#because there wasn't any and i was the idiot with no healer in my party whatsoever so i was relying on potions and so on day 2 or 3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bluerose5 · 11 months

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An Easy Job

Yes, I made a fic inspired by my recent post about Hawke and Anders meeting earlier than canon. Click here for the link to read on ao3.

Rating: M

Pairing: Pre-Relationship Male Hawke/Anders

Word Count: 6,655

Content Warnings for Blood, Injury, Slavers, & Violence

Summary: Garrett's line of work sometimes required that he operated out of Darktown.

It wasn't quite how he imagined meeting the Undercity's healer, but he made the most of the encounter.

...

Garrett Hawke was told that it would be an easy job.

He was a fool to simply take Athenril's word on that, but her information usually proved to be somewhat reliable most days.

Turned out, that day wasn't one of them.

Meet their middleman, retrieve their cargo, and return to base. It was supposed to be that simple.

As soon as Garrett showed up to the spot where their meeting was arranged, he knew that something was off, and it wasn't because they were prowling around the murkiest depths of Darktown either.

No, at least that was to be expected. In their line of work, dealing with the criminal elements all over Kirkwall was a necessary evil, and that included those who operated out of Darktown as well.

Other than the fact that he was an apostate in a city overflowing with templars, the reason why Garrett was so on edge all of a sudden was because not a soul was in sight.

Cooped up in the alley together, Carver hovered at Garrett’s side, his fingers twitching for his weapon.

"I don't like this," Carver said, his brow furrowed as he surveyed their surroundings. "He's late."

"That, he is," Garrett replied. "I'm usually all about being fashionably late to parties, but you would think there would be some semblance of professionalism when it came down to business. I mean, it's everyone's coin on the line here."

Carver scoffed, his face pinched up in disgust.

"Did you expect any less from that slippery bastard? What happened anyhow?" he asked. "I thought, after that last stunt he pulled, we weren't gonna run any more jobs with good ole Slack-Jawed Pete."

"We weren't, but—"

"But things change, apparently," Carver muttered. "Without my input, of course."

Garrett glared at him.

"But," he said, continuing his previous statement, "things came up. Sapphire was our original contact, but something went down at The Blooming Rose, so he had to fill in for the night."

"Too bad," Carver griped, his arms crossed over his chest. "I bet you would have loved to see your boyfriend. Now, you have to settle for Pete's ugly mug instead."

"He's not—" Garrett grumbled in frustration. "Listen, Athenril promised a big payout for this. If things go sideways, then I…"

He trailed off when shadows fell over them.

Both he and Carver tensed, their eyes trained on the group that gathered at the end of the alley.

"'If' things go sideways?" Carver whispered under his breath.

As if to hammer home his point, he elbowed his brother in the side.

Garrett grumbled.

"Okay, when they go sideways," he corrected, watching the man at the head of the pack step forward.

"Well, well, well, what do you know?" he hummed, eyes narrowed at them with a sinister grin. "That nug-for-brains idiot was right, men. Here we have two strong, able-bodied, Fereldan men, just ripe for the taking."

"And who in the bloody Void are you?" Carver spat.

The stranger merely shrugged off his question.

"Names have no meaning for men in your position," the fellow answered. "Either you submit to what we have in mind, or you fight us and lose. Your choice."

The group started to close ranks around them. Garrett counted about ten of them altogether, but he and Carver refused to stand down.

"Well, that doesn't seem like much of a choice at all," Garrett deadpanned. "Where is my secret third option? For instance, I could tell you lot to scram, and you scamper off like a pup with its tail between its legs before this ends badly for you."

Speaking of dogs, what a perfect day for Garrett to leave Barkspawn at home with his mother and uncle.

Easy job, his ass.

At least Carver backed him up, though.

"Or," he said, "there's the option where we go ahead and kill those who stand in our way, then we go on about our day."

"Even better," Garrett agreed.

They readied their weapons, a greatsword from Carver's days of battling the Blight and a battleaxe that was passed down from Malcolm to Garrett.

The nameless leader laughed at their audacity.

"Cheeky buggers, aren't you? No matter." He shrugged. "The clients we sell to will enjoy breaking your spirit." He glanced at Garrett then, at the pointed tips of his ears peeking through his hair. "And they'll pay even more for a couple of mutts. Half-elves are a hot commodity right now."

Garrett clenched his jaw, rage threatening to boil over inside him, but he breathed through it, forced himself to harness that anger instead.

He and Carver had been shifting towards the other end of the alleyway, but several others suddenly appeared out of nowhere, as if reading their minds. They spread out and closed in, not much room left between them to slip through.

Shit, they were surrounded.

Carver spoke then, a futile attempt to buy them some time while Garrett recited an incantation under his breath.

"What quarrel do you even have with us?" Carver snarled. "Why target us? As if Fereldans don't already get kicked enough while we're down, especially 'round these parts."

Sparks of electricity hummed at Garrett’s fingertips, but he knew that he was hardly casting at full-strength. Spells oftentimes relied on the most minute details to work at their most effective states. The strength and volume with which a spell was spoken. The precise movements and positioning of one's hands and body. The pool of mana available to the mage. The very fabric of the Veil itself at any given location. All of it contributed, but Garrett didn't have the time nor the distance to unleash his full potential.

Still, he had to do something.

Luckily for them, bastards like these, especially those in charge, loved to hear themselves talk.

"Ah," their good friend Nameless tsked. "It's nothing personal, you see. It's just business."

Tension built in the air, but the group didn't question it, not yet.

The hairs on Garrett’s arm stood straight.

"Who put you up to this?" Carver retorted. "Was it Pete?"

Of course it was, but let them feed into the bastard's ego, let his crew think that they had control.

"A mutual acquaintance was offered triple what your pitiful excuse of a job could provide. Tell me, how could anyone possibly turn down such a handsome sum? Of course, that was just for him to hand your cargo over to me." Nameless smirked. "He threw in your location as a bonus."

Carver and Garrett exchanged a pointed glance.

"Great, so he sold us out to a bunch of worthless slaver trash," Carver said.

A sweltering heat started to grow around them.

Nameless snickered, spreading his arms out on display.

"Such a weighted term. I prefer to think of myself as a procurer of fine goods and services."

Garrett tasted a metallic tang on the back of his tongue. The air was thick, similar to the moments before a thunderstorm lit up the countryside with bouts of lightning.

"Call it whatever you like," Carver drawled, "but if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…"

"Then, it's a duck," Garrett finished, eyeing their enemies up and down. "Although, I figure they're probably smarter than your average slaver."

In the blink of an eye, he brought up a wall of fire between the main group and themselves.

Within the same motion, Garrett turned and let that tension pull taut, snapping it without hesitation.

Those sparks from his fingers grew into large bolts of electricity.

With a single word, he unleashed the full brunt of his attack onto the few enemies blocking their escape. Unfortunately, as he predicted, the spell was nowhere near concentrated enough to down them for good, but it still gave them an advantage. One after another, their enemies seized, frozen into place.

Garrett and Carver unleashed battle cries before rushing forward.

They only had enough time to take down one person each, the flames at their back already dying down, weak enough for the rest of the slavers to join the fray.

Metal clashed, and blows were exchanged.

Outnumbered as they were, they held their own.

Until they couldn't.

Nameless faced off with Garrett the second he could reach him, his eyes wild, crazed.

His face was split open by an unhinged smile.

"You think that your buddy Pete didn't air all of your dirty laundry to us beforehand?" All pretenses were gone by then, his expression tightening with more of his crew slain from their efforts. "Even rumors sometimes hold a grain of truth to them."

He scraped the blades of his daggers along one another, then stalked forward.

Compared to the others, it was no wonder why Nameless was the leader of the group.

He was beyond skilled with his blades. Wielding them was second nature to him. He fought on a whole other level than the others. Each attack was a flurry of activity, heavily reliant on speed and dexterity to strike.

Garrett parried and blocked, but he barely had time to swing his axe around before the next onslaught started. Sweat beaded at his temple, but Nameless kept pushing forward, relentless in his pursuit of victory.

Then, he got a hit in.

His blade sliced through the skin of Garrett’s arm, barely more than a scratch, but it was enough to work its magic, so to speak.

Within seconds, Garrett’s vision blurred. The whole world spun. It tilted, and it–it wouldn't stay still.

His energy was quickly waning, mana depleted.

He shook his head, but then he lost all sense of direction. His body refused to respond to his commands.

One step alone sent him stumbling backwards.

Nameless smirked.

"What—" Garrett gasped. His stomach lurched. "What did you—"

"Have to love magebane. Expensive shit, but it gets the job done."

Disoriented and confused, none of the words were sinking in. They all went in one ear and out the other.

Garrett didn't even notice the rogue sneaking up behind him, not until it was too late.

At the sound of footsteps creeping closer, he turned in place at the last second, right as the knife sank into the flesh at his side.

He was lucky, though, considering the original target had been his spine.

With a roar of pain, Garrett balled up his fist and landed a blow to his assailant's face, hard enough to make him stagger before Garrett hit him again. This time, directly in the chest.

Winded, the poor bastard was knocked down onto his back, staring up at Garrett, wide-eyed with fear.

When he brought up his axe, the man had the audacity to plead for his life.

Unfortunately for him, those worthless pleas fell on deaf ears.

Garrett cleaved him in half, his cries cut short.

He stepped on the body to yank his axe free, but he knew that he was taking too long, the dagger still embedded in his side.

When he felt a cool breeze at his back, Garrett abandoned his weapon, turning in place as Nameless's dagger glinted in the darkness.

The blade lashed out into a vicious arc. It cut through Garrett’s cheap, leather armor, splitting open the skin of his chest.

Garrett was shoved off-balance. His knees buckled.

He clutched at his burning chest as even more poison entered his system. His muscles twitched, uncontrollable.

The metallic taste of blood pooled into his mouth.

He was burning alive from the inside-out. Desperately, he scratched at his skin, feeling as if it was melting, sloughing off away from the bones and flesh.

Red stained his lips when he coughed, collapsing onto the filthy ground, weak and cold and tired.

Nameless loomed over him with a triumphant sneer.

Garrett turned over, tried to crawl away, but all that earned him was a boot to his leg.

Nameless stomped down onto the limb with a vengeance.

It snapped under the force.

Garrett could barely cry out before he was choking on blood and bile, attempting to cough it up, all to no avail.

He caught sight of Carver, who met his eyes, cornered by three men.

Time itself seemed to slow in that single second.

Garrett’s heart raced. Each beat pounded loudly in his ears, deafening in volume.

Carver shouted out to him, but Garrett didn't hear.

All he could think was that he needed to help.

He needed to get Carver out of there.

He couldn't fail him, too. Not like how he failed Bethany.

Garrett scraped at his mana, gathered the smallest scraps that yet remained.

He focused then with Carver as his center.

In a blast of force magic, the three men surrounding him were tossed back at a blinding speed.

If the initial impact of their heads against cold, stone walls didn't kill them, the whiplash alone from such a pull would have surely snapped their necks.

Nameless dragged Garrett up by his hair.

"You ruined everything," he hissed into his ear, "and now you will pay."

The barest whisper of metal grazed along his throat, pressed in until a tiny drop of blood beaded to the surface.

His body numb and limp, Garrett closed his eyes, awaiting the final swipe of his blade.

"No!" Carver yelled.

He stormed forward, running into them so that they were all sent sprawled out onto the ground.

Their weapons slid from their grasp, but Carver was quick to recover.

He reached out and grabbed the nearest weapon, one of the slaver's daggers.

Before Nameless could get up, Carver was on him in a fury.

"You can't have him!" Carver snarled into his face, teeth bared.

The blade sank deep into his chest.

"I won't let you take my brother!"

Over and over again, he stabbed him, blinded by rage, fueled by bloodlust. A red haze clouded his vision, and he screamed out all of his pain and frustration.

Garrett struggled to breathe.

He blinked past the dizziness, reaching out for him.

"Car–Carver," he gurgled.

With a final plunge of the knife, Carver stared down at the lifeless body beneath him.

Then, he glanced up at the carnage around them.

Bloodied hands trembled, but not because of all the death.

It wasn't his first kill, after all.

But it was the first time that a job went so astronomically terrible that one of them faced near-certain death.

Between the two of them, Carver never expected to come so close to losing Garrett.

He scrambled over to him on his hands and knees. His hands hovered over his body, uncertain.

"I need to pick you up," Carver warned him.

Garrett’s head lolled to the side. He managed a single bob of his head, his eyes threatening to roll back.

With their weapons long-forgotten, Carver adjusted himself to a better position for leverage. He worked his hands carefully underneath Garrett’s body, then lifted him up into his arms.

"Fuck!"

His blood was instantly lit aflame. Garrett cried out as white-hot pain lashed out within him. He panted out between clenched teeth, his chest heaving with every breath. Blood and spit sprayed from his mouth, dripping down his chin.

Carver adjusted his grip, careful not to nudge the dagger wedged into Garrett's side.

"Hang on, big brother," he told him, his tone forceful yet desperate. "I—"

An idea hit him then.

"The healer!" he exclaimed.

He set out without delay, his stride long and purposeful. Garrett groaned as he was jostled within his grasp.

"Wha—"

"Remember what Lirene mentioned the other day? The Fereldans in the refugee camps? There's a healer in Darktown! What did they say? What did they say?" he muttered to himself. Outside of the alley, he glanced around for help, but people turned away at the first sign of trouble. "Shit, shit, shit."

Garrett wheezed out, "The–The lantern."

Realization dawned on him.

Lirene's words came rushing back to him in a snap.

"'To find the healer,'" Carver repeated, "'look for the lit lantern.'"

He hurried in search for it, refusing to fall victim to anyone else looking for easy prey.

However, when all seemed lost, Carver found it.

The last thing that Anders expected that evening was for someone to come barreling through the clinic doors.

He had a few patients still there when it happened. A struggling mother-to-be whose pregnancy was taking its toll, a young lad who was fighting a rather nasty illness that spread to his lungs, and an elderly gentleman whose constant aches and pains exacerbated to the point that it gave him the fits.

Anders had been tending to the bedridden mother when a tall, bulky man all but crashed through his doors.

Caught off guard by the sudden intrusion, his skin flashed bright with light, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Anders instinctively placed himself between the man and his patient, but that was when he noticed the person cradled in the stranger's arms.

"Help!" Carver croaked. Searching the room, his gaze soon landed on Anders, making a beeline for Darktown's renowned healer. "Help us, please!"

As they neared, Anders took one look at them, covered in blood and clad in armor, and started to shake his head.

"Oh, no, no, no," he snapped, barging right up to them to try and shove them out. "You lot should know by now, I don't want any trouble with the local gangs. Keep your turf wars out of my clinic and away from my patients!"

"Look!" Carver retorted. "We don't want any trouble. I just want him healed. What would you take in exchange, hm? Protection? We can provide that in exchange for your services."

"Because you two did a fine job of protecting yourselves," Anders deadpanned.

"We were ambushed!"

"Listen, I don't need your protection, nor do I want it."

"Please!" Carver insisted. "He's my brother." His eyes glazed over with unshed tears. He stared down at Garrett, lower lip wobbling. "I—" His voice cracked. "I can't lose him, too."

Garrett stared up at him, then glanced over at Anders.

Anders instantly met his eyes and held his head up high, curious about what he would say.

After a moment of contemplation, Garrett turned to Carver again and whispered hoarsely.

"Let's go."

"What?!" Carver hissed. "Garrett, by the time we find another healer—"

"We can't draw attention to this place or these people," Garrett countered, surprisingly lucid for the moment. "We'd have even bigger problems to worry about if we bring the templars down on us all." Jaw clenched, he repeated himself, firmly so. "Let's go."

He shuddered, curling in on himself in an attempt to keep warm.

His skin, once a warm shade of brown, paled in comparison.

He broke out into a cold sweat.

Watching him closely, Anders pursed his lips.

Against his better judgment, he relented.

"Come with me," he ordered. When Carver didn't immediately follow, he turned to them with a curt look. "Now. If he has any chance of surviving, he needs to be treated, and soon."

His words spurred Carver into action, following close at his heel.

"Set him down there," Anders said, waving towards an empty bed. "Carefully, mind you."

Once Garrett was laid out atop the cot, Anders hovered his hands over him, surveying the damage.

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"There's something else here beyond the more obvious wounds," Anders noted, swallowing thickly. "A poison in his blood." He glanced between them. "Do you know what it is?"

When they remained silent, he scowled.

"Listen to me, if I don't know what I'm dealing with here, then I don't know how to treat it, especially if I have the means to craft an antidote," Anders stated. "Your other injuries won't mean much if a large enough dose of that poison got into your system already. Your heart might have already been damaged, for all we know. Help me, so that I can help you."

Garrett and Carver exchanged a wary look, then Garrett nodded in acquiescence.

"It was—" He sucked in a sharp breath, his body’s injuries catching up to him yet again. "It was magebane."

This time, when his eyes rolled back, Garrett promptly passed out.

Anders gaped, but he didn't have time to think.

He needed to act.

"You." He pointed to Carver. "Close the clinic doors and lock them. Come back, and I'll walk you through how to make the potion we need while I try to stabilize his wounds."

It took him a second to process the orders he was given, but he quickly nodded, prying himself away from Garrett's side to do as he was told.

Anders took a deep breath to steady himself.

Right.

He knew what to do. It was all a matter of execution from there.

First things first, he had to stop as much bleeding as possible, which meant taking advantage of Garrett’s unconscious state for the time being, mostly to minimize any pain or struggling. Anders quickly healed the deep gash across his chest, flesh and muscle knitting itself back into place before his very eyes.

From there, Anders turned his attention to his broken leg. A piece of bone protruded from the skin, but Anders has seen worse.

He had treated worse.

He stopped to down a lyrium potion, tossing the flask aside as he returned to Garrett’s side, his mana rejuvenated.

He knew from experience that mending bone was a huge drain.

Taking the broken limb in hand, he harnessed Justice's power for a split second, his otherworldly strength giving the boost that was needed to set the bone properly back into place.

Magic poured from his fingertips. Slowly but surely, the limb began to repair itself under Anders' guidance.

Carver returned to his side, but Anders didn't dare look away from his work, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Okay," Anders told him. "Follow my instructions exactly as I say."

While he continued to cast his spell, Carver ran around his potion-making station as he directed, mixing various ingredients together, grinding them into dust or paste using his mortar and pestle. Some of the herbs were unfamiliar to Carver, but others were common enough to recognize at first glance.

For the most part, the recipe called for equal parts embrium and elfroot with a dash of Prophet's Laurel for that little something extra.

When Anders finally moved on to the dagger in Garrett's side, he knew that he had to be quick yet precise.

Once he removed the blade, he started to heal Garrett's wounds from the inside, gradually working his way out. Jagged edges slid closed until only scars remained.

"Mix what you have with one of my lyrium potions," Anders said to Carver. "Take it slow. This is the last step, but the lyrium is supposed to act as a catalyst of sorts. If you rush the process, it might just ruin the whole thing. Stir the concoction until it is evenly mixed through."

After Carver finished, he brought the flask to Anders.

With a whispered spell or two, Anders' palms heated up, brought the liquid to a boil, and then cooled it back down to room temperature.

Swirling it around in slow, even circles, he reached out to cup the back of Garrett’s head.

Garrett stirred at his touch. His eyes opened only a sliver, struggling to focus before they locked onto Anders.

"The magebane is still in your system," Anders explained to him. "I won't be able to get it out with my spells alone. It's resistant to magic. Do you understand?"

Had he not been looking for it, Anders would have missed it.

There was a small nod of his head, barely there, but Garrett managed one nonetheless.

Anders took a deep, bracing breath.

"I need you to drink this potion. It should act as a counteragent to clear your blood," Anders continued, "but it won't be pleasant."

“Heh.” Garrett spared him a ghost of a smile, the corner of his lips twitching in amusement. “About as ‘pleasant’ as getting stabbed then?”

Anders raised an eyebrow at him.

“Something like that.”

Incredible. Even in his current state, barely able to draw breath, he wasted what precious few he had to crack a joke.

Part of Anders could respect it, at least.

“Here,” he said. “Help me sit him up.”

With Carver’s help, they were able to support his weight and better angle him. That way, he hopefully wouldn’t choke.

Anders pressed the flask to Garrett’s lips, slowly tilting it back.

“Drink,” he encouraged.

Difficult as it was to do so, Garrett obeyed, swallowing the first drops that slipped past his lips, followed by the next.

The taste definitely left much to be desired, but he focused on Anders instead.

Who was this selfless man, hiding out in Kirkwall’s Undercity?

Breathing through his nose, he choked down all of the potion, down to the very last drop.

Once he finished, they set him back down onto the cot, but the antidote was already kicking in by then.

If the magebane felt like fire in his veins, then the antidote felt as if his entire body was being burned alive.

Garrett’s back bowed off of the bed. He clawed at his throat, his mouth agape as a silent scream tried to break free.

His heart crashed against his ribcage, threatening to burst free.

For a split second, he collapsed, but that didn’t last long before Garrett started to writhe in full-blown agony, begging for someone to make it stop, make it stop, make it stop…

The torches in the clinic blazed in response.

Spikes of ice erupted from the ground around the cot.

Both Anders and Carver just barely managed to escape its reach.

“Maker’s breath,” Anders gasped.

Quickly, he dispelled Garrett’s magic with his own, holding the spell long enough to retrieve one of those herbaceous powders that Carver whipped up.

“Restrain him,” Anders barked out. “Before he hurts himself or anyone else!”

Carver rushed forward to do so, pinning his brother in place while he screeched, bucking against his hold.

“If you’re going to do something,” Carver snapped, “then do it now!”

Anders didn’t have to be told twice.

Dipping his fingers into the powder, he closed the distance to draw a sigil upon Garrett’s forehead, all while reciting the incantation for another spell.

After it was placed, Anders pressed his palm to Garrett’s forehead and hissed the final word, filled with intent and purpose.

It was a matter of the mind then; but in Garrett’s condition, it took little for Anders to overpower him, his focus and willpower dedicated solely to casting the spell.

The sigil lit up beneath his palm, and Garrett’s eyes slid closed.

He fell limp, unconscious once more.

Carver looked between the two, cautious of their power.

“What did you do?”

“I cast a spell to help him sleep off the effects of the antidote,” Anders answered. “Hopefully, now, he won’t feel a thing.”

After that, healing the rest of his injuries was simple, as easy as breathing.

While he worked, Anders did his best to assure him.

"You should go home and rest," he said. "I'll send word if anything happens, Serah…?"

He trailed off in question.

Carver pursed his lips, but he figured that he earned his name at least.

"Hawke," he introduced. "My name is Carver Hawke, and that man that you saved?" He nodded towards his brother. "His name is Garrett."

“I wish we had met under better circumstances then, but I am Anders.”

“Not your real name, I take it?” Carver asked.

Anders flashed him a secretive smile.

“It is now.”

“Right…” Carver sighed with a shake of his head, running his fingers through his hair, only to wrinkle his nose when he remembered the blood on his hands. “I do need to go get cleaned up. And I should really try to retrieve our weapons, if no one else got to them first.”

“Go do what you have to. I’ll need to watch over your brother anyways to monitor his condition. He’ll be safe here,” Anders promised.

If nothing else, Anders was sure of that.

“He better be,” Carver warned. He weighed his options for a moment, then agreed, albeit reluctantly. “I’ll be back.”

“Yeah, I’m counting on it,” Anders grumbled.

After Carver left, Anders locked the clinic up behind him. He rounded on all of his other patients, setting them at ease, before he eventually returned to Garrett’s side.

With a wet cloth in hand, he knelt near him, carefully washing the blood from his face.

He chose to ignore how his heart skipped a beat.

Dark brown curls clung to clammy skin.

Against his better judgment, Anders reached out and brushed the strands out of his eyes.

Even asleep as he was, Anders could recall with perfect clarity how it felt to be on the receiving end of his stare.

Part of him was curious, wanting to trace the tattoos that framed his face, or perhaps the swipe of red painted across his nose.

Before he could act on such impulses, he reined himself in, withdrawing his touch as he scolded himself.

Such actions, let alone such thoughts, were hardly appropriate.

Anders busied himself with cleaning the clinic, taking stock of his supplies, but that only kept him busy for so long.

Before he knew it, he was back at Garrett’s side. He had dragged a chair up next to his cot, watching over him with a fine mixture of curiosity and fascination.

“Garrett Hawke, huh?” Anders murmured. He crossed his arms over his chest, his head cocked to the side. After a moment, he groaned, dragging his hands down over his face. “Andraste have mercy, Anders, what did you get yourself into?”

Not that he was going to receive an answer any time soon.

By the time Garrett awakened, night had turned to morning, dusk to dawn. What little sunlight there was streamed into the clinic. All other patients were gone.

An old, worn-out blanket had been draped over him some time during the night. Someone had apparently bathed him, his skin free of blood, tattered armor switched out with casual attire.

Given that he recognized the clothing, his bets were on Carver cleaning him.

Great. He’ll never let Garrett live that one down.

Garrett peeked an eye open, then the other, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes with a loud yawn.

He smacked his lips, his mouth dry yet thick, as if stuffed full of cotton.

Garrett turned over, only to catch sight of his savior, fast asleep in a nearby chair.

He tried to sit up, but a sore ache surged through his body, his muscles tense.

His head spun. A subtle throb radiated at his temples, slowly building.

Burying his face into his hands, Garrett groaned.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Carver soothed, instantly at his side, opposite of Anders. “Take it easy. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Yeah?” Garrett grunted. “Well, you should see the other guy.”

“You mean the one that I killed?”

“Exactly.”

Carver snorted, but he couldn’t hide his relief.

“You ass.” After a moment, he clenched his jaw, his eyes lit aflame with a poorly-concealed rage. He leaned in close to whisper to Garrett. “As soon as you’re ready, we need to discuss our next move.” He tossed a glance at Anders, glad to find him still fast asleep. “In private, preferably.”

“Yeah,” Garrett muttered. “No arguments there.”

The issue was, Athenril had grown bold, arrogant even, in the year since they joined. Because they worked at a higher efficiency than her usual hires, she treated them as if they were invincible, able to take on anything and everything she threw at them, no questions asked.

This wasn’t the first time she made a bad call on their part, but it was the first time they paid such a high price because of her carelessness. As a matter of fact, this was only the latest in a rather long string of other bad calls, but no more. Garrett had only joined up with her over Meeran to establish connections where it actually mattered, rather than to do the dirty jobs for a bunch of washed-up nobles with a grudge.

By that point, he and Carver had repaid their debt in full, and then some.

All things considered, they established themselves well enough. It was probably better to cut ties with Athenril as soon as they could before she got one of them killed.

Garrett might have already been looking into other, much bigger offers circulating around Kirkwall.

Then, there was the matter of Slack-Jawed Pete.

Seems like they needed to pay him a visit.

But that could wait until later.

For all they knew, he had gone to ground already, but that bastard never left Kirkwall for too long.

He always came crawling back for more.

Besides, Garrett had more pressing concerns to attend to.

“What did you tell Mother?” he asked. “About why I didn’t come home?”

Pressing his fingers to his temple, he cast a small healing spell to calm his headache.

Carver smiled sheepishly, which prompted Garrett to narrow his eyes at him in suspicion.

“I might have told her that you spent the night at Sapphire’s place,” Carver said, unable to keep his laugh at bay.

“Seriously, Carver?” Garrett huffed. “You know she wouldn’t approve of that.”

“Exactly why I said it.”

“Who’s Sapphire?”

Both Garrett and Carver jumped at the sudden question, startled by the sound of Anders’ voice.

He frowned at them, stretching out his long limbs before popping his back. A quiet groan of relief slipped free when the stiffness unraveled.

“That your girlfriend or something?”

“Ha!” Carver snickered. “That’s funny. As if dearest big brother would have a girlfriend.”

Garrett rolled his eyes at him.

“Don’t mind Carver. What he meant to say is that Sapphire is a fine man, but he is not my boyfriend or anything of the sort.”

“Try telling him that,” Carver joked.

“He has a crush, and that is all,” Garrett said, “not me.”

“Well, at least he has good taste,” Anders said, shocking both Garrett and himself with the comment. “I mean, uh—”

He hopped to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over in the process, but he managed to catch it before it crashed to the floor.

“You must be thirsty!” he shouted, then forced his voice back to an even tone. “You should stay hydrated. I’ll get you some water.”

Righting his chair, he scrambled to fetch the pitcher that he filled earlier while Garrett was sleeping. His hand trembled a little as he poured, but Anders paid it no mind, passing the cup along to Garrett once he returned.

Their fingers brushed as he handed it to him.

Their eyes locked, and Anders felt his breath leave him, all at once.

Garrett flashed him a charming smile.

“Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.” Anders brushed some stray strands of hair back behind his ears, his cheeks warming with the beginnings of a blush. “Really.” He shrugged. “Helping people is sort of what I do.”

Carver stared at them, unimpressed.

“And what am I?” he asked. “Chopped liver?”

Neither one of them answered, if they even heard him in the first place.

“So, you’re an apostate,” Anders noted. Not a question, but a statement.

To distract himself from all the thoughts running rampant in his mind, he left them at the cot to start preparing his poultices for the day.

Not that Garrett was deterred in the slightest. He quickly downed his drink and followed after him like a lost puppy, walking with a slight limp.

“As are you.”

Carver rolled his eyes.

“‘Thanks for dragging my ass to the healer while I was on the verge of death, little brother. You really came through for me,’” Carver said to himself, mimicking the cadence of Garrett’s voice. “‘No problem, Garrett. That’s what family’s for.’” Shaking his head, Carver got to his feet and called out to them. “I’m gonna go wait outside until you two are done doing whatever it is that you’re doing. Remember, Garrett, we have to discuss business today if you’re up to it. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

This time, he at least got Garrett to acknowledge him.

With a nod, he told him, “I’ll be out shortly.”

Once Carver was gone, Garrett returned his full attention to Anders.

“You know what, I don’t think I caught your name,” he said, offering his hand out to him. “Clearly, as my brother so helpfully pointed out, I’m Garrett.”

Anders stopped what he was doing.

After a moment, he took Garrett’s hand with a firm shake.

“Anders,” he introduced.

Their touch lingered, causing Garrett to chuckle.

“Is this the part where I try to be smooth and kiss the back of your hand?”

Anders laughed.

“Maybe next time.”

“‘Next time,’ huh?” Garrett nodded, eyeing Anders up and down with a grin. “I can work with that.”

“I’m sure you could,” Anders replied, both of them releasing their hold on one another.

“Although, I do have to say,” Garrett hummed, “usually I don’t stay the first night after meeting a guy, let alone without knowing his name.”

“Does that mean I should feel honored that you stayed?” Anders asked, amused by his antics.

“If anyone should feel honored, it would be me,” Garrett said. “In all seriousness, though, I want you to know that you have nothing to fear from me. We have a common enemy in the templars, after all. Plus, I owe you a great debt.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“Not how I see it, but I will repay you, however I can.” He nudged him softly in the side. “We could offer protection for your clinic.”

“Actually, I think I have that covered,” Anders said, his tone dismissive.

“I heard my brother offer the deal in exchange for your help,” Garrett explained. “That’s not something I take lightly. I intend to uphold our end of the bargain.”

Anders shook his head at him in disbelief.

“I don’t have any coin to offer you.”

“Good thing that I didn’t ask for coin then.” When he could sense Anders’ resolve falter, he tried addressing the matter from a different angle. “What if I come back tonight? You get to check on how I’m doing, and I get to give you a taste of how I operate. If you’re not satisfied with my service, then I’ll leave the clinic’s security to you, no questions asked.”

“Uh-huh…”

Trailing off, Anders chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking it over. He really shouldn’t let him get too close. Knowing that he was an apostate was one thing, but if Garrett found out about Justice, there was no telling how he would react.

“How do I—” Anders scoffed under his breath. “How do I know this isn’t some elaborate plan to try and get closer to me?”

“Well, it kind of is,” Garrett admitted, as shameless as can be.

“At least you’re honest,” Anders sighed, “but what if I told you that getting close to me is a bad idea?”

Garrett stared at him, unafraid.

His expression gentled, his body shifting closer to him so that their words were kept between them.

“Then, I would say, let me decide if the risk is worth it.” When Anders didn’t immediately respond, Garrett fidgeted nervously. “So… I’ll see you tonight?”

That hopeful tone of his was enough to make Anders’ willpower crumble to dust.

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

The words were worth it, simply to watch his face light up in response.

Garrett beamed at him with a joy so contagious that not even Anders could resist.

“You take care,” Garrett said.

On his way out the clinic, Anders waited until he was out of sight before whispering, “You, too.”

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #garrett hawke #male hawke #carver hawke #anders #handers #bluerose writes

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siriuslywolfish-pg9 · 4 years

Text

I shared my Dessert! (And my heart)

- by Perrygrace9 (ao3) A Drarry one shot.

Based on a Prompt I received on tumblr: “Ok hear me out. This is based on how I got with my bf. Draco has had a crush on Harry forever(and they're sorta friends but not really) One day Harry walks in on Draco crying in a stairwell of a hotel, harry goes to comfort him and Draco fesses up to how he feels. Ok this is just what happened to me with new names but still it would be dope to see it written out.

________________________________________

Draco buried his face in his knees, his fingers fisting his hair as he bit his lip in a vain attempt to stifle the sobs that wracked through his chest.

The image of Harry kissing Oliver Wood was still flashing through his mind, burning and stinging his heart, scorching him to the very core.

He hated it! Hated the way Harry was leaning against the counter in that easy confident way of his, with his strong arms wrapped around Wood's waist as the Quidditch star nipped and licked at Harry's neck while Harry chuckled before leaning down and catching his lips in a heated kiss.

He hated how easily Oliver Wood had taken the glass of scotch from Harry's grasp—like he owned the man—and had nestled into Harry’s arms before proceeding to make out with him, as if Wood belonged there, as if he was laying claim on Harry by kissing him in front of everyone, right at the bar counter in the middle of a party for all the world to see that he owned the saviour who was coveted by the entire wizarding world.

It made Draco sick. And so he had chucked down the last of his drink and stormed out of the hall, leaving Pansy surprised and calling after him. But he hadn't turned back, too desperate to hide his tears and leave the hall before they fell and spilled from his eyes, making him the object of ridicule.

He shouldn't have come to this stupid ministry gala. But he did anyway. Just to look at Harry. To see him dressed up in all his glory and see the shine in his eyes. Harry looked beautiful in his full Auror uniform, his medals and tags adorning his chest and shoulders. His eyes sharp and his smile genuine and kind as ever. It was a rare sight and Draco didn't want to miss it for the world.

Last month Draco had received the invitation for the gala—which he knew was partly Harry's doing since the ministry would never voluntarily invite an Ex Death Eater to a function, even though Draco had been acquitted and had been serving as a healer for the past few years, doing his utter most to make up for the damage he had caused.

He had been hesitant to go to the gala at first, not ready to face so many scornful eyes and glares. But the other reason why he didn't want to go was because he would have to see Harry taking someone else as his date. Draco had tried, or fantasised really, to ask Harry to be his date, but he knew it wasn't possible. Even if Harry agreed simply out of politeness and the goodness of his heart, because the idiot was too soft hearted to reject someone, Draco still did not have it in him to create problems for Harry by being with him so publically. He knew how draining Harry found the hungry media. And Draco would be nothing but a stain on his shining golden image.

In the last few months they have become tentative friends and Draco respected and cared too much for Harry to hurt him in anyway, especially not after how kind Harry had been to Draco when the world had shunned him.

But even worse was watching so many people asking Harry to be his date. Every time Draco had been at the ministry to drop Auror medical reports or samples or anything, he had seen someone asking Harry or hinting to it or making a pass at him. And each time Draco's insides had clenched in a tight knot, afraid that Harry would agree. But for some reason Harry had turned down everyone, saying he had someone special he wanted to take.

And that had been worse to hear. This whole time at least Draco had told himself that Harry was single. That even if it was impossible, Draco still had a chance. He could almost delude himself into thinking that he had time to get close to Harry, to know him and love him. But now, knowing that Harry probably already had someone special, had nailed down the reality for Draco and his hopes and dreams had come crashing down.

At last, he had asked Pansy to be his date. Even though he knew he would regret it later, it was impossible for him to miss the chance of seeing just who Harry's someone special was. His desperation and curiosity had gotten the better of him. And now he regretted it tremendously.

He cursed himself, a choked sob racking through his lungs. He was so stupid. What had he expected to gain by coming here? That somehow a miracle would happen and Harry would confess his love for Draco? He had known Harry would be bringing his "someone special" . Harry himself had told Draco when he had asked Draco if he was planning to go to the gala.

Maybe some stupid part in Draco, a naive and hopeful and idiot and stupidly in love part of Draco had hoped it to be untrue. Had hoped that Harry's partner would be someone who didn't deserve him (not that Draco ever considered himself worthy of deserving Harry, but still!). That way at least Draco would have someone to hate, to scorn and detest and direct all his resentment and frustration for not being able to express his feelings for Harry, and eventually get over Harry. Even though Draco knew that would never happen, he could never get over Harry.

But it had turned out to be Oliver Wood. The famous, charming, successful and dashing Oliver wood. Draco never stood a chance against Oliver. It was pathetic to even dream about it.

But what could he do? Draco was known for making the worst decisions, for screwing up the simplest of things. And now he had fallen in love with Harry. Stupidly and madly in love with Harry. He had tried so hard not to let himself be carried away by those piercing eyes every time they had looked at Draco with warmth and sympathy and understanding. He had tried so hard not to trip over and fall for that lazy smile, charming and goofy and yet so open and honest.

After Harry had ensured the safety of his family and kept him and his mother out of Azkaban, Draco had done his best to make the most of this generous second chance, but to also avoid Harry at all cost. But Draco being a healer and Harry being an Auror prone to injury had made their meeting inevitable. And before Draco knew it, Harry was inviting him for dinners and pub nights and friendly outings with friends.

Draco had tried to refuse, partly out of wounded pride at being perceived as a pathetic loner (although now he knew that Harry didn't see him that way) and partly because he knew he wouldn't be welcomed. But Harry's sincere attempts to mend things between them and his earnest eyes had been difficult to rebuff.

At first it had been awkward, and more than once he had caught Harry glaring at someone or pointedly shutting them up if they tried to say anything mean or degrading to Draco and his friends. Yes, Harry had been kind enough to extend his generosity and his forgiveness to Draco's friends too, so that Draco didn't have to come to these gatherings alone. The noble, pure, giant hearted idiot that Harry was, how could anyone not fall for him?

And look where it had all ended up. With Draco crying on the eve of Christmas in the dark corner at the bottom of the steps of the empty stairwell of a grand hotel, while the rest of the wizarding world celebrated in the grand ballroom. The ceremonies had ended long ago, giving way to the more raunchy after-party with booze and band and blasting music. It was then when Draco had seen the sight which had broken his heart into pieces.

He had known this was coming, he had always known that this would end in heartbreak when he had first realised his feelings for Harry. But he had no idea that it would hurt this bad. To see someone else in Harry's arms was gut wrenching. It was like Draco's heart was imploding into itself. But it was happening slowly and torturously, as if every chunk was falling piece by piece, every vein and tending snapping like a thread one after the other, and pain chipping away at his insides until Draco couldn't take it anymore.

The place where his heart should be felt hollow and painful, and heavy, and it ached! It ached so bad. Worse than the cruciatus, because at least the pain of the curse always ended. But this? This heart break? This loss? No. Draco already knew that this was a wound that would never heal.

"Draco?"

His head snapped as he looked up, his eyes wide. Harry was standing there, leaning against the column, one hand in his pocket. His medals glinted in the moonlight. His hair was tousled and the top buttons of his collar were open. He looked breath-taking.

"Harry?" Draco choked out and looked away, sniffling and hastily wiping his tears. "Wha--what are you doing here? I thought you would be at the party."

"I was looking for you. You suddenly disappeared."

"Oh." Draco looked at his lap, he hadn't expected that answer. Something warm spread through his chest, like a gentle balm soothing his flaming nerves. Harry had come looking for him. "You—" his voice caught, scratchy from crying. He cleared his throat, "You should be inside."

“So should you."

Draco remained quite, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. He was well aware that Harry could see his tear tracks and his rumpled, dishevelled appearance, and was desperate to avoided this conversation before Harry had a chance to make any enquires about his well being.

“Are you alright?" Harry's voice was soft and so full of concern that Draco wanted to just pull him close and spill his heart out to him and never let him go.

Instead Draco just glared at the floor, stubbornly pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves.

Harry sighed and sat on the steps, facing Draco. Leaning his back against the railing, he scrutinised Draco with a grave expression on his face, his arms crossed over his chest. "Draco, look at me." Draco didn't. "Did someone say anything? Was it the media? You can tell me, you know, I will see to it that they--"

Draco shook his head and the tears that had been clinging to his eyelashes rolled down his cheeks.

"No, no one said anything,” he mumbled in a small voice. Harry's protectiveness and indignation on his behalf was bitter sweet. It made Draco crave him even more, but at the same time the realisation that, no matter how close Draco got to Harry, Harry would always be just out of his reach, tarnished and chilled the warmth that he had felt moments ago.

More tears fell down his cheeks. "Fuck!" He cursed under his breath, angrily wiping them away. But they kept falling. "Shit! Don't--"

"Hey." Harry's voice was soft and oh so tender. Warm hands cupped Draco's cheeks as Harry turned his face to make him meet his eyes. "Draco, look at me, please."

Draco slowly peered up at Harry from under his eyelashes, his vision a little blurry from tears. Harry's expression was concerned, and there was such tenderness in his eyes that Draco felt his heart breaking, he could almost hear the crack, like the shattering of frozen ice over a lake. He choked on a sob.

Harry’s expression went from concerned to panicked, and he pulled Draco close, wrapping him in his arms. And Draco knew he had lost it. It was a hopeless battle to begin with. Loud, broken sobs wracked through his body as tears flowed down his cheeks in abandon, soaking Harry's expensive robes.

But Harry didn't seen to mind. He just held Draco close, drawing soothing circles on his back, shushing and mumbling sweet nothings into his ears.

If anything, it made everything ten times worse. How could Draco ever be expected to forget this beautiful, caring, selfless man? Especially when he was hugging Draco like this, like he was the most precious thing in the world. In that moment, Draco wanted to stay in Harry's arms forever. He would happily embrace death in that moment if it meant that he would die in Harry's arms and Harry calm, loving voice would be the last memory resonating through the beats of his fading heart as he took his final breath.

But at the same time having Harry so close and yet so far was torture, and Draco wanted to pull away from him as if burned, unable to endure the agony of his yearning heart anymore.

"I am sorry, Harry," Draco mumbled between his sobs, his voice muffled and strained with guilt and shame. "I am so sorry. I tried--I tried to stop it, I really did—but I can't anymore, I am so sorry."

Harry hugged his tighter. "What are you saying," he said softly in Draco's hair. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Dragon"

Draco’s breath hitched at the use of the pet name, it was something he allowed only Harry to call him. His face still buried in Harry's chest, Draco shook his head. It was now or never. "I—I like you Harry. I like you a lot."

Harry froze. Draco felt it the instant when Harry's entire body went rigid. Draco's stomach dropped.

Harry pulled away, keeping Draco at arms length, his jaw slack as he looked at Draco with an unreadable expression in his face.

Draco dropped his eyes to the floor. His heart hammered against his chest, filled with guilt and self loathing. How could he even dare to like Harry, let alone love him. And now Draco had gone ahead and dumped his feelings on Harry. It wasn't fare to him. He was sure Harry would hate him now. Or worse, he would try to make it up to Draco, and would be too careful around him to avoid hurting him by further.

"I will understand if you want me to—” Draco hiccupped—"I would understand if you don't want to remain friends with me anymore. Not that we were ever friends. I wouldn't be so arrogant as to assume that but—I know I shouldn't—It’s okay if you hate me. I deserve it. I would never say it again, I promise. These are my feelings and you don't have to—"

Draco's rambling was cut off by a pair of soft lips crashing into his in a chaste but firm kiss. Draco's eyes widened, but then they fell shut on their own accord as Harry snaked an arm around Draco's waist, his hand coming to rest on the small of Draco's back and pulling him close, his other hand cupped Draco's jaw before burying into Draco's hair as the nape of his neck. Draco gasped, Harry deepened the kiss and continued to kiss Draco like a traveller in desert quenching his thirst.

The kiss was languid and sure and warm and chaste, full of assurance and meaning, like the sweet words of comfort or the safety of Harry's embrace. Harry kissed like he protected, like he cared and like he loved. With his entire being, giving away his everything, without demanding anything in return. Just giving and giving and giving...

And Draco was drowning in it. His toes curled, and the very tips of his fingers tingled with the sweet sensation of the feeling of Harry’s lips on his, Harry's hand on his back, his firm chest and his strong shoulder in Draco's grip where he clutched onto Harry for dear life.

Slowly, the heated kisses turned gentle and light and lazy, and Harry finally pulled away, his hand still on Draco's cheek, the thumb of his other hand tracing circles on Draco's back, teasing the hem of his shirt where it had ridden up.

Draco's eyes fluttered open. Harry was staring back at him, his hair and eyes shining like a mossy lake under the moonlight. He looked ethereal.

“Why?" was all Draco could manage.

"I like you too." He tentatively wiped Draco's tears, caressing his cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I am sorry I didn't say anything sooner, love."

"Do you really mean that?"

Harry nodded.

"But what about Wood?" Draco asked, his voice just above a whisper , afraid that this was a dream and he would wake up if he raised his voice. He deliberately stopped himself from fixating too much on the fact that Harry had just called him love. "I just saw you two together..."

Harry's mouth formed an "O" "You saw that?"

Draco nodded, his cheeks burning pink, whether from embarrassment or fear, he didn't know, or maybe it had something to do with Harry's closeness or the affection in his eyes when he looked at Draco. He suddenly realised that Harry had been giving him that look for weeks now, only he had failed to notice it in his apprehension.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, “That was just drinks and we were being stupid....Oliver would be leaving tomorrow for his tour anyway. There is nothing between us. We were just fooling around."

"But wasn't he your special someone?"

Harry laughed, then shook his head when Draco's eyes widened in horror, thinking that Harry was mocking him and that this was all a sick joke. Harry stopped and smiled fondly at him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Draco's ear. "No, you prat. Oliver isn't my special some, you are."

Draco stared at him dumbly. "But I thought—Why didn't you ever say anything?"

“I tried! I tried to ask you but I kept chickning out and then you said that you were going with Pansy."

"I said that because I thought you were going with some one else and I didn't want to—you know..."

"We are so stupid."

Draco pouted. "Speak for yourself, Potter. You are the one who chickened out of asking me to the ball. It was all your fault." Draco sniffed. "We could have avoided all the angst, but no, you had to go and make me cry. You enjoy it, don't you?"

Harry burst out laughing and pulled Draco close again, smothering him in a hug. "Like you gave me any chance. You are as cold and stiff as an iceberg."

Draco pulled away just a little from where his face was smushed against Harry. "I was obvious, Harry. You were just too oblivious to notice."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Draco held up his hands in a gesture of dramatic defeat. "I shared my desserts with you and sacrificed my beauty sleep from time to time to be with you. That's as obvious as it gets. Even Blaise knew, and he is a slut who only concerns himself with the matters of his dick, and even he saw that I was arse over tit for you!"

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again, looking amused. "You are ridiculous."

"No, you are just thick!"

"Hey! That's no way to treat your boyfriend."

Draco’s stomach flipped and he blushed. "Boyfriend?"

Harry looked away, "I mean, if you want to."

"Do you want to?"

Harry glanced at Draco and nodded.

Draco's heart skipped a beat and he inched closer to Harry. Boyfriends!

“Wait. If you and Wood are not an item then why were you snogging his face off? I can understand why he was doing it. But I thought hook-ups weren't your thing?"

Harry flushed crimson, looking sheepish. "I thought you would never reciprocate my feelings. I was trying to get you out of my system."

Draco's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "By snogging Wood?"

“Yes?”

“Why would I not want you, Harry? Have you seen me? Have you seen yourself?" Draco gestured at Harry from top to bottom, generally encompassing his whole being.

Harry just blinked back at him. And Draco realised that Harry, stupid, idiot, modest, wearing-his-heart-on-his-sleeve, dorky Harry, really did think that Draco would reject him.

Draco couldn't help the fond smile that curled across his lips. Harry's innocence in such matters was endearing. Harry really had no idea how amazing he was. It looked like his dreadful relatives really did a number on him when it came to self-appreciation. Well, Draco would just have to rectify that.

“So," Harry said haltingly, almost hesitant. “Now that you know everything, may I kiss you?”

Draco blinked, his lips parting in shock. He was still a little dazed and incredulous at the turn of events. The first kiss had been sudden, barely giving Draco any time to think before he had reacted. But this time it would be for real.

Harry took his silence as a yes and slowly leaned in, giving Draco enough time to pull back. His lips graced Draco's, gentle and tentative at first, then sure and firm and full of promise as he pulled Draco close.

Wrapping his arms around Harry's neck, Draco kissed him back with fervour, almost climbing onto Harry's lap.

Draco stopped, panting. "You know, there are a lot of rooms here," he mumbled between their almost touching lips.

"Yeah? Would you like try one?" And without waiting for an answer he hauled Draco up with ease. Draco squealed and instinctively wrapped his legs around Harry's waist.

"Someone is impatient," he said, breathless, brushing his nose against Harry's. He felt so elated he could fly.

"You bet I am." Harry mumbled before attacking Draco's exposed collar. He pinned Draco against the nearest door, his hand fumbling as he swiped his all access Auror card to enter the room, all the while not taking his mouth off Draco. The moment the door was shut behind him, he pushed Draco against it and latched onto his neck. "I have been waiting for this for so long, you have no idea."

Draco moaned as Harry sucked at a specially sensitive spot. "Really?"

Harry broke away, "My fantasies were getting so blond It was creepy."

That startled a laugh out of Draco—who would have guessed?—but it was cut short as Harry grinned and attacked his mouth again.

Safe to say that Draco had an amazing Christmas.

#drarry #drarry fanfic #draco x harry #drarry fluff #drarry angst #drarry oneshot #ao3 #hp fanfic

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