Earl Grey and Apple Pie

by Salios

A good book, a hot cup of tea, and good company were all Harry was interested in. Being British, he had the first two covered. The third? Supplied by one Steve Rogers on a rainy afternoon. Slash, Yaoi, HP/SR

6. Chapter 6

Author: Salios Fandom: Harry Potter/Avengers Crossover Pairing: Harry Potter/Steve Rogers (Cpt. America) Rating: T-M Warning: This story will contain male/male relationships, including intimacy ranging from light kissing to possible sex. Swearing, and descriptions of violence and gore also possible. Disclaimer: I do not own either fandom or their associated characters; this is a fan piece and not written for profit. Earl Grey and Apple Pie. Chapter 6

(I had lots of free time today, and felt like making up for the lack of updates these past few weeks)

Chapter Text

Maria Hill was having a difficult time believing what was before her in the folder. She gripped the leather and reassured herself that it was indeed real, judging by the slight give and the scratch of the embroidery. The paper within was an old style parchment, fading slightly in places while looking freshly made in others. There were more pages in the folder than could have possibly fit, but they were there. It looked like just about every legal document she had seen over the years, even the ones she had penned herself. The format was slightly different, but the overall structure and writing style were the same bluntly worded yet somehow mysterious lines of text she had grown to expect from the government. She drew her eyes back up to the top of the first page and read it again, just to clarify.

01 January 1999

From the desk of the esteemed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour
For the eyes of assigned Aurors, Allies, and Hit-Wizards only.

Ladies and gentlemen,

I am sorry to announce that today is a turning point for our community; our greatest asset has become our greatest danger, the next few words were beyond recognizable, has turned his back upon us. Though he fought the darkness when under the direction of our fair Government, he has succumbed to its poisoned promises. Likely this began with his mentor, a word here was blurry to the point of pain as she tried to read it, died in service to our great nation and the infection grew as the years passed. Our saviour has now defected, and I regretfully ask you to take it upon yourselves to bring him to justice.

He had been charged with the crimes of:
- Treason
Including:
- Plotting to overthrow the Government
- Selling of Government secrets
- Absconding with Government property
- Destruction of Government property
- Adultry
- Robbery
- Murder
- Torture of innocents
- Use of Dark magic
- Association with known terrorists
- Association with persona non grata (several names were scribbled below this point, though she couldn't make out any of them)

The list continued on for another few pages with similar charges, and even some repeats, before the original message was continued.

This boy, she was sceptical of the use of the word, 'Is he really a boy, are they just demeaning him?', has become unstable and a threat to society as a whole, maybe even the world. I task you with hunting down and re-acquiring him, preferably alive. We will do what we can to recondition him for the use of the Good, and be rest assured that regardless of the outcome, he will no longer be a danger to the good citizens of Great Britain.

Your ever faithful Minister of Magic,
Rufus Scrimgeour

The rest of the pages were notes on the boy's appearance, notable allies, and sightings. At the very back she found a photo that made her mouth purse tightly and her hands clench on the folder. The boy, for that's exactly what he was, appeared to be less than skin and bones; his eyes were dark and sunken, skin papery and deathly pale. The points of his cheekbones and jaw were sharp and jutted out against the pale skin. His dark, dark like a raven's wing, hung in shaggy clumps about his head, unwashed and untended. What tugged most at her heart were his eyes; great round orbs made of the brightest green she had ever seen. The colour was startling against his pale and gaunt features, but were no less dull and lifeless. Hill jumped as the picture shifted, literally, and she book turned from looking out of the frame and at her, just for a moment, before going distant again on some far off point.

Hill couldn't look at the photo any longer and shut the folder, passing the whole mess back to Fury, who watched her with one dark eye. He took the folder and opened it himself to some page in the back. He pulled out another photo and handed it to her; this one more recent and likely taken by one of their operatives. It showed a slim young man, maybe in his early twenties, sitting in an oversized armchair cross legged, a book open in his lap. He was nibbling on his lower lips unconsciously while his left hand touched the back of his right gently, as though he were touching a recent wound. His hair was cut short along his neck and slightly longer at the back, falling in shaggy waves from his crown across his brow. His nose was slim and faintly pointed, falling into the category of cute more easily than handsome. His skin was faintly tanned, an olive tone that spoke of European descent with a smattering of light freckles across the nose. He wore a black vest and emerald dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows, a black tie tucked into the front of his vest and loose around his throat. Small white lines, stark against his tan, peeked out from the collar of the shirt and Hill had to wonder what exactly they stemmed from.

She accepted another photo from Fury and found herself looking back at the haunted boy, his eyes still shifting and dull, a mockery of what a healthy child should have looked like. She held the two photos together and glanced back and forth, Fury wouldn't have given her both if it wasn't for comparison. There were similarities between them in the face, most noticeably in the pert nose, shaggy hair, and vibrantly coloured eyes. She glanced back at the child, specifically at his neck, and found the same lines, though a dark ruby through the smear of dirt that seemed to coat him. They were fresh and raw, and likely infected judging by the redness of the skin around them and the swell of the wounds themselves. She traced the injury up his throat to just under his jaw and across his collarbone, dipping into the grimy, threadbare shirt that barely covered him. She glanced between the two photos again before handing them back, Fury taking them carefully and gently tucking them back into their respective places within the folder. He took his time and let her mind work.

'Aside from a few minor differences, they look almost the same. If that capture order, because really, what else could it be, was really released in 1999... Judging by his face he couldn't have even been twenty then, and the more recent photo makes him out to be in his early twenties...' She did some quick math in her head and scowled. 'There is no way that man could be in his thirties, not with a face and body like that. But the math can't be wrong...'She searched her memory for any conflicted around the time of the letter's release and could only remember a small handful, only one of which in Great Britain. S.H.I.E.L.D. Hadn't participated in the conflict as it had been relatively small, though there had been small disturbances for years both before and after the major fighting. Due to a lack of serious casualties or fighting they had chalked it up to some kind of minor dispute between the nations of the United Kingdom and left them to it. But now, with Fury's interest in this particular folder, and the reappearance of this unnamed boy, she was beginning to wonder.

The order had used the terms 'magic' and 'wizards', not a variety of adjectives that were ever used in official documents. Add in Fury's penetrating gaze, watching for her reaction, and the seemingly agelessness of the man in question, she found the impossible becoming possible. She met the Director's eyes and let the corner of her mouth life, adrenaline beginning to pump through her body at the chase unfolding before her.

"What do you want me to do?"

Half an hour later she found herself waiting in the lobby of Stark Tower, watching the crowd for one Steve Rogers, A.K.A. Captain America. According to the Director, he had been in direct contact with the target, the sweater he was currently wearing having belonged to the slim, dark-haired man. She was tasked with distracting Rogers and acquiring the sweater for testing. Fury had yet to tell her the man's name, giving her a smirk that said he expected her to learn that information on her own. She spotted Rogers, who towered over many of the agents, by his broad build and fair head of hair. He was accompanied by Agent Coulson, the two men chatting amicably as they moved through the foyer and to the elevators. She waited a moment and then followed, knowing that Coulson would be heading up to report to the Director. Within moments she intercepted him in the hall outside the elevators.

"Agent Coulson," He stopped his steady walk and turned around to face her. "The Director would like to meet with you and Captain Rogers in his office. She didn't bat an eye as Coulson blinked, slightly surprised he was only hearing this now. "If you wouldn't mind, I had planned to escort you to fill you in on the details." He looked slightly uneasy but nodded and they entered the elevator again, standing at a polite distance from each other. The walk to Rogers' apartment was quick, if slightly sterile in conversation.

Coulson knocked on the wooden door and soon enough Rogers answered, holding the door open with a look of barely restrained annoyance. He smiled amicably at Coulson and simply nodded at her; there was no love lost between she and Rogers. He was easily convinced to join them on their way to Fury's office, though twice she almost missed the chance to acquire the sweater as Fury had ordered. She was left with embarrassing the Captain, forcing him to partially undress as they walked and entered the elevator, which was now occupied with other employees of Stark and agents. She ignored the slight flush to his face as he hurriedly pulled on his white shirt and thin jacket. Just as they exited the elevator she saw her chance in an offshoot of the hallway and snatched the still-warm sweater from Rogers' hands, holding it at a distance, who knew what the target was capable of doing, or what residual effects he could have left on the blue fabric.

Now to take it to the lab.

The trip to the labs was quick and she found Doctor Banner working alone on some contraption or another. Fury had been upfront about the need to keep this quiet; there weren't too many S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists at Stark Tower. He had advised her to say nothing about the source of the blue sweater, but to entrust it to Banner with an order to perform a full analysis on the sweater and whatever he could find. With as little damage done to the piece of clothing as possible.

Banner eyed her from his table and she eyed him back. She couldn't get past the idea that this mousy-looking, if tall scientist could become a giant green monster. She had made it a point to avoid the doctor if at all possible after the Tesseract incident. After a moment of eyeing each other, she stepped forward and dropped the sweater onto a free portion of the table, ignoring the doctor's scowl.

"Director Fury would like you to run a full analysis on this, documenting any and all particles you can find. He would also prefer if you kept this to yourself." He frowned, looking the bundle of blue cotton over. "This also takes priority to whatever it is you're currently working on." She barely stayed long enough to see his frown deepen before turning and striding out of the lab and away from the potential explosion of green flesh and giant fists.

Bruce banner looked from his handful of intricate mathematical notes to the bundle of soft looking cotton that was disrupting his day. He sighed after a moment and gently put aside his notes and pulled the bunde closer. Almost immediately upon touching the fabric he felt the Other Guy stir.

He clenched his jaw and prepared to hold back the transformation - only to be met with a sense of calm and security instead of the bubbling mass of rage he had expected. Bruce blinked and looked at the fabric with a new sense of curiosity. He released it from his fingers and felt the calm recede, replaced by the now commonplace thrum of anger. He did this several more times, eyes continually widening as the sensation repeated itself with each touch. He felt different parts of the sweater, all with the same relaxing results.

There were several small, dark hairs tucked into the weave of the cotton at the front, by the zipper. On the left side of the hem of the sweater were a few dashes of a dark substance, most definitely blood. Touching the dark stain had the Other Guy roiling under his skin, and he coughed at the feeling, watching muscle swell slightly under the flesh of his hand, a green tinge to the skin. Somehow, the blood of whoever this was made the anger inside him bubble to rage, but not like he had expected to feel. Rather than being enraged by the owner of the blood he was enraged by the presence of the blood, at the injury caused to obtain it, and he didn't understand why.

His irritation at being interrupted a thing of the past, Bruce went about his analysis with gusto.

Steve, having just returned to his apartment after a short but frustrating meeting with Fury, pulled the jacket from his shoulders and flung it back onto the couch in a pile. He'd made sure to clarify with the Director that there would be no more interruptions for the day before he'd left the office. Fury had sent him away with a small smirk that made the blonde uneasy. A man that devious had no right to use such an expression, and certainly not on his employees. As he strode past the couch towards the kitchen he bent to the side and snatched the slightly worn book from the couch cushions. It was a slim thing, and looked unassuming in his large hands. He deposited it on the bar top across from the kitchen counter and set about making a pot of tea, apparently still craving the slightly bitter liquid, even after several batches of the stuff.

Steve huffed after a moment of staring at the slowly boiling kettle, he still preferred the type that heated from the oven top, his mother's saying of, 'a watched kettle never boils' repeating in his head. He turned and passed the couch and living room, heading through the door into his bedroom and to a small cabinet and chair set beside the french door leading out onto a balcony. The room was still bathed in the warm light of early evening and he had no need for the florescent lights to find what he was looking for. He pulled out a moleskin book and a case of pencils before shutting the cabinet and returning to the kitchen. The kettle was still not boiled.

The blonde pulled out one of the high bar stools and slid onto it, tucking his knees under the countertop and opening the book. He flipped through the first few pages, filled with unfinished sketches of his team. They were candid shots he had done during meetings and down-time to keep his hands busy. He found a fresh page and creased the spine of the book, fingertips fluttering over the slightly rough page in thought. He prefered the less refined type of paper that still had small imperfections and character over the super-smooth, nearly plastic pages that were favoured by many. After a few moments of staring at the blank page of the eight and a half by eleven inch sketchbook, he left his seat to attend to the whistling kettle. He returned to the book after pouring the steaming water but did not sit. He leaned over the book on his forearms, back stretched out and fingers caressing the edges of the paper gently.

There were a few thoughts floating around his skull, but he wasn't sure which would fit best onto the page at that moment. He took several more moments to eye the page, turning the book this way and that with the press of a large finger. He left it once again to pour his now strong tea and sweeten it to his liking. It cooled just enough to drink as he added the milk and he sipped the liquid.

'It's strong enough, and the same amount of milk and sugar, but it just doesn't taste as good as Harry's...'Steve frowned but drank the tea anyway. And then the idea he desperately needed to sketch came to him. He set down the cup and snatched up a pencil, the lead of this one harder than the rest. He set to sketching, resuming the relaxed stretched position he had acquired both at home and at Harry's.

Several hours passed, though the time may have been made longer by the consumption of many cups of tea. Steve was still hunched over the book, though his weight had shifted onto one foot while the other curled around his left calf. The sketch had gained form and depth from its previous composition of ovals and sharp lines. Two mischievous eyes peeked out at him from a pair of hands clasped around a pale mug of tea, tendrils of steam curling up and over one iris. The eyes were slightly crinkled in mirth and the pert nose was scrunched up delight. The fringe of black hair brushed one slim eyebrow, each strand deftly defined by strokes of Steve's pencil. He'd highlighted the small freckles that dotted the bridge of the scrunched nose and the barely there scar that sat off center just above and between the dark brows. He had remembered the feel of slightly calloused hands and the small scars that he had glimpsed from the edge of the sweater. One had looked like words, gracing the back of the right hand and running down from the first knuckle of the index finger.

Steve sat back for the first time in a long while and simply looked.

Harry looked back at him from the page, smiling that little mischievous smile that had made his heart skip and his body flush with heat. The sketch was unfinished, with only the beginnings of the brunette's forearms outlined on the page. He'd tried to capture the kaleidoscope of shades that he'd seen passing through the smaller man's eyes as they'd talked, even in graphite.

There wasn't much more he could do to improve upon the sketch, not without fleshing out the other man with colour. Feeling the tension seep out of his shoulders, Steve smiled and without thinking stroked the tips of his fingers across the other man's temple. He did his damndest to simply enjoy the feeling and ignore the feeling of taboo.

Towards the end of the war Harry, Hermione, and Ron had changed their tactics from purely magical combat to a mixture of physical and magical skills. The first they had invested time in had been martial arts. They took courses where they could on their travels, often staying places close to dojos so they could pick up training whenever possible. Hermione had been quick with the disarming of an opponent and retreat, Ron taking the role of brute-strength and dealing out vicious damage with his larger frame. Harry, who had always been the midpoint between his two friends, had chosen a mixture of speed and strength. Through the meditation and daily kata practice he had realized that his magical core was much more than he'd always been taught. his core encompassed the whole of his body, not just some small point in his chest. His core was also massive, holding an untapped well of power that seeped through its casing, his body, and into the air around him. Hermione theorized that the sheer size and openness of his core had to do with Voldemort's attacks as he'd aged. With each magical attack or torture upon his growing body, his core had shifted to accommodate the influx of power. Eventually it had settled, but not before growing to nearly three times its original size. The result was that Harry's core, and therefore body, was continuously drawing in magical energy from everything around him. Nothing large or damaging to any of the creatures or places he drew from, but enough that the well of his core was always overflowing, cycling through the new power and seeping the old off in invisible waves from his body.

It had taken him years after the war to adjust to this, and eventually he'd been able to live and work around muggle technology without shorting everything out. Though when he became angry the runoff from his core became damaging to electronics once more. It had come in handy several times. While their learned skills had mostly been useful in escaping harm more than dealing it out, during the war, Harry had kept up with his training wherever he found himself. He liked being able to play with a larger adversary, ducking and rolling out of harms' way without so much as a wasted breath. But he liked the feeling of raw power that his extended core gave him, filling his limbs with strength; he had kicked out the kneecap of a half troll once, which he hadn't expected to manage. He'd only been aiming to distract his enemy, and had instead incapacitated him.

His shotokan session that evening had left him with several deliciously stretched muscles and a number of dark bruises, none of which he was particularly upset about. The one of his jaw though, he could have done without. The master had hit the brunette as hard as he could, actually managing to knock Harry aside in a crumpled heap. Harry didn't like losing, but he'd laughed, and winced, and given the master of the dojo a firm slap on the back that had nearly sent the man sprawling. He healed quickly, but knew that the bruise was more than just some internal bleeding. The master had actually fractured his jaw, snapping the bone in several small pieces in that last hit. He wouldn't tell the other man though, Harry had deserved the hit, what with all the teasing he'd done. He touched it with his hand, hissed, and licked his lips.

Harry tugged slightly at the collar of his black lululemon shirt, the neck coming up to nearly the back of his head and around his jaw, stretching the fabric slightly. He tugged off the long sleeved shirt and tossed it aside and into a waiting clothes bin. His loose pants followed and after that his socks and underwear, leaving the brunette bare. Except for the numerous scars the cross-crossed his slim body. The war had not been kind, and he'd taken wounds meant for many others, usually voluntarily. Words, some in runic or latin, some even in parseltongue, littered his flesh beside old slashes and stab wounds. Burns decorated his back, great intricate things that wrapped around the peaks of his shoulders like great swathes of molten gold. Those he had acquired during his trials after the war. They were ceremonial and would glow like the first rays of sunlight over a still sea when he poured enough pure magic through his body. There had been a tribe of magicians deep in the Bermuda triangle that had accepted him to their training. Their chief had taught him how to better control his own magic, and what his core drew in and cannibalised. Given the reclusiveness of the island, the tribes-people had never used wands, instead using their own bodies as channels for their raw talent.

The shoulder caps were one of the few marks upon his body that he wasn't ashamed of, and when he went without a cover, which was rare, he wore the marks with pride. Harry strode to the washroom, flicking one hand and closing the blinds ahead of him with a wandless spell he'd learned early on. It didn't take long for the water to heat and soon he was enjoying a hot shower, letting the patter of water smooth the stress from his overused muscles. He turned his head to the side and let the water cascade down the side of his head, flattening his ever unruly hair to his skull. After a few moments of relaxation he began to scrub furiously at his skin and hair. He liked a good workout as much as anyone, but the stiffness left over from sweat drying on his skin he could do without. He washed his hair and rinsed it out, flipping the wet strands back and out of his face. Nimble hands moved over the familiar planes of his own body and soon enough stopped between his legs.

Harry nibbled his lip and considered whether or not to proceed. It wouldn't do for him to think too far into Steve's gentle words and soft touches from earlier. Or the way his very warm, very broad, and very solid body had held the brunette after his rather embarrassing tumble from the bookshelf. Or how he'd smelled like some kind of smooth cream, soft soap, and sharp spice. Harry drew in a quick breath.

"Oh hell, like the decision was really in my hands in the first place." He grinned and reached down.