#colleagues to friends to lovers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rainontherooftops · 7 months

Text

Cradle

Summary: FBI Agent Marcus Pike finds out that one of his agents is pregnant - yet still insists on going into the field and taking risks. Fighting his feelings for her, he needs to step up and be a boss instead of a caring friend.

Fandom: The Mentalist - Pedro Pascal as FBI Agent Marcus Pike Genre: Colleagues toFriends to Lovers, Drama, Family Drama, Pregnancy Pairing: Marcus x f! Reader Triggers : Mentions of pregnancy and broken family dynamics, mentions of abortion and misscarriage Rating : T

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

+++

Cradle

„Being pregnant is not the problem here, mother!”

Eavesdropping, Marcus thought, was an awful thing. And he really didn’t want to eavesdrop. But you weren’t exactly silent on the phone as you argued with your mother.

He had asked you to come into work on a Saturday morning, in hopes to finally catch a break on the case the team had been working on, when the building was less busy.

Two coffees and pastries from your favorite bakery down the block in his hand, he had almost knocked on the door to your office – until he had heard your voice through the door and stopped in shock.

He could, of course, double back and give you your privacy, wait five minutes until he was sure that your argument was over – but this was a delicate topic.

Chastising himself for eavesdropping, he sharpened his ears. You were one of his agents. If you were pregnant, he didn’t exactly have the right to know, but he should probably think about not sending you out into the field anymore.

Marcus didn’t have the time to think things over or digest the information that you were pregnant, because you were still shouting at your mother.

“Ohh, no, you can’t play that card. It is not the woman’s fault when the bastard who impregnated her leaves her as soon as he finds out! If you want to blame someone, blame Curtis. He’s the one who packed his bags and hauled ass. The pee hadn’t even dried on the pregnancy test!”

He really, really shouldn’t listen. But the story got spicier, and more heart-wrecking by the minute. Marcus hadn’t even known that you had been seeing someone. He had even hoped that there was a spark between the two of you. But now-

“No, Mom, just no. Don’t bring God into this! It’s all ‘be a good, Christian, abstinent girl’ – until the day you turn twenty-one. Ever since that day you’ve asked about ‘potential husbands and grandchildren’.”

Marcus suppressed a sigh. He knew that your relationship with your mother was strained at the best of times, but right now, it seemed positively chaotic.

“Abortion?! Mom! You’ve been complaining to your friends about the lack of grandchildren for years, and now that there’s one on the way you want to get rid of it?! Just because it doesn’t come with a marriage certificate? Fuck you! Either you show some fucking support for your daughter and your future grandchild, or you prepare for a future without them. Your choice.”

Marcus almost dropped the coffees when he jumped back as the cellphone that you had probably been shouting into hit the heavy oak door with a shattering smash. He could hear you groaning and cursing, and he knew it was time to retreat.

Thanking the gods above for the carpeted floor in the old building that hosted the art department, he slowly walked back towards the doors.

He made it around a corner just in time; he heard the door of your office open and close again. Deeming it save to appear now, he put on his best bland face so as to not rise suspicion that he had heard and now knew your secret.

You had been power walking so fast towards him that he almost collided with you in the hallway.

“Woah, good morning there.”

Marcus could see the anger in your face, the storm in your eyes and that you were still fuming. But as soon as your gazes met, he thought that your features softened a little.

An exhausted sigh left your lips as you stopped in front of him.

“Marcus. Sorry, I didn’t look where I was-… Please tell me those are pastries from Cherry’s.”

He smiled.

“It’s the least I can get you when you’re willing to come in on a Saturday”

Pregnant, and probably with a lot of other things on your mind, he added in his thoughts, trying not to worry.

Normally he’d ask you how you are, but he refrained today, just handing you your coffee. After all, he knew that you were not feeling good. Also, he was afraid.

Of course he would listen to your problems if you decided to tell him – but somehow he wasn’t ready for it.

You hadn’t talked to your mother in six weeks. Between working on cases and reading books about babies and pregnancies, there was one more thing that weighed on your thoughts – Marcus Pike.

Your boss slash friend slash secret crush was acting weird. His mood altered between being nervous around you to straight up ignoring you. And every time a new case came in, he asked you to stay behind and do the research instead of going into the field.

Had you done something wrong? Were you being punished? Marcus knew you were a damn good field agent – so why was he benching you?

It didn’t just hurt your pride that he was effectively “demoting” you – it also hurt that somehow you had seemed to lose his friendship over the last weeks.

The breaking point came during an “all hands on deck” situation, where you slipped into your stab vest and prepared to leave with the rest of the crew, when Marcus turned around and told you to stay.

Your colleagues had of course noticed that something had changed in the last weeks – they were trained agents after all. You wanted to say something, but Marcus lifted his fingers, and it seemed like he was trying to keep it together.

“Please, just don’t argue with me on this. Stay here.”

“But why? Marcus, seriously, we need all the people we- “

“I told you to stay, agent, and that’s final!”, he shouted, effectively silencing the whole bullpen.

Nobody tried to hide their stares. Never had any of them seen Special Agent Pike lose his cool.

“Fine…”, you growled, throwing your stab vest on the ground and stomping back to your office.

You could see that your colleagues were eyeing you and Marcus with curious glances, their eyes burning into your skin.

It was 3. A. M. when Marcus returned to his apartment, only to see you sitting beneath his doorframe, shivering, and waiting for him to get home.

Th glare he received made his skin crawl – but he had done what he had to do. You were taking too many risks, actively putting the baby and yourself in peril – and he would not stand for that.

If you still weren’t feeling like telling him that you would be out of duty soon, then he had to take the reins.

“Why are you lurking at my door, agent?”, Marcus asked, exhausted, fumbling for his keys.

You were getting up and it took all the strength in him to not scoop down or lend you a hand. Every fiber of his being wanted to help you – but technically he still didn’t know about the pregnancy.

“Don’t ‘agent’ me, Marcus. I’m not here as your employee, I’m here as your friend.”

Sighing, he opened the door and let you in. Darkness surrounded you, only the faintest moonlight illuminating the hallway.

Marcus suddenly yelped in pain when you punched his upper arm as hard as you could.

“Oi!”

“What the fuck”, you complained, “was that earlier? What did I do, Marcus? Why have you been ignoring me? Why have you been benching me?”

Growling and frustrated, Marcus massaged his sore arm and trotted into the living room, turning the light on, carelessly throwing his leather jacket towards a chair.

“I could ask you the same thing. What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you still insisting on going into the field?”

That sentence earned him a confused look and two arms crossed in front of a heaving chest.

“What do you mean ‘still’? Why shouldn’t I go out into the field anymore?”

Marcus was fumbling, pacing up and down. He knew he had to tell you now that he knew you were pregnant. He had to face his feelings.

The feelings of rejection he had felt ever since he found out. The feeling of losing hope once again and heartbreak – heartbreak about a woman he had not even had a first date with yet.

“Because… Because of your condition.”

“My condition? Marcus, what…”

“Oh, for fucks sake, I know you’re pregnant, okay? I accidentally overheard you fighting with your mother on the phone”, he exploded, sitting down on the sofa and running his hands through his hair.

He had thought a lot about your predicament in the last weeks. Would you be alright as a single mother? Where could he find this bastard who had left you and kick his ass, make sure he paid child support?

How much help would you accept?

Should he… Should he offer to help out with the baby?

He expected for you to shout at him, to be mad, to cry or to leave the apartment, but instead he heard you ask: “Marcus? What is this?”

Turning his head, he saw you kneeling on the living room floor and cursed inwardly.

On one of his trips to an antique store in the last weeks he had found an old-fashioned wooden cradle and he had thought of you and your child.

He had bought it and some mint green paint from the hardware store and had repainted it. Now it was standing on a stack of old newspapers, waiting for finishing touches. It was supposed to be a surprise present.

Sighing, he leaned against his couch cushions.

“A present for your baby. I found it in an old antique store, and I thought it would be a nice thing to get you.”

Marcus watched you as you stood back up and stepped toward him, plopping yourself onto the couch, your thighs touching his. You grabbed his hand in yours and squeezed it.

“That… that is very sweet of you Marcus. But I’m not pregnant.”

His second hand enveloped your intertwined ones and goosebumps were crawling along his skin. All the color left his face and it suddenly felt like his heart dropped into his stomach.

“D-did… Did you lose the baby? I’m so- I’m so sorry. That must be so horrible. No wonder you were mad. I’m…”

With the one free hand you had left, you silenced him by placing two fingers to his lips.

You shook your head.

“I didn’t lose the baby, Marcus. You misunderstood. I was never pregnant in the first place.”

His shock was now replaced by confusion. He remembered the phone call vividly, had repeated it in his head a lot of times.

“My sister Caitlyn is moving in with me next month”, you then explained, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Her boyfriend Curtis left her as soon as she told him she was pregnant. Just packed his bags and left, the bastard. My mom is not happy about it, but she is more concerned with what people might think about Caitlyn having a child out of wedlock than anything else. She’s ten years younger than me, only twenty-two, and honestly pretty scared and lonely.”

Marcus could feel the weight that had been pressing on his chest in the last six weeks lifted from his chest. Your sister was pregnant.

“I thought I had done something to make you mad at me – or worse, did something to disappoint you. But you just wanted to protect me because you thought I was with child.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. And that earned him another, yet lighter, punch.

“Don’t apologize for being the sweetest man alive, dumbass.”

Marcus could feel your heard on your shoulder turn towards the cradle again.

“You would have gotten me a cradle?”

He gulped, suddenly realizing the very close proximity you were in. You were still holding hands, the left side of your body pressed against his right.

“It’s… It’s still yours if you want it. I mean, your sisters. I’d like to help any way I can”, he said.

He could almost feel you smile next to him.

“Of course you do. You’re wonderful, Marcus.”

“I’m not. I’m selfish.”

“Why’d you say that?”

Now or never, Pike, he thought, shifting to look into your eyes.

“I didn’t bench you because I thought it would be dangerous for you to be out in the field. Well, yes, I did, but that was not my main motivation. I ignored you and benched you because every time I looked at you and thought about… you know… I got incredibly jealous.”

He could see in your eyes that you couldn’t follow, so he continued, his heart rapidly beating in his chest. Were his hands getting clammier?

“I… I like you. A lot. Have liked you for a while. And when I heard that you were pregnant and that you were left behind, all I felt was jealousy. I was jealous of the guy that you had apparently loved. I wanted to- “

Marcus was silenced by a pair of soft, eager lips who sealed his mouth with a kiss that was both sweet and innocent, yet still needy and full of passion.

Before he could reciprocate however, you retreated, biting your lower lip and shyly smiling up at him.

“Oh…”.

“Yes, oh”, you giggled.

“So... does this mean you… I mean…”

You snuggled back into him, now wrapping your arms around his torso, leaning your head on his chest.

“I like you too, Marcus. A lot.”

“Thank you?”

He could feel your chuckles against his ribcage. Carefully he rested his hands against your body, rubbing your shoulders.

“D’you think your sister will like the cradle?”

“I’m sure she will love it.”

AN: Abortion is healthcare. Nobody should be forced to carry a child they can not provide for - or be forced to give a reason why a pregnancy is being terminated. The only reason it is mentioned here as no viable option is because of the history with the mother.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character #marcus pike #marcus pike x female reader #colleagues to friends to lovers #colleagues to lovers #pregnancy

101 notes · View notes

sunflowerromcom · 6 months

Text

Lessons on Loving You an Oxford professor Tedbecca AU

“Ted Lasso lost his wife, and he needs more than anything to get away from the memories. When he gets a call from Oxford on a Hail Mary last-minute application, he immediately says yes to their offer. He packs up his few belongings, his baby boy and makes the move to England.

Doctor Rebecca Welton, Honorary Fellow of English Language History, has spent all summer on holiday with her mother. She has no idea that behind her back her ex-husband conspired to hire the famous English professor from America. Back at work to find several emails congratulating the new fellow. She knows he did it to spite her. She was on the committee. She doesn’t have to wonder why long because the next moment Rupert is walking into her office.

She doesn’t know that Ted is a widowed, single father. Not until after she meets him, and he’s yawning through their introduction and has a stain on his shirt. She’s cold to him. Rolls her eyes when she walks away, and it’s not until later that night with a glass of wine in hand does she google him and read about the accident.

She sits back and lets out a sigh. “I’m a fucking bitch.”

#ted lasso #rebecca welton #tedbecca #fanfiction #tedbecca fanfic #autumn vibes #slow burn #colleagues to friends to lovers #oxford #oxford university #professor AU

32 notes · View notes

teplejtrouba · 6 months

Text

a detective who has a partner🔍 and a partner💕 who are friends so the three of them end up doing a lof things together and the detective refers to them as "my partners" and doesn't realise this makes everyone think they're polyamorous (they do end up polyamorous by the end of the story)

#once people start making remarks and they do realise they're apprehensive to the idea at first #(the detective that is. the partners just find it funny i think)#in a shocked and confused way #like “why would you think that! a is my best friend and b is... also my best friend. but one of them is my colleague and the other my spous #“i do not have an unprofessional relationship with my colleague! ...well i do #but a completely platonic one!“#(they do get up to a lot of hijinks together and it wouldn't be true to call them completely professional)#the detective doesn't stop calling them 'my partners' they just have a monologue about the nature of their relationship locked and loaded #it's a friends to lovers very slow burn to get to the throuple part but we do get there eventually #character concept #yes i initially imagined the detective as a man because i love men and most famous detectives unfortunately are men #however this would work very well in any gender scenario. all three of them are non-binary in different ways. all of them are women.#i think the main detective would be really fun if she was a Philomena Cunk type of character. very smart but So dumb and self-assured #really the main thing the detective needs to be is autistic

287 notes · View notes

mikrotyalm13 · 25 days

Text

everything about Gavriil feels suffocating.

how his presence alone can be almost overwhelming, how his massive body cages you everytime without a chance to escape. you wouldn't dare to try anyway, knowing that you don't even have a say against a creature of his caliber. he will find you. in your dreams, in your nightmares. in your room.

how he will be intense and vague about everything just for the sake of it; to confuse you further, to see the conflict of emotions in your eyes merge with arousal. eventually your hesitance turns into acceptance, a desperate need to feel his hands all over you. and he will be oh so grateful to fulfill that desire.

how his thick tongue pushes past your lips and into your mouth, reaching almost the back of your throat, relishing in the muffled little sounds you make. your drool mixed with his saliva drips down your chin, and your hazy eyes look up at him when he finally pulls away, giving you a second to breathe.

how his hips are slamming into you relentlessly, your wetness and lack of resistance allowing him to move almost effortlessly. forced to hold onto him for dear life instead of pushing away. all of your morals and principles are being tossed out of the window every single time he comes to you. he has you where he wants you, and will not stop until he feels like you can't take it anymore.

and how in the morning he vanishes away, leaving you guessing: was it just another wet dream? but the cold stickiness between your legs tells you more than you need to know.

#yes bringing this back bc at the time i didn't tag it properly #okay im gonna complain in here now.#need... to... draw... something... but i dont... have the strength..#drawing on my phone is so exhausting but i have no other option #bc i think my traditional art is not very polishedddd and i dont want to answer asks with ittttt #but maybe i will #bc i think i'm really getting to that burnout #and giving how my bday is getting closer and closer....#i dread it. but hey. cake. money. i'll get a new piercing #i WILL cry ofc but hey. maybe someone will buy me tea as a gift. who knows.#i just want to spend some time with someone yknow:(#just... talk. about anything. sit beside eachother and stare off into the waters #i hope the snow will melt soon because i want to go out more even if by myself #gonna find a job when summer comes... maybe talking to colleagues and all that will help... everythings gonna be fine.. i hope #i just need friends. god.#microtya's kids #monsterfucker #monster fucker #monster x human #monster boyfriend #monster lover #teratophillia #god x human #monster smut

140 notes · View notes

saturdaysky · 26 days

Note

So… the God of Curiosity! How does he relate to the Lords of the Golden Hill? Is he invited in, is he seen as an interloper or usurper? Absolutely adore these two!

What a great question! I spent the morning refreshing myself on the Lords of the Golden Hills, which is the 5e gnomish pantheon, if anyone's unfamiliar. They are more active in the lives of their followers than other gods.

Also, sorry, this is where I reveal my superpower of being unable to write short answers to anything.

what's a god to a mayhew

Mayhew's parents are historians who take the name "the Forgotten Folk" as a personal insult, so he was weaned on myths and histories of the Lords of the Golden Hills. The Lords set Mayhew's expectations for what gods should be: invested and actively working to make things better.

(couldn't resist drawing mayhew and mamahew)

In game, Mayhew ran into many awful situations that he thinks good gods could have fixed, but didn't. Refugees slaughtered for sport, children locked in Cazador's dungeons for eternity, families enslaved and used as hostages, children murdered by Gortash's Steel Watch, you name it. These people surely prayed, but gods did not save them. Do gods who do nothing deserve worship?

Not to Mayhew. He was FULLY on board with Gale's astral boat scene logic of "we will be gods but BETTER because we CARE and DO STUFF." Mayhew is not a long-term thinker, especially if people are hurting right now, right in front of him. He sees only trees, never forests.

He views himself and Gale as being on their own side. All of his post-ascension decisions are based on them being an inseparable pair shaking up the system. He's not interested in being part of Lords of the Golden Hills.

what's a mayhew to a god

The Lords probably have mixed feelings about him. They would not invite him into their brotherhood. However, his goals often align with theirs, and as long as Mayhew didn't rock their boat too much, they'd be tenuous allies. More about Godhew and other gods under the cut!

Mayhew himself has many Glittergoldian qualities about him -- he's an elusive tale-teller and a sneak, and if you pried his coping mechanism sense of humor from him, he'd probably die on the spot -- so I think he'd get on with Garl Glittergold and Baervan Wildwanderer. Mayhew's not easily flustered, and he'd find it a hoot to be pranked by Garl, so I expect he'd pass any test of character Garl might run an upstart godling through.

Baravar Cloakshadow, god of illusions and deceptions, would be interesting. Mayhew is a born liar (deception is his second-highest skill after history) who cares deeply about protecting others, so on paper they're aligned. However, Baravar counts Mystra among his allies, so this alliance would be a strained one.

But the biggest reason Mayhew isn't interested in becoming a Lord of the Golden Hills? They're concerned primarily with the welfare of gnomes. As a god, Mayhew has broader designs than that.

a god for whom?

Mayhew cares about everyone, especially people who are unimportant. He was a latchkey kid who wandered all over the city from a very young age, poking his nose everywhere it shouldn't be and talking to people just to hear their stories. He probably even made friends with the sewer kobolds, despite historical bad blood between gnomes and kobolds. Most of the alliances Galehew make after ascension are Mayhew's doing. Gale is always grander and more powerful, but Mayhew is better-liked and better-loved by gods and mortals.

In particular, bleeding heart Mayhew is an ally and protector of children. Troublemakers, especially. The most common name he ends up being known by is the Children's God. In 5e, there doesn't actually seem to be a god FOR children, simply gods with "family" as part of their portfolio. To me, that reads as a god for parents. But Mayhew adores kids! In game, he looked out for all of them and spoiled them shamelessly via the barter menu. All the urchins got cash, clothing, trinkets, snacks, protective magical items, etc. He bought soup from Yenna every day. He gave Mattis 2000 gold (😭) for a key he never even used (😭)...and gave the amulet of greater health (😭)...and some grenades because all children should have a chance to make bad decisions...

To kids, he's like an imaginary friend who'll help you out of a tight spot, aid your capers, and shield you from terrors. When a child ages out of needing an imaginary friend, he's there as the God of Curiosity -- and what is curiosity without drive? Perhaps they'll follow their dreams in the footsteps of his partner, the God of Ambition. Completely unintentionally, Mayhew probably ensures the longevity of the Galerian religion this way.

Not all of Mayhew's ideals survive ascension, though he goes in with good intentions. He loses some of himself, but his love for people is the core of him. It doesn't change.

#asks #mightymizora #i am so sorry you asked one question and i answered like ten #i just have SO many thoughts!!!#mayhew #galehew #my art #bg3 #'mayhew sounds like a CHA character but he's a wizard?' yes. also criminal & warlock. he failed repeatedly at wizardry til he got tadpoled #he resented gale 'jsyk i am a wizarding prodigy' dekarios for a while. while falling for him. stupid wonderful gale. hate that guy #galehew was secret rivals to lovers from mayhew's POV. gale had no idea. he was on the colleagues to friends to lovers train #why is mayhew forever ride or die for god gale? mayhew sacrificed himself to be illithid but could not live that way #god gale turned him back and turned him divine. he gave mayhew back to himself. gave him back his heart. a happy ending despite it all #nothing will ever turn mayhew from gale now. not even if gale turned evil

40 notes · View notes

leathfaic · 1 year

Text

gaz and ghost's relationship is super interesting, we don't really get anything on it except for the fact that they seem to know each other (there are cutscenes they're both in in warzone and gaz pulls ghost up as they escape the prison).

and i think in the beginning that's about it. ghost being ghost he knows the man, works with him and isn't super pissed off because kyle is a competent sergeant. like most his relationships with lower rank.

gaz probably thinks the lieutenant a little eccentric with the whole mask and redacted everything bit he has going on but in the end the results of his work are what matters and they are frighteningly good.

he probably tells soap the little he knows about ghost before they get sent out to al mazrah, tells him the man is cold, scarily efficient and a bit weird but values good work. maybe even tells soap that he's not sure if the friendly approach is the best here, just keep it tactical and professional.

that alone is enough to make soap double down on it of course.

but when ghost and soap get together that's when things start to go sour between them. both have their reasons both rational and emotional. gaz is worried for his best friend, doesn't want him to get hurt in a relationship with someone as emotionally stunted as he thinks ghost is. he doesn't really think ghost deserves someone like his brilliant loving friend. and frankly free time at base is limited and he used to spend all of it joined at the hip with soap who is now dedicating a meaningful portion of that time to ghost too. especially in the early days of the relationship it takes a toll on him.

ghost for his part notices the animosity, is scared for that new and wonderful thing he has with soap because he knows gaz has a significant influence on soap. and especially at the beginning he really craves all of johnny's attention and affection. doesn't like the way soap is physically affectionate towards gaz as well and insists on spending time with him alone sometimes. he has yet to learn to trust in this new relationship. and trust really is an issue with him.

and soap? soap is probably just done with them both.

sits them down together and explains that he loves both of them and refuses to lose out on either relationship because they both decided to be idiots about it.

they don't have to like each other but he demands them to at least keep acting professional for his sake. but also if they both want more time with him they'll have to suck it up and spend time with each other too.

in a rare moment of agreeing with each other both gaz and ghost find that they'd both much rather brawl it out, but johnny is not having that, it would get so much worse if one thought they'd "won" this whole thing. so he gently reminds them that he's a human being not a toy being fought over and neither of them can really say something because rationally they know they are being assholes right then.

soap's dictated peace starts of super tense, two men tolerating each other like two big cats that are forced to close. and in the middle soap who acts like nothing is wrong, who's the sole reason that they are both so tense and at the same time keep grinning and bearing it.

in the field its worse, because that's where rank really comes into play which is not healthy in their dynamic. especially once gaz starts dating price and they get into a weird rank deadlock. but neither of them is willing to escalate. because that would make soap sad and that's the one thing they can agree on not to let happen.

so they keep tolerating each other. keep working together. keep helping each other in the field thinking "fucking hell can't look soap in the eyes if something happened to this idiot."

eventually it shifts from not making soap sad to making soap happy. ghost brings takeout from a quick trip outside base and brings some for gaz too because hanging out with him makes soap happy. gaz plans something fun for the weekend and to make soap happy makes sure it's something ghost can also come to without feeling too uncomfortable.

and soap loves it so much both his beat friend and his partner can't help but share his happiness. it's infectious.

so they get to know each other and slowly come round realise that the only threat to their relationship with soap is their relationship with each other. thus it progresses back to its neutral starting point and then steadily becomes more. they spend too much time with each other not to become friends. not that they would admit it. yet they laugh at each others jokes and sometimes even find themselves accidentally hanging out without soap.

both of them are so offended when they find themselves realising it, how the fuck could that even happen? and then soap waltzes in. who's been even happier ever since they started behaving themselves normal around each other again. soap who's love is too strong for them to stay enemies about it so instead they just accept that they never really had a chance to do anything about it but become friends.

some manly huffing noises are made and then they get on with it because soap decided its movie night.

price adamantly keeps out of it, even once things with gaz start happening. won't even talk about it except with soap when they both need to blow off some steam. i could probably (and might) write an equally long piece how that affects them all.

231 notes · View notes

jomiddlemarch · 3 months

Text

Declare the past, diagnose the present, foretell the future

Taking in-house on-call at St. Mungo’s on Imbolc wasn’t the absolute worst, as far as Hermione was concerned. It wasn’t a major holiday and the Scottish weather, an unfathomably vile mix of sleet and snow accompanied by icy gales that defied any warming charm, lent itself to staying in. As her social life was not exactly riotous post-break-up with Ron, however amicably resigned and rueful they’d both been about it, staying in at St. Mungo’s, with its endless supply of ginger biscuits and at least one interesting patient per ward, was tolerable. Acceptable.

It could have been, anyway.

“You like being on-call, Granger?”

That was Draco Malfoy, her fellow senior registrar, academic rival, and star of far too many risqué dreams she continued to blame on eating cheese late at night. He’d grown significantly after the final battle, which she refused to capitalize when she thought of it, just as she refused to refer to Voldemort as anything other than Tom Riddle. Draco, no longer beholden to a genocidal sorcerer who had far too close a relationship with his voracious familiar and thus no longer suffering from an untreated ulcer along as well as the fear of watching his mother being tortured in her own sitting room, had put on a good 2-plus stone of muscle along with several more inches and somehow managed to make the lime-green robes St. Mungo’s insisted on look like something that would get an approving nod during Fashion Week in Milan. It should be a fourth Unforgivable that someone so silvery blond didn’t look anemic, bilious, or curdled in the next hue over from chartreuse. He looked edible.

Delicious.

Hermione looked like a generous dollop of the Seafoam Salad her American Cousin Luella brought to every summer tea-party Hermione’s mother had ever thrown, despite being told she was such a dear but she needn’t. Hermione tried to take comfort in the many extendable pockets she’d been able to spell into her robe’s inner lining, but nothing could fully offset the color.

At the moment, Draco had opened his robes and put his feet up on the coffee-table in the staff break-room, his collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened. He’d stopped using whatever charm or enchanted pomade he’d relied on when they were at Hogwarts and his hair looked silky, a lock threatening to fall across his forehead. If they were called to an emergency, he’d probably cast a wandless Reparo vestis and immediately look the part of a Pureblood senior registrar, but in the meantime, he was…louche. Unconscionably, unbearably erotic.

Hermione thought back to the tea she’d hurried through before heading to Dangerous Dai at a brisk clip. She’d had nary a bite of Brie. Or Cheddar.

She had no plausible deniability.

Still, he was helping a bit with the judgy curl to his lips and that gleam in his grey eyes which was somewhere between curious and condescending. She’d lean into the condescending part.

“I don’t mind it. It’s part of the work, being a Healer. If you have a true vocation, you don’t resent being on-call,” she said.

She sounded like an impossible prig even to herself but needs must.

“Bollocks,” he retorted, but not meanly. “Don’t you miss your cat?”

“Crookshanks is part-Kneazle,” she said.

“Fine, your part-Kneazle,” Draco said. “Wouldn’t you rather be home with him, doing whatever it is you do away from here?”

“Are you fishing for details or trying to mock me? You’ll have to decide,” Hermione said.

“I’m trying to say it’s just the two of us here, you don’t have to pretend you love being stuck at St. Mungo’s overnight,” Draco said.

It occurred to Hermione that if she suffered a cardiac event in the next three seconds, Draco would be the one to resuscitate her and that no one ever looked their best post-resuscitation, even when magic was the primary intervention. Vanity, that’s what would keep her from having a heart attack.

Just the two of us.

For Sweet Circe’s fucking sweet sake.

Draco gave her a searching look because the pause had lengthened notably. Anyone else would have said something like Earth to Hermione, except they’d have to be Muggleborn to say that, because Wizards still didn’t grasp that Muggles had been to the Moon and sent rovers to Mars. They didn’t grasp a dog had been sent into space.

“It’s all right. I don’t actually mind it all that much myself, if I’m being honest. And before you feel compelled to point it out, yes, I am Slytherin but I am capable of candor, especially when it suits my needs,” he said.

“It suits you to be honest with me?” she said.

“We’re a team, aren’t we?” he said and she nodded before she could stop herself and ask what exactly he meant, she’d happily taken four feet of parchment on the topic. “Lying, keeping things from each other, it won’t help us. I know you don’t trust me—”

“I—” she interrupted, breaking off when she realized she wasn’t sure she wanted to say she did trust him or that she wanted to, very badly.

“I know we agreed to a fresh slate when we started training here and I also know if was too much to ask of you,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Yes, I was under duress. Yes, I was seventeen. Yes, we’re all allowed to make mistakes. But I still have a brand on my arm from a group that wanted you dead and defiled and the best I did on your behalf was to pretend I didn’t know you for a few minutes,” he said.

“What else could you have done?” Hermione said, shrugging.

“I could have risked my life. I could have died,” he said. “Potter did, when he saved me from Fiendfyre—”

“I’m not nearly as nice as Harry,” Hermione said.

Draco laughed, rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“You’re a better person than I am and you don’t have to argue with me about it. Some things are simply true. I’d like you to trust me, that’s what I’m saying, albeit terribly clumsily,” he replied.

“Albeit?” she repeated. Using humor to deflect was a time-honored tradition and she didn’t know what to do with her sizable attraction when it was suddenly not only about his broad shoulders and narrow hips, the feline grace of his gait, the North Sea of his eyes and his impossibly deft hands (Nimue help her, Draco’s hands…) but also his mind, his insight. She’d known he was clever, her equal in most fields, slightly ahead of her in Charms (though behind in Arithmancy) but she hadn’t appreciated how thoughtful he was or had become. How he could be gentle.

“I use overly formal language when I feel out of my depth,” he said. Admitted.

“You were totally at ease then, when Crispin Fillament was hemorrhaging? All I heard was good old Anglo-Saxon obscenities from you while you were trying to shove the blood back into his aorta,” Hermione said, grinning.

“That bugger. He wasn’t helping at all, and I don’t mean his choice to sing operettas,” Draco said. “It was like his blood didn’t even want back in. It felt oddly sentient—”

“Operetta can be polarizing,” Hermione said. They were having an absolutely insane conversation, Thickey Ward caliber, and she was more relaxed than she’d ever been around him while also being turned on. Draco’s expression shifted from entertained to speculative. Assessing. She resisted the impulse to touch her hair or fiddle with the collar of her robes, glad she’d kept her shoes on, regretting her laundry day choice of striped tights.

“We’ve worked together for nearly seven years and you still don’t trust me,” he said.

“I don’t suspect you of, well, anything in particular,” she replied. It seemed a weak response, even to her. It might not even be fair, but she couldn’t necessarily feel her way into being fair to him. Even if there were times when she wanted to.

“I know. It’s good of you,” he said. “It just, it’s not enough.”

“It’s not enough? You dare to demand I—”

“I’m not demanding anything, Hermione,” he interrupted. “I don’t expect more. I don’t deserve more. I only want more.”

“You want more,” she repeated. She sounded somewhere between incredulous and stupid. As he’d spent a significant amount of his youth the Crabbe and Goyle, the stupidity shouldn’t bother him as it did her.

“I believe Weasley liked to refer to me as a greedy git. I don’t pretend to have entirely outgrown that,” he said.

“That was because you hogged the pudding,” Hermione said.

“Well, I’ve outgrown that. Though I do still like sweet things,” he said. He tilted his head to one side and should have resembled an owl but of course, he didn’t. If anything, he looked like a fallen angel, though he probably wouldn’t have recognized Lucifer if she’d mentioned the name. The Bible was given short-shrift in the Muggle culture studies required at St. Mungo’s where they ran more to Pasteur, Salk and gene-sequencing. “If I want more, I must give more.”

“Is this some sort of rudimentary physics equation?” Hermione said. “You do know Newton covered this area already.”

“I mean, if I want you to trust me, I need to give you more reason. I need to share more, so you feel I’ve earned it. That it’s, I’m worth it,” he said, nodding as he spoke. Hermione felt herself flush and wanted to argue but she couldn’t think of anything compelling to refute his assertion.

“Shall I tell you why I became a Healer?” Draco said.

“If you like,” Hermione replied diffidently, as if she hadn’t wondered nearly every time she saw him and had frankly obsessed over it for the first six months of their training. Obsessed as in Ginny staged an intervention with Padma and Susan and Gabrielle on the Floo, with Luna playing mother over the teapot joining in the chorus that maybe Hermione needed to let it go or go ahead and jump Draco’s bones. She had been so far gone Luna Lovegood had told her she needed to get some perspective (which she suggested would be helped along with a tincture of canawaddle blossom and raging iron jaguar tears. Hermione had just taken the full glass of Shiraz Padma offered and nodded.)

“Because of my parents,” he said. It had been his idea to discuss his reasons but he seemed uncertain how he’d explain or uneasy about her response.

“It was their idea?” Hermione hazarded a guess. It wasn’t a good guess and she’d be shocked if she were right but it was within the realm of possibility in a world where there were both cellphones and wands threaded with a phoenix’s fiery tail-feather.

“Fuck no,” he said, almost choking on a laugh. A bitter one.

“It might’ve been,” she retorted.

“Only you would believe that possible and before you get horribly offended and flounce off, I mean only you could believe them capable of such humanity. That they would care about other people, that they would care that I did something worthwhile with my time,” he said. He made a calming gesture with his hand, the one he wore a signet ring on. It wasn’t the Malfoy signet though. “You also forget they are the most terrible snobs and think any kind of work is beneath a Malfoy or the bloody scion of the Most Noble House of Black. My mother thinks I’m overly sentimental and my father thinks the whole thing is crass and degrading.”

“I don’t flounce,” Hermione said because what he’d said was a lot to unpack and she couldn’t risk him thinking flouncing was within her repertoire.

“I stand corrected,” he said.

“Why did you become a Healer? How were your parents involved?” she asked.

“They ruined so many lives. My father, I’ve never asked, I’ve never wanted to know, but I think he’s a murderer and my mother went along with it all. Whatever she told herself about how she had to put me first, it was all an excuse,” he said, holding her gaze the whole time. “Other families left Britain. Other families refused to take a side. Millie’s parents sent her younger brothers to Ilvermorny. Zabini’s mother cast some spell on Blaise that kept Voldemort from touching him, something Darker than Dark, she called in favors all over Europe and West Africa. My parents ruined my life. This is the best way I could think of to make something of it all.”

“That’s, I don’t even know what to say, Draco,” Hermione replied.

“You don’t have to have something to say. It’s just how it is,” he said.

“Is it enough? Atonement?” Hermione asked.

“Mostly. And I like the craft. Snape played favorites and he gave me extra lessons, tradework secrets. The man was frankly a bloody genius. Sectumsempra was his juvenilia. I’m good at Potions and I was taught by one of the best Potions Masters in the past three hundred years,” Draco said.

“It’s nice to hear you admit it,” Hermione said.

“The special treatment or Snape’s brilliance?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, making Draco smile.

“I wished I could have saved him,” Draco said. “Though I don’t know what surviving would have meant for him. He was broken.”

“He wanted us to let him go. After he gave Harry the memory, he didn’t want to have to live anymore. I tried to stay. Harry and Ron didn’t see his eyes, but he looked at me and I knew it,” Hermione said.

“He doesn’t haunt me. In case you’re wondering,” Draco said. “His portrait often has a choice remark for me, but that’s all.”

“I became a Healer because of my parents too,” Hermione said.

“Yeah?”

“When it was getting close, that last year, you know, none of the adults made any plans to keep my parents safe. They told me not to worry mostly. All Dumbledore cared about was Harry and the Elder wand. Tonks, she was your cousin, she was the only one who said I should look out for my own people,” Hermione said. Tonks’s hair had been a rich chestnut streaked with white when she’d said it, her eyes the glittering green Hermione had always wished to see in the mirror, and she hadn’t minced words. She’d been as serious as Hermione had ever seen her, serious as death, and then it wasn’t spoken of again. Hermione had hoped there would be a time to tell Tonks, to thank her. “I Obliviated my parents and relocated them to Australia, I gave them new identities. I erased myself from their minds. Entirely.”

“What?” To his credit, Draco looked 90% stunned and 10% impressed. Harry had looked 100% horrified and Ron had physically recoiled when she told them.

“I did some research, figured out how to Obliviate them in the way that would keep them safest,” she said. “Voldemort wasn’t going to care about two random Muggles named Wilkins in bloody Melbourne. Other than you, your father and Snape, none of the Death-eaters were smart enough to figure it out and it turned out Snape was a double-agent, so my odds were even better than I’d counted on.”

“That’s advanced charmwork,” Draco said. “That kind of Obliviation.”

“I had to use Arithmancy too. And runes,” Hermione said. “It had to work. I couldn’t ruin their lives. I couldn’t be the reason they were killed.”

“It worked,” he said. “You saved them.”

“Yes. But it was harder to reverse than I’d hoped,” she said. She said hoped but she meant thought, planned, expected. She’d been wrong. “And when they remembered, they remembered I never asked their permission.”

“You didn’t?”

“They’d never have agreed. I cast the spell behind their backs. An assassination, my mother called it,” she said. She hadn’t told them about being tortured; they couldn’t understand Cruciatus the way anyone magical would and she didn’t want them to ask why she hadn’t confided more in them. Didn’t want them to feel guilty or worse, to accuse her of trying to make them feel guilty to justify her actions.

“You saved their lives,” Draco repeated.

“That’s what I tell myself,” she replied.

“Do you plan to specialize in memory curses? Because of your parents?” he asked.

“No. It’s not that. I became a Healer because they can understand it. They are dentists, Muggle Healer for teeth, and I was able to preserve all of that when I Obliviated them. They would have said, once, I should take up whatever career I felt called to, but they value healing. It’s something we can talk about. Without much…rancor. They see what we do as another science, this training similar enough, the way the American medical system is similar to the British one,” she said.

“Do you even want to be a Healer?” Draco said.

“It’s fine. Maybe I would have ended up here anyway. You have to master a lot of different magical disciplines and there’s some research to be done. There’s always other people around and you can get a decent cuppa in the canteen,” she said, shrugging. “The robes don’t suit me, but that’s a small price to pay.”

“You wanted something else though,” he said. “You don’t have to lie to me. I won’t try to convince you to leave St. Mungo’s.”

“There’s a course on ancient magics in Alexandria. And the Wizarding Library there, they do archival work and Anatomia liborum,” she said. “I read about it when I was researching the Horcruxes. It sounded intriguing.”

“What else?” he prompted.

“In Japan, at Mahoutokoro, there a witch studying arithmancy and algorithm engineering. That’s a Muggle science, it has to do with computers and programming, which you probably have no idea about, but it’s cutting edge work,” Hermione said.

“Instead you’re here,” he said.

“It’s not so bad,” Hermione said. It was easy to say, because she’d said it to herself about a thousand times. “I’m learning a lot and it’s important, to be able to heal people, and sometimes what’s wrong with them seems impossible, but in an absurdly funny way. My parents like it, when I tell them about work, even if I have to tone it down so they believe me.”

“Doesn’t seem like enough. Not for you,” he said.

“You’re here,” she replied, before she thought better of it.

For a moment, Draco was so still she wondered if she’d cast a wandless Petrificus totalis without consciously registering it.

“It’s not what you think,” she said.

“What do I think, Hermione?” he asked. He didn’t sound sly or arch, not remotely mocking, though he could have and she wouldn’t have been able to blame him. He sounded serious, as if she was the final arbiter of his fate, the Chief Witch of the Wizengamot pronouncing his sentence.

“It wasn’t a grand declaration,” she said.

“I didn’t think ‘you’re here’ was a grand declaration,” he replied. He’d relaxed a bit. Bully for him. Hermione felt like she might spontaneously combust, which coupled with the lime-green robes, was certain to be unattractive.

“You’re clever and well-read and you don’t cave when I argue with you but you don’t try to squash me either,” she said. “You think of things quite differently than I do, but in a good way. You’re my peer, intellectually.”

“I’m your peer, intellectually. That’s what you meant,” he said.

“You spent your formative years with Crabbe and Goyle. It’s not nothing,” she retorted.

“I played chess with Blaise Zabini for seven years. Theo Nott taught me Sanskrit and Pazu Veda in his spare time,” he replied. It felt like an obscure jab at Harry and Ron, neither of whom would claim to be excellent student, but who each had their strengths. They were, perhaps, not ones that lent themselves to spirited discussions, especially since Hermione had an admittedly limited grasp of chess and no real motivation to learn it. She wouldn’t risk the conversation devolving into a cranky argument, relitigating their school-days.

“Theo Nott was fluent in Pazu Veda?”

“They don’t teach necromancy at Hogwarts, so I can’t vouch for his fluency, but he could read it and translate,” Draco said. He crossed his legs at the ankle, a gesture of pure insouciance. His grey eyes studied her and she lifted her chin. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m not,” she said. For possibly the first time she could remember, she wished to be paged to the receiving area to attend to a disgustingly feculent and smoking heap of Wizard burping up turds, suffering from an unknown but obviously not life-threatening curse or potion.

“If you don’t want to talk about it anymore, we won’t. I wanted you to trust me and that won’t happen if you feel like I’m grilling you or prying. I’ll try to keep doing whatever it is that makes me being here make St. Mungo’s worth it to you,” he said.

He was a Slytherin but he’d spoken as directly as an Gryffindor, as thoughtfully as any Ravenclaw, as kindly as any Hufflepuff.

“I like you,” she said.

She was not going to mention lust, her own for his face, his shoulders and his hands, the nape of his neck, the line of his thigh when he crouched down to talk to some patient on the Thickey Ward who thought they were a mole. His lips when he smiled. His eyes when he had a new idea that she was going to hate at first. She was courageous, not foolhardy.

“I like you too. Very much,” he said. “Exceedingly. I don’t want you to worry, having said it first, that your feelings are unrequited. They are very, very requited. Maximally requited.”

“I only said I like you,” she replied.

“I know. You don’t make grand declarations. I do. When they are called for,” he said.

“And it’s called for now?”

“We’ve worked together for seven years. We’ve known each other since we were eleven. You just admitted you like me. I’m not risking waiting another decade for you to understand how I feel about you,” he said. “Wizards have long lives but I’d hate to have this conversation with a white beard down to my navel.”

“You will never have a white beard down to your navel. You’d never do something so cliché,” Hermione said.

“You’re probably right. But I still prefer telling you tonight,” he said. “It means that when I ask you if you’d like a cup of tea and a biscuit in the canteen, you’ll know I don’t just mean a cup of tea and a biscuit.”

“But we’d still have those, right?” Hermione said. “Because I skipped lunch today.”

“I will buy you every biscuit in the canteen,” he said. “And breakfast tomorrow morning. Somewhere where you can get a decent omelet.”

“So, someplace Muggle,” Hermione said.

“Most assuredly so. At least until we both have a weekend off,” he said.

“Then what?”

“Then I take you to Paris.”

Five hexes, three Dark-adjacent curses, nine (nine!) misbrewed Potions causing inflammation, exudation, and one case of rapid-fire recitation in Norn, an unlicensed researcher’s run-in with a surly matagot, and a family suffering from mazy measles, meant that no biscuits, chocolate, ginger or lemon, were consumed and the tea in the canteen’s urn remained untasted by either of them.

They did, however, make quick work of a passable cheese omelet at a very nice café once they’d given sign-out to the day’s team.

And Draco Side-alonged her home, giving her a kiss on the cheek at the door.

Hermione kissed him back. Not on the cheek.

She wasn’t about to wait for Paris for a French kiss, not when they had so little say over the on-call schedule.

Not when he looked at her with those sleepy grey eyes.

Not when he murmured her name against her lips.

25 notes · View notes