headache."
Dear God.
James slumps forward against the back of the couch before him with a groan, body folding at his waist until he feels the cushion pressing against his cheek, legs lifting in the air behind him.
"I hate you," he tries to say, but is pretty certain the phrase comes out garbled and gibberish. When Sirius simply hoots in delight, James disconnects the call and tosses away the phone.
He spends five whole seconds with his face planted into the sofa, eyes closed and breathing hard. Soon, however, the sensation of glasses digging into his nose starts feeling uncomfortable, feet turning numb from being suspended in the air. And then he remembers he still needs to call Lily's office, there's soup that needs making, and that he positively reeks from his morning run.
With an annoyed exhale, James tries to push himself into a standing position.
And that's when his legs lose balance, send him sliding further into the sofa.
Buggering hell.
He must be cursed.
By the time he showers, cooks the soup, and re-enters Lily's room, she seems to have cocooned herself under the blanket, visible to James only in the form of a lump on the bed. The image of it tugs at his heartstrings more than it has any right to. He tells himself to calm the fuck down and act like a normal human being who is not in love with their flatmate.
"Lily?" He rounds the bed, setting down the tray on the other side of the mattress as he shifts close enough to be able to gently poke at her over the blanket. "I got you soup."
For a beat, she doesn't move, and James thinks she's probably asleep and makes to leave, let her rest, but then, the blankets rustle, the lump stirring, before a mass of tangled red hair emerges from inside, followed by squinting green eyes and a scrunched red nose.
"I feel gross," says Lily.
He presses his lips together to keep the amusement from showing on his face. "You're fine. Not gross at all."
"You're lying. I know I look horrible."
"Fishing for compliments, are you, Evans?"
"I'm sick and miserable, it's allowed," she grumbles, not putting up a fight when James adjusts the pillows behind her to help her sit up. He averts his gaze when she adjusts her blue tank top, blinking rapidly to put pressure on his brain and get it to stop thinking thoughts. "Besides, I reckon it's the only way to get you to say nice things about me."
"What?!" The bowl of soup teeters dangerously in his hands as he passes it to her, eyes wide and jaw slack. "What are you talking about? I say plenty nice things about you!"
"Right," she scoffs disbelievingly. "Like how I always leave my socks lying about the living room?"
"Well maybe if you wouldn't do that—" he begins, but then halts when she throws him a narrowed-eyed glare. "But, er, I also told Remus just yesterday how you always keep the fridge stocked with desserts, have the house smelling amazing with those huge candles that you burn sometimes, make the best omelettes I've ever had in my life, and most importantly, you never complain when Sirius comes over, which is a big—oh."
His rambling takes a pause when he notices the way Lily's teeth have sunk over her bottom lip to try and hide the smirk that curls over her face. It's an indication as clear as any that she's taking the piss.
"You're really horrible."
"Hey, now, you can't talk like that to a sick person," she chuckles, sniffling through her runny nose as she swallows a spoonful of hot chicken soup. The taste of it has her eyes closing momentarily, a heavy sigh slipping through lips. "This is good."
James hums, secretly delighted to see some brightness returning to her eyes even as he keeps a straight face. "Of course, it is."
"I'm only a little unwell, Potter. Not suddenly impervious to your arrogance."
"Grand." He smiles. "I keep it in stock just for you."
"Unbearable. You're no longer allowed on my bed." She pauses, spoon raised halfway to her mouth, and tilts her head. "Not that—not like that."
James practically chokes on empty air and the heart that pounds near his throat.
"Right," he coughs, eyes widening enough to water, hallucinating pink splotches on Lily's cheeks. Somewhere, in the back of his mind—that's still far too much near the forefront for his sanity—he wonders whether she meant not like that as in he is still allowed on her bed like that, or just—
"No, yeah, I got that, Evans." His hand fumbles a little as he reaches for the tablet on the tray before him and drops it on Lily's lap like an idiot. "Take that after you're done eating, please. And get some rest."
Lily hums her agreement. Her gaze follows him as he gets up and rounds the bed, heading for the door as fast as his feet will allow without giving away the game.
The game, of course, being how utterly and completely inappropriate a flatmate he is.
"Oi, James," her voice calls right before he can leave the room, and he glances at her to find Lily watching him over the rim of the bowl caught in her hands, the bottom part of her face inconveniently hidden. "Thank you for the soup. And the company."
The knot inside his chest loosens.
It's unfairly easy, loving her.
"Anytime, Evans."
She emerges from her den for the first time that day around three in the afternoon.
James is lounging on the sofa, playing a dumb game on his phone that Sirius had installed a week prior that James had naturally pretended to hate only to then go and get addicted to it—a confession he wouldn't voice even on the pain of death—when he hears some soft scuffling noise emerging from the kitchen.
He sits up straight, ears perking. "Lily, is that you?"
"No, it's the burglar who easily invaded your home while you were busy on your phone."
He rolls his eyes and pads over to the kitchen, bare feet quiet on the floors. "Seriously, what are you—ah."
At the sound of his voice, Lily straightens from where she'd been leaning down to scour the contents of the refrigerator. A turn of her head, and James quickly detaches his gaze from the smooth expanse of milky skin revealed below the fluffy maroon bathrobe she dons, its hem barely covering the curve of her arse.
He forces himself to focus on the memory of Peter's smelly socks, eyes travelling up to the ceiling for strength.
"What—uh—what are you doing?" he manages after a beat.
"Looking for food," she says. "Taking a shower helped. I feel much better now."
He looks back down at that, noticing the darker hue of her hair, the presence of the bathrobe making sense now that he lets himself observe more than just the back of her thighs. "Do you want me to cook something?"
"No, I'm craving something sweet," she sighs, bottom lip petulant. She leans against the open door of the fridge, hip jutting criminally well. "Can we get cheesecake?"
"Sure," he says faintly.
Lily beams at the response, sniffles a little, a bounce in her step as she shuts the refrigerator and walks past him with a scent of warm vanilla trailing in her wake.
"Great, I'll go place an order, then. Maybe I'll get two for myself; reckon I could lick every last bit of cake off my fingers right this moment."
And when she chuckles softly to herself, glancing over her shoulder to share her amusement with him, all James can manage to do is weakly smile back and try not to think about Lily licking her fingers.
Once she's left, he turns around, braces his arms on the kitchen counter, breathes deep.
Fucking hell, he needs help.
Late evening finds James knocking on the door of her room again.
"Lil?" He slowly turns the doorknob. "Feeling alright?"
But she's once again a bundle under the covers, room dark, and he watches as she shifts the covers aside to peek out, green eyes aglitter. "I'm freezing."
He frowns, switching on the lights in the room despite Lily's groan of protest, and makes his way over to her side of the bed.
"Evans—" he tugs on the blanket, leaning down slightly when she seems to fight against the pull. "Come on, it's okay. I just need to check your temperature. If the fever's not going down, we might need to go see a doctor—"
"No doctor," she croaks immediately, finally letting the blanket slip away. "I'm fine, just a bit cold."
"Right," James mumbles distractedly, the back of his fingers brushing against her forehead and cheeks. His brows lift momentarily in surprise; then stitch together in consideration. Under the prolonged touch, a flush seems to crawl up over Lily's face, and he retracts his hand, clearing his throat.
"It's—yeah, I don't really detect fever anymore."
"Told you."
"But—" he tilts his head. "You're still feeling sick."
"Just cold," she clarifies, and then rustles around under the sheets until she's lying on her back, left hand reaching out to pat the mattress. "Give me some company, would you? I'm tired of lying here alone all day. Let's watch a movie."
But he watches her; watches the tiny smile curling over her lips, the red on her cheeks, the glint in her eyes, and considers…
Considers.
No. Impossible.
"Of course," he says simply, inwardly shaking his head for even allowing his thoughts to go there. "What do you want to watch?"
And that's how James finds himself in Lily Evans's bed for the second time that day, for reasons that remain entirely platonic, much as he wishes they weren't. The blanket lies draped over them both now, her cold toes tucked against his warmer feet—he'd valiantly tried to fight off the contact for five whole seconds before succumbing to his blinding weakness for her—and an empty tub of popcorn acting as a barrier between their arms.
Palm Springs continues to play out on the laptop screen near his knees, but truth be told, James finds it challenging to pay attention to the movie.
For one, he's already watched it before.
For another, his eyes refuse to behave; every few seconds, he catches himself glancing at the girl beside him like a fool, longing spreading through every crevice in his chest until he feels compelled to look away. It only gets more difficult when Lily rests her head on his shoulder, gaze caught firmly on the screen before her because she's evidently lacking the lovelorn misery that James possesses in abundance.
Still, after several minutes of his gazing, Lily must sense his stare on her, because her head shifts slightly until familiar, terrific green eyes meet his.
James swallows past his pounding heart.
"Hi," she greets softly, tone indecipherable as one perfect eyebrow quirks in curiosity. "You all right?"
"Yeah," he says, clears his throat when it comes out as a croak. "Sorry, just zoned out."
Lily nods, almost distractedly, but something changes in the light in her eyes as she keeps watching him; expression soft, gaze dropping to mouth. It's probably because his own lips have parted, the flutter of her lashes mesmerizing enough to be downright hypnotic. He thinks he might be leaning forward now, the freckles on her face coming into focus, his pulse thundering, breath stuck inside chest.
But then her eyes flit to his, tentative, questioning, and James knows he's about to fuck it all up.
"Uh—" he draws back, blinking rapidly, cheeks red. Jesus, he's finally gone and done it—no doubt she's able to see the pathetic state of him clearly now. "Sorry, I—I should head to bed. Been a long day."
She looks at him with a bit of a dazed expression, eyes wide.
Fuck, fuck.
"Right," she says faintly, a light rush of breath leaving her mouth. "Okay."
"Sorry," he says again, because what else can he do? Wincing inwardly, James shuffles out of the bed, more than a little tempted to walk to the balcony and toss himself straight outside into the cold night. At least then he won't have to deal with the consequences of his own idiocy. Right before he can leave, however, he makes himself turn around and ask hopefully, "I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"
Lily doesn't reply, simply watches him with a strange expression, and he has to wonder whether she's planning on escaping tonight to avoid him.
"What just happened?" she says instead.
"What?" James coughs, flushing. "I don't—"
"Were you… I thought we were about to—" and here, she pauses, licks her lips. "I mean, you definitely leaned in."
Fuck the balcony; even an earthquake that swallows him whole will do.
"Er, that was—I was just… drowsy. I think."
Dear God.
Lily's brows climb high, lips pursing. "Drowsy?"
"Fuck, sorry—" he runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know what the right thing to say here is. Reckon I'm speaking out of my arse now. I just… I don't want you to leave the apartment."
That has her jaw hanging open. "What?! Why on earth would I do that?"
"I don't know!" he tugs on his hair, wants to sob. "Because now you know that I'm absolute shite at being a good, friendly, purely platonic roommate, and therefore want nothing to do with me anymore?"
"I—" she makes a strangled sort of noise he can't decipher, face twitching, neck reddening. "I'm struggling to say something."
"Wonder what that's like."
She stares, unblinking, takes several seconds to seemingly collect her thoughts. "Okay. I'm going to need you to sit down."
And even though the rest of him screams at him to get out, to avoid the no-doubt pitiful and gentle let-down she's about to give him—because he knows Lily; there's no way she'd be intentionally cruel to him, even if she's about to pack her bags and leave when he goes to sleep—James still makes his way over to her and perches on the edge of the bed, near her tucked-in feet.
She folds her legs, looks at him pointedly. "Closer."
Something dangerous stirs in his chest at the lilt of her voice, and he tries to keep it firmly at bay as he scoots forward.
"James," says Lily, left hand reaching out to shut the laptop. "What do you think has been going on the whole day?"
"Um… what?"
"No, actually—" she cocks a brow. "What do you think has been going on all this time?"
He swallows. "To be honest, I'm beginning to think I have no fucking idea."
She shakes her head, slow, watches him for two more beats with an incredulous expression, and then promptly drops her face into her palms, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Oh my fucking God."
James fights against the fluttering in his stomach. "Are you okay, Evans?"
"I'm fine."
"Okay, uh, good."
"No, James—" she looks up, eyes bright, lips curved. "I'm fine. I don't have a fever."
He squints his eyes, thinks there's something just out of reach here; something he's considered but can't let himself believe.
"That's—that's also… good?"
"Bloody hell," she mumbles, "You're thick."
And then, before he can register what's happening or how he's meant to react or not lose his whole fucking mind, Lily sits up, slants forward on her knees, and presses her lips to his; warm, gentle, as sweet as the glide of her palms over his neck and jaw. He's barely given enough time to let his eyes flutter closed, to let the surprise melt and his mouth move against hers, before she's already pulled back, cheeks stained pink.
"I've been fine for a while now," she breathes, tongue darting out to swipe over her bottom lip. "And flirting with you a ridiculous amount, if you care to know."
He can only blink like an idiot, chest light, pulse thundering. "Oh."
"Figured it was best to not leave anything tacit, considering you thought I was about to pack up and leave."
"That's smart," he agrees, fingers finding her waist, gaze caught on the glisten of her mouth. And then: "I'm going to kiss you again."
Slowly, a smirk blooms on her face. "And I've only had to wait months for it."
He knows he'll think about that later; about how many days and nights he's lied awake in the very next room, tortured by the—evidently false—thoughts of unrequited love; he'll lament the loss by loudly complaining and wondering if he's really been that blind. He also knows he'll marvel at the thought of her having fancied him for months, and he'll have to embrace the fact that he has, perhaps, been oblivious all along, after all.
But for now, James pulls Lily onto his lap, lets his fingers tangle into the thickness of her hair, and slides his mouth over hers, tongue brushing into the warmth as she deepens the kiss. She tastes a bit like the chocolate cake they had for dessert, and he imagines snogging her for as long as the air in his lungs will allow is probably enough compensation for the agony the past four months have caused him.
"I'm not wearing a bra," she whispers into his ear.
No, James amends, it's more than enough compensation.
A/N - Thank you for reading! Reviews are as sweet as cheesecake!