Archive of Our Own ^omega

The man was a mess, blonde head to his arms, shoulders curled, scrunched over the counter like a used paper tissue - a sorry spectacle indeed. That isn’t to say in her twenty-nine years, Rose had never gotten proper snockered and made a right fool of herself. However, she had always made a very dignified effort not to pass out on a bar counter (vomiting was another matter entirely but it was just the one time and she'd properly cleaned after herself). 

Actually, that was how she'd landed the gig, so it couldn't even be considered a complete failure.

“I’m cutting you off, mate,” Rose said, patting the scruffy man's shoulder. “Come on, Merry Christmas, go go go… there’s a good--”

The word fella died in her throat as she encountered a familiar grey gaze. A slightly anaesthetized but by no means shit-faced Scorpius Malfoy stared right back, dull eyes flashing with recognition.

“If it isn’t Rose Weasley.” He blinked, slow and lazy as if coming out of a dream and crashing back to an unfamiliar reality. “Or just a very vivid dream?” When she scowled back, he corrected himself. “Vivid nightmare?”

Rose snorted. “Never reckoned I’d have to scrape you off a bar.”

Their tone was cautious in spite of the words. Years of absence, of growing up and becoming different people who weren't entirely sure how to act around each other.

Not that they ever had in the first place.

She waited as he took in in the apron, the notepad, the red Santa hat on her head. Waited for him to catalogue the oily hair, the sweat pits under her crossed arms, that one grease stain on her chest she still hadn’t had the time to give a proper Scourgify.

She was used to pity. Sometimes glee. Some gloating, schadenfreude, ‘how the mighty have fallen’ tosh.

The way Scorpius Malfoy’s grey eyes looked straight through her was borderline indifferent. Like he didn’t see or care. Like it was None Of His Business.

He gave her a wan smile. “Highlight of both our days, I’m sure.”

He didn’t say it unkindly either and under his careless gaze, Rose felt herself relaxing again.

Her own eyes raked up and down his dishevelled frame, doing a summary evaluation - for the sole purpose of establishing his Sloshiness Level of course. Nothing to do with the lurchy thing her stomach was busy doing, no.

The Hogwarts version of him had been sharp. Decisive. Intimidating, like he had it all figured out.

This iteration of him looked like he’d gotten into a fist-fight with Life and gotten the blonde licked out of him.

Dark circles, pale hair jotting in every possible direction. Crumpled robes. 

Crumpled man.

“You look--” Rose’s eyebrows furrowed momentarily as she combed through her Lexicon of Niceness for a word that didn’t rhyme with ‘bit’. “-- well.”

Except of course, that ‘well’ came out a lot like ‘hwell’ which sounded a lot like ‘hell’. 

“How euphemistic,” he said, thrusting a hand through his hair which did nothing to improve on the anarchic revolution brewing on his head. “Getting soft in your old age?”

Rose let out a delighted snort. “You don’t look like you could take a hit.”

He wasn’t drunk, she decided as she retrieved another batch of empty glasses and placed them on the sink. Just… different. Softer around the edges. Less sharp corners, like they had all been sanded over the years.

The old Malfoy always looked like he had something to prove. Sad as it sounded, the one curled over the counter looked like he had given up trying. 

And that, awful as it might sound, relaxed her.

Come closing time, she discovered him unconscious, snuffed like a candle.

The man had what two and a half beers?

As she dragged him to his feet, she cursed the fact that his light-weightedness only applied to his pathetic attempt at alcoholism.

The next morning, she found the blankets she had draped over him folded in a neat pile on the end of her couch.

There was coffee on the pot, a soft warming spell around it to keep it warm. 

Stuck to it was one of her post-its. Yellow.

'Thanks', it read in a borderline illegible scribble.

There was another green one on the front door. 

‘Merry Christmas.’

And he was gone.

Next Tuesday, he was back. He hadn’t even looked up from his folded arms and Rose already felt a small flutter in her chest.  

“I’m really cutting you off this time,” she grumbled.

“You’re here,” he said, sliding her a half-hearted grin. “What a coincidence.”

He sounded like he was happy to see her. Which was nice because technically Tuesday wasn’t her shift either. She’d managed to trade with Poppy, who had been very reluctant because Tuesdays were admittedly paradise on earth compared to her Friday shift from hell.

Why? 

Because she was curious to see if he’d come back. Curious to see how he’d react to her after waking up on her couch and leaving her fresh coffee and monosyllabic post-its.

Curious to see how she’d react to him. 

She still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Or at least she hadn’t been: that smile was like a punch to the heart.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said. “Not after--” They stared at each other for a second and Rose shook her head. “Nevermind.”

“Tuesdays I haunt the place, didn’t you know?”

Rose snorted. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

The butterbeer in front of him was half gone. She wasn’t sure how many he’d had at this point, but he didn’t even look… tipsy.

“Don’t you ?” He threw a glance at the thin crowd peppered across the room, communing with the other few solitary souls with nothing better to do on a Tuesday night. 

“Oh, yes.” Rose snorted softly, rolling her brows. “Loads. Scores of things. But you see, unlike you, I work here. So in my case, it isn’t sad.”

He threw her a funny look. “I thought you were working for the Prophet.”

She could hear the underlying question: so what in the world are you doing here?

Her stomach clamped in on itself.

“Extra pay’s good.” She leaned over and rested her face on her chin. “I have expensive taste in books.”

He pursed his lips, nodded like it made perfect sense and Rose felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude toward this crumpled mess of a man with prodigious little fucks to give. 

This time, there was an orange post-it pasted to the bathroom mirror. Two words: 'You're welcome.'

When she was brushing her teeth, she realised the flakey water tap was fixed. 

After two weeks, she was sure it wasn’t the liquor. He’d barely been drinking at all. Unless he had the metabolism of a five-year-old - and he definitely didn’t look it - he couldn’t be pissed off two beers. Not to the point of collapse, anyway.

“You’re not drunk,” she said with reproach. “What gives?”

The crumpled mess draped over her counter looked up at her with a smile. 

“How sagacious.” 

Her heart dropped. Was he just faking it? He couldn’t possibly. She’d seen her fair share of drunks these past months and he was unresponsive. 

Death itself looked perky next to him.

After a few seconds of pointed silence, he clarified: “I’m... tired. 48-hour shift.” He let out a humourless laugh. “St Mungo’s is a little understaffed.” 

Rose’s heart twinged. She felt like she’d been made privy to a dirty secret of sorts, a whispered frailty that he wasn’t particularly fond of.

“Go home,” she said. “S’not worth it.”

“I beg to differ.”

Rose’s bit down on her lower lip. She opened her mouth once then closed it back again, aware of the flush climbing up her neck. 

The person who earned a living spouting meaningless rhetoric at three knuts per word, was at a complete loss. Rendered speechless by… she didn’t even know. 

Rose cast spell after cleaning spell on The Turnip’s loo stalls, unleashing her frustration on the nasty little stains on the floor. 

There was no way --

He couldn’t possibly --

She couldn’t possibly --

It didn’t sound like flirting. She knew flirting. She flirted with flirting on a regular basis and this? 

This wasn’t it. 

There was no flirty tone. There were no flirty looks. 

Not from him, anyway. 

As soon as she stepped back into the room and caught a glimpse of the languid smirk on his face, all doubt stepped aside.

Rose smiled right back.

Over and over and over again. 

Every Tuesday, regardless of how soon she’d cut him off, he'd pass out, straight up collapsed over the counter. 

Every Tuesday she'd drag him to her couch and drape the sheets over him. She'd started keeping them at the ready, like this was a planned sleepover and not a weird accident.

Every Wednesday morning there would be a small change, some minor improvement on her life quality… always accompanied by a colourful one-worded, two-worded note.

It wasn’t exactly poetry, but looking at them made her… happy. Warm inside. 

She’d taken to keeping them on her cubicle at work. Every so often, as she chewed on her pencil and struggled to find the right word, the right turn of phrase, her gaze would flicker to them.

At the sight of them, all the words floating in her mind would desert her completely, replaced by an image of tousled blonde hair and drowsy grey eyes. 

Dear Mrs Potts,

My boyfriend isn’t interested in... y'knoooow. We've been together for five years and all he wants to do when he gets home is sit on his arse and watch his stupid games. I’ve taken to walking around the house half-naked and I don’t think he even notices. What the hell is wrong with him?

Love, 

Randy Going On Desperate

Rose snorted. At least Randy Going on Desperate had a boyfriend. 

Dear Randy, 

Sounds like what you’re really asking is ‘what the hell’s wrong with me?’. 

The answer is… probably nothing.

Repeat after me: not all men want sex all the time. His friendly downstairs neighbour doesn’t always want to come out to play, same as yours. There’s nothing odd about that.

Maybe he’s tired, maybe he just needs to clear his mind. Have a chat with him, figure out what’s wrong. Don’t be a dick just because you miss his.

Rose stared at the last words, rolled her eyes and blotted them out.

Sincerely, 

Mrs Potts

Her eyes flickered to the last post-it - purple - and her mouth curled into a small smile. 

‘Wet Paint’, it read.

Next Tuesday, he didn't show at all. Which was a bugger because apparently, Tuesdays without Scorp were downright… boring. 

She’d waited and she’d waited. Then she’d waited a little more, feebly wiping the counter and tables with the momentum of a 90-year-old woman. 

Taking a second look and deciding that no, they weren’t properly cleaned.

Sorting the bottles by colour then deciding it was impractical and sorting them alphabetically, only to decide they were better the way they’d been from the very start.

Just when Rose had given up and was resetting the locking spells - about two hours too late - there was a telltale crack of apparition on the other side of the street.

He looked more harassed than she'd ever seen him and her heart leapt with joy and relief just as his crumpled face twitched into a smile.

"You're late," she said accusingly as he crossed the road with broad languid steps.

"Work caught up with me. Gave me a right thrashing." He stopped right in front of her, tall, slouched, face a little too pale for her taste. "Worried?"

She’d never quite understood her Nan’s compulsion to shovel food down people’s throats, but one good look at him had her fingers twitching to feed him.

"Proud, actually," she said noncommittally, trying to keep her outrageous glee in check. "Figured you had plans. Something cheerier than drooling over my counter."

He laughed as he took a seat on the slight protuberance on the wall and leaned back against the wall closing his eyes. “It’s become something of a hobby.”

She hurried to sort through the closing spells and when she was finally done she found him fast asleep.  

"Malfoy?" Her hand brushed softly through his hair once. “Scorp?”

He didn't budge. Sleeping like a log, the narcoleptic sod.

The next morning there was just the one-note. Blue, the way she felt.

'Sorry'.

The following Tuesday he didn't show up either. Nor the next. 

Dear Mrs Potts, 

My boyfriend’s been chatting with another girl --

My husband leaves his socks everywhere and --

I fancy one of my coworkers --

Rose sighed, burying her face in her hands.

Marvin, her editor, tore her a new one over careless mistakes, typos that any properly motivated seven-year-old would have been able to spot. He gave her rubbish about too candid advice that, in her annoyance, she hadn’t felt kind enough to censor. 

Her boss at The Turnip shook his head and docked the broken bottles from her pay.

Every time the door opened her heart would fall to her feet.

After three weeks of suffocating silence, Rose caved. Rolling her eyes all the way, she posted a letter addressed to Mr Scorpius Malfoy. Inside, a single pink post-it note.

'You alive?'

'Yes', came the reply.

Monosyllabic prat. But he’d gone through the trouble of getting post-its of his own and the tiny smiling face he drew next to it made up for it, through and through.

Rose added it to her post-it collection and sighed every time she looked at it.

There was nothing to tether them together. Nothing concrete, just a lot of empty chats about nothing at all. Any moment now, he could just vanish and never look back.

The next time he showed up there was nothing crumpled about him. Impeccable robes, impeccable hair. Faint dark circles still, but he looked a solid ten years younger.

She gave him a confused once over. "Good day?"

While her brain was having trouble recognising him, her heart practically whimpered at the sight… and so did everything south of her waist.

I missed you.

You look lovely.

Can I please smell you?

"Technically just woke up," he said, offering her a quick tight smile. "Got myself kicked to the graveyard shift."

He sounded sharp and put together. The little crumpled box strained as she tried to fit in this unknown version of him.

The box overflowed. Broke.

Rose found herself instinctively recoiling from him. There was nothing indifferent about the way he was looking at her now, in all her pit stained glory. 

His eyes raked up and down methodically and Rose suddenly felt a very pressing need to run home and take a shower.

Like it was All His Business. Like he was seeing her for the first time, peeking under the exhausted sheen of his own making.

Really seeing her. Really looking.

"I'm guessing you're not drinking then," she said, averting her eyes and schooling the scowl that was threatening to break. “Sounds like a terrible idea, drinking and Healing.”

"No." The way he moved was deliberate, cattish even, the smile on his face dazzling. “I’m obviously not drinking.”

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged carelessly. "Creature of habit. Do you serve food? Bacon maybe? I'm hankering for a good--"

Rose couldn't deal with the way his words came, one after the other without hesitation. At the way he leaned over the counter like he knew exactly what he wanted. 

"We don't serve breakfast food after ten," she lied, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him.

His eyes met hers for a moment, as if assessing her, and she felt herself shrinking until she was very small.

"Alright." 

And he left.

The next week he didn't show up. Nor the next. 

Every Friday, Rose’s heart would throw a tantrum whenever the door closed only to simmer down and weep when it realised it wasn’t him.

After almost a month of being gone, he was back as his crumpled little self. And when it predictably crumpled over the counter, she was only too happy to take him home.

The next morning, instead of a post-it, she found the sharp, terrifying version of him. 

Sitting at her kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee. Like it was normal.

"What…” she sputtered. “Why…?"

"Figured I'd stay a little," he said, wearing his smirk like it was a badge of honour. "Give me a chance to actually thank you for once.” When she didn’t reply, a small crease formed between his eyebrows. “You don't look particularly happy."

Unhappy was an understatement. She was on the verge of emotional collapse.

Her pyjamas were fraying and she was moderately sure there was a period stain that she’d never managed to get rid of in the vicinity of her bum. She didn’t need to look to know her hair was an unholy mess and that she had racoon eyes because she hadn’t bothered to tackle her make-up before falling in bed.

He was looking showered. Clean shaved. Impeccable.

“No, I…” Her voice was still croaky from sleep and she cleared her throat. “It’s just… odd.”

She caught a glimpse of her crumpled boy as the sharp stranger hesitated. “Good odd or bad odd?”

Bizarre, was what it was. 

“Odd.” She took a step back to hide her bum stain against the wall. “Aren’t you going to be late?”

He threw her an amused look. “Late for what?”

Rose blinked. It had never occurred to her that he might not have anything in particular to do when he left hers in the morning. “Why don’t you sleep in then?”

“Embarrassment, mostly,” he said with a crooked smile. “Not exactly feeling my proudest the morning after. Also didn’t know if you wanted me around, seemed rude to intrude.”

His gaze dropped momentarily and she crossed her arms defensively in front of her chest, aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra and all the pointy bits of her were visibly… well, pointing. 

“Eyes up, Malfoy,” she scolded, pleased to see the flush on his cheeks. “Why go back then? You’re obviously exhausted and the beer’s not worth it.”

“I don’t go back for the beer.” He shrugged, getting up to his feet and fixing her a cup of coffee. “I go back for you.”

He held it out to her and Rose hesitated, the bum stain burning vividly in her mind. 

His eyebrows furrowed. “Bad odd, it is. I’ll get out of your hair,” he said, setting both cups down. “Sorry. And thanks.”

Her hand reached out, but before she could figure out what to say, he was gone.

The bitter trail down her throat had nothing to do with the coffee. 

The coffee was perfect.

One week. 

Two weeks. 

Another owl, “Are you alive?” 

“Yes.”

This time around there was no smiley face to tide her over.

Three weeks.

“I miss you.”

No response.

Dear Mrs Potts,

I don’t think I can go on anymore.

Love, Losing It

Rose’s breath hitched in her throat. There was a wet spot smudging the ink - whoever wrote it been crying.

“Marvin?”

The editor looked up from the stacks of papers he was reviewing. “What?”

“We got another,” she said, handing it to him. “Same handwriting, I think.”

Losing It hadn’t always been Losing it. They’d started as Unemployed, then became Penniless and Single. Then they’d become Homeless, Penniless and Single. They were back to Living With Their Parents and, later, Can’t Find a Job. 

They’d become Ex Found Someone.

To add insult to injury, their Cat Died at one point.

Losing It was cracking. And for some unknown reason, they continued sending letters to her - well, to Mrs Potts. But since Mrs Potts had recently died, she’d taken on the mantle. 

Mrs Potts would have known how to answer this - Rose Weasley didn’t.

“What do I do?” she asked, taking back the note. 

“Answer it,” he said, shaking his head. “Make it a good one.”

“But… what do I say ?”

Marvin gave her a funny look. “You’re the one they go to for advice.”

Dear Losing It,

Rose stared at the paper, lower lip quivering. 

She wasn’t equipped to deal with this. She wasn’t equipped to deal with anything. She was a thirty-year-old woman who made her career leeching off the worldly advice of bartenders. Who studied people by working on a bar in her time off, hoping it would somehow impart some much-needed knowledge onto her.

Dear Losing It, she started again. 

What she wanted to ask was ‘are you going to kill yourself?’.

She did the only thing she could think of: she apparated to St Mungo’s. 

If Scorpius Malfoy was surprised to see her in his place of employment, he didn’t show it.

He frowned slightly. “Are you alright?”

“No.”

Half a second later, his arms were on her shoulders, warm and strong. Keeping her together.

She was glad to see the competent, put-together version of him - she wasn’t sure the None Of My Business version would have been as comforting.

“What happened?” he asked, letting briefly go of her. “Did you get hurt?”

She extracted the note from her pocket, hand still shaking. He read it once, twice, eyes narrowing slightly. “I thought you wrote the obituaries.”

“I do.” Rose bit down on her lower lip to stop it from quivering. “I did.” 

“That explains the decline in humour,” Scorp said blythely. “Not everyone can write a funny eulogy. Why didn’t Al tell me?”

He’d asked Al. He’d asked about her.

“It’s technically a secret. Last year Mrs Potts died,” Rose said, shrugging. “And I’d been giving her a hand with the easier ones so they figured until they found a replacement I could do it and --”

And then they never found one.

She stepped away from him, straightening herself up. “I’m here in a professional capacity. You see --”

As she filled him in on the details his scowl grew.

“I figured one thing was lending a friendly shoulder another is… this. So I figured --”

“I’m just a Healer,” Scorp said, shaking his head and giving her back the note. “I patch up people who accidentally hex themselves."

"But --"

"You need a therapist, ” he said. Rose’s shoulders slumped over and Scorp rolled his eyes. “Bertie should be able to help. Come on.” 

Bertie did help. He walked her through the motions, gave her the How To Support Someone With Suicidal Thoughts crash course. Reminded her that Losing It might not even be suicidal, they could just be venting their frustration, looking for a familiar shoulder to lean on.

“They trust you,” he said simply. “They’ve been writing to you for over a year now.”

“But I’m not qualified --”

“You aren’t.” Bertie shook his head. “But you’re what they have. And now me, of course, on a consulting capacity.”

“What do I do?”

Bertie grimaced. “You make sure they know they’re not alone. You find out how deep they are and you make sure you’re there when they need you. And if you have a chance, refer them to a therapist.”

“Yes, but how? What do I say?”

He rolled his eyes. “Use your words. You’re a writer for Merlin’s sake.”

The advice was simple.

Dear Losing It,

Bertie’s head was looming over her shoulder and when she hesitated, he said, “Don’t make them feel like they’re a burden.” 

You sound like you’re in rough shape and my heart goes out to you. I’m really glad you wrote.

“Don’t offer them meaningless platitudes,” Bertie said, “rather, tell them you might not understand but that you’d like to try, if they’d care to explain.”

If you want to talk about it some more, my shoulder is always one owl away.

“Reassure them. Tell them it’s normal and that there will be better days ahead.” 

You’ve already lost so much, it really doesn’t seem fair. The world is, in fact, a buggering piece of shit. I’ll give it a proper thrashing for you next time I see it, don’t worry. It’ll be limping for days.

She eyed the last two sentences and when Bertie didn’t complain, she decided to keep them. Marvin and his censorship could take a hike.

“Encourage them to focus on getting through the day. One foot at a time.”

Just take a deep breath and focus on getting through today, one foot in front of the next. 

Okay, now she was just quoting him verbatim.

There is no shame in taking a break if it’s too much. I favour a good cry on the shower and a pint of Fortescue’s. 

Bertie snorted. Rose decided to leave it.

Just remember: you’re not alone.

Love, Mrs Potts

“Okay?” she asked Bertie.

“Okay. Just owl it as soon as possible so they don’t think you’re blowing them off,” he said, herding her toward the door. “And if you get another one, I’m one owl away. Or apparition, whichever tickles your fancy.”

Scorp watched quietly her as she tied the message to an owl’s leg. “Mrs Potts, huh?”

“Advice columnist by day,” Rose said, whipping around with a faint smile, “friendly bartender by night.”

“What does Mr Potts think about your double life?”

“Haven’t asked him about it,” Rose said, balancing herself on the balls of her feet. “Mostly because he’s fictional. Even the original Mrs Potts wasn’t married, she was just… you know, at the age where every woman is a Mrs.”

He gave her a nod but his eyes were bright. 

When she was ready to apparate, he stopped her, a single hand on her wrist which he immediately dropped.

“I missed you too,” he said quietly. “Figured I’d pop by tomorrow.”

He phrased it as a question as if asking for her permission. As if he hadn’t been holding her up by the scruff through this entire ordeal, intruding on Bertie’s lunch hour and dangling her in front of him like a lost kitten who needed a new home.

Like she wasn’t high on him. 

“Yes.”

Crumpled Scorp was back and she was so happy to see him that she dropped the glasses she was bussing around. And then Crumpled Scorp was gone, briefly replaced by Sharp Scorp, who had cast a Reparo before she’d even regained her bearings.

“You alright?” he asked as he stacked the glasses on the tray. “I can leave if --”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Rose repeated pointedly. “Stay.”

Merlin, she’d missed him. 

The border between who was what and which was whom was starting to dull in her mind. All she knew was that she had missed him, both Crumpled and Sharp.

“Right,” he said blankly, slipping onto a nearby chair. 

When she stepped behind the counter, the crumpled boy greeted her. When she made a joke, it was the sharp man who laughed.

Muddled, until it was all him. Until Crumpled and Sharp became the same person in her mind.

“That morning I kicked you out, I had a stain,” she said quietly after a while, as the patrons slowly trickled out. “On my bum. Didn’t want you to see it.”

“Your bum or the stain?”

Sharp through and through. All harsh angles and amused grins before slumping back into tiredness.

“I’m cutting you off.” Rose’s threat was rewarded with a wan smile. “See if we can get you home tonight.”

“You’re dropping me off?” Incredulity. “At mine?” Disappointment. 

“You’ve seen my flat,” she said. “It’s only fair.”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine type of thing?”

She nodded absently, casting a quick cleaning charm on a batch of nearby glasses. 

“Are you commandeering my couch too?” he asked blythely. She looked up at him and he offered her a wry smile. “Too much?”

Her hand reached out to take his glass away. “You’re officially cut off.”

He placed a hand on top of it to stop her and, for a brief moment, their hands touched. Eyes met, a shy glance brimming with possibility.

“Finally managed to get you home on a Tuesday night,” Rose said triumphantly, as she looked around his living room. “I’m feeling accomplished.”

It was a mix of sharp and crumpled, impeccable and just the slightest bit chaotic. Rose couldn’t help a smile as she spotted a stack of coloured post-its on a nearby coffee table.

She looked over at him, scrunched over like a used paper tissue. She took a step toward him and gently herded him toward his bedroom.

He sat down on his bed, yawned and looked at her through eyes heavy with sleep. “This is definitely not how I’d pictured it,” he mumbled, letting himself fall to the side and pulling the bedsheets over himself, clothes and all. 

She took a seat next to him and looked down at him with a smile. “What didn’t you picture?”

“Honestly?” He blinked, eyes drooping against his will and he sighed, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead. “I’d hoped you’d be a lot more naked.”

Rose let out a snort. “Really?”

“Can’t cut me off now, Red,” he said, hand reaching out to grab her hand. “Merlin, I’m happy. Thought you didn’t like me.” He let out a small, breathy chuckle. “Bum stain, really.”

“It was a legitimate concern at the time.”

He let out another small laugh that made her heart feel warm.

“Wouldn’t have noticed it.” He pulled her hand and placed a small kiss on her knuckles as his eyes fluttered shut. “Too busy.”

“Busy what?”

And he was out. Rose stared at their entwined fingers, his sleeping hand still clutching hers. For the briefest of moments, she was tempted to stay, curl up next to him and… sleep.

But of course it would be insane. She suddenly understood his reluctance in staying over in the morning. Who knew if he wanted her there?

Instead, she walked over to the living room, picked up a pink post-it and drew a small heart on it. She plastered it on his front door. 

When she felt like that wasn’t enough, she added another to the bathroom mirror, another to the kitchen cabinets.

By the time she was done, she was out of post-its.

Because that wasn't insane at all.

This time it was the genial, impeccably manicured version of himself.

“Graveyard shift?”

“Day off,” he corrected with a smile. “Came for my weekly shot of you.” 

She snorted. “Pick up the Prophet. I’m somewhere on page three.”

“The world feels like a cruel and bitter place when I don’t actually see you, Red,” he stated solemnly, completely ignoring her shameless attempt at self-promotion. “How’s a bloke supposed to carry on?”

“I bet you say that to all the girls who carry you home.”

She wished she could frame the smile he flashed her.

“Incidentally yes,” he said. “I do.”

“Pint?”

“Not a chance. I’m on water.” He leaned over the counter and rested his cheek on his chin. “Was thinking I could take you home for a change. Mix it up a bit.”

Her heart sank to her feet. It must have shown in her face.

“Not that, Red,” he said, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Much as it pains me, I haven’t stayed conscious long enough to actually woo you properly.”

“Hence the water?” she asked, placing a glass in front of him and a bottle. “Is the plan to woo me today?”

“It was always the plan,” he said like it was obvious. “You had me at ‘you look hwell’.”

Rose let out a snort and scurried off. She was faintly aware of his eyes following her across the room and she ignored the thumping of her heart.

Sharp Scorp was far easier to deal with by post-it. Up close he threw her into complete disarray.

“Does your family not know you’re working at The Turnip?”

“Why?”

“Told Teddy I bumped up into you and he just stared blankly back at me. ”

Rose looked down at the hand entwined with hers over the counter and frowned. “Did you tell him?”

“Figured if he didn’t know, you didn’t want him to.”

One more hour and she’d be free. Free to do what? Snog him? Take him home? Her home, his home? Both their homes?

“I took the job on a lark,” Rose said, shaking her head. “Thought it was a good chance to meet different people and chat to them. Research.”

Scorp nodded, like it made perfect sense. 

“I just don’t think they’d get it, y’know?” Rose’s forehead scrunched. “They all gave me hell about the obituaries, can’t even imagine what they’d say if I -- ”

“Am I the only one who knows?”

Like somehow it was None Of His Business and All Of His Business at the same time.

“My Mum and Dad know,” she said, shrugging. “I told them, figured if I ever got hexed on the job someone needed to. A couple of my mates. Freddie found out on accident but he kept it hush-hush. If he knows, Roxy probably does too.”

They fell into silence.

“How long have you been coming here, anyway?” Rose rested her cheek on her hand. “Poppy doesn’t remember you at all.”

“Good to know I’m not the only one asking around about you.”

“Bugger off.”

“Months.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I usually stop by to grab a pint before going home and dying. 

“On the pull?” she asked with a smile. “My, my.”

“I’m usually too tired to try to pull anything .” Scorp let out a snort. “It made me feel like I had a life of sorts. Something to look forward to that wasn’t just… sleeping .”

“So you did come back for the beer.”

Scorp rolled his eyes. “I came in, drank the beer and then left. I never passed out on a counter because I was trying and failing to flirt with the beer.”

The happy, giddy fluttering in her chest was rather pressing.

“Really?” 

He nodded with a rueful smile. 

“I don't know if you're desperate or just blind.” Rose looked down at herself, at the perpetual stain on her chest, at the sweat pits and let go of his hand. “Because this --”

“I could say the same,” he said, shrugging. “Didn’t exactly figure you’d fall for the bloke drooling all over the mahogany.”

Rose’s heart leapt in defence of Crumpled Scorp. “You don’t drool!”

“Oh, but I do,” Scorp said with a smirk. “I know for a fact that I do.”

Okay, so he did. And it wasn’t exactly the most attractive thing in the world but it was… irrelevant.

He rested his chin on his hand and leaned over the counter with a grin like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Exactly.”

“So these,” she asked, lifting her arms and displaying her pit stains, “don’t bother you.”

“I presume you shower.” A small smile curled his mouth. “And your presumed showers do bother me immensely.”

Rose snorted, slipping her fingers away. “I’m cutting you off.”

“I’m on water, you can't cut me off.”

“You can die of dehydration for all I care.” A notion crossed her mind. “Did you change shifts to see me? Back when, with the --”

“Yes,” he said, shrugging lazily. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

Her heart hammered in her chest as she cast the last few locking spells. 

Scorp was sitting on the small ledge where he’d fallen asleep the last time, except he wasn’t asleep this time. He opened his arms and she fell into them, trapped between his legs.

“So I have a question for Mrs Potts.”

Rose chuckled into his arms and pulled back, marvelling at how his hand fit into her waist.

“There’s this one girl…”

Her smile widened. “Really, now?”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled back at her. “Been dangling after her for months.”

“And does she dangle back?” 

Rose’s hand gingerly brushed through his hair, gently cupping the back of his neck. After four hours it was already a riotous mess, courtesy of his nervous hands that seemed to rake through it every chance they got.

“I like to think she isn’t completely uninvested.”

Merlin have mercy on her.

“Assuming she isn’t.” Rose leaned, touching the crown of her forehead to his. “What are you going to do?”

He shook with laughter and Rose’s fingers tightened into his hair.

“Well, I was wondering,” he whispered, nudging his nose against hers, “if you think I should go for it. Take a chance, you know.”

One of his hands brushed up her arm until it was cupping her face, stroking her cheek with a thumb.

Rose bit down on her lip. “You know what?” she asked, struggling to keep an even tone. “I think maybe you should.”

Scorp let out a small snort, eyes laughing before his mouth brushed against hers. Once. Just the most miserable of pecks that sent her head spinning and her heart racing. She tried to go back in but his hands on her face kept her away. 

“But what if she’s not into me?”

Cheeky prat. 

“I swear to Morgana,” she growled, “if you don’t give me a proper --”

And then he did and, dear Merlin, did he. Rose’s hands smacked his own away so she could wrap her arms around his neck and pull him closer and Scorp groaned against her mouth. His own discarded hands drooped to her waist and tugged, as if she could somehow get any closer, which was, of course, impossible because she was practically straddling him.

Merlin.

After what seemed like an eternity of hormone fuelled, almost adolescent making out in the middle of a public street, Rose pulled away. Her brain had been insistently aware of something hard pressed against her stomach and the matching whining between her own legs was becoming more and more insistent.

“So,” she said breathlessly in between kisses. “Yours”, kiss, “or mine?”

His mouth curled into a smile. “Will I be relegated to the couch?”

“Depends,” Rose said, frowning as his mouth nipped at her neck. “Will you actually be there in the morning?”

She didn’t particularly fancy waking up to a ‘thanks’ post-it, no matter how good the coffee.

“I won’t,” he said quietly and her heart sank. She tried to free herself from his arms and he scowled. “I have work in the morning, you bint.”

“Oh.”

“Obviously.” He rolled his eyes and she let him reel her back in, eyes still wary. “But I can sleep over, if you let me.”

“There will be no sleep, you narcoleptic wanker.”

In the end, she had lied: there was sleep. Naked sleep, his body curled against her back, arm possessively draped around her waist. Hand still holding hers even as he drooled onto the pillow she’d drafted for him months ago. 

His breathing steady against her neck, nose buried in her curls.

Rose didn’t suppose she’d ever felt happier.

Rose stared blankly at the post-it stuck to her front door the next morning. He’d splurged, going for three words instead of the regular one-two combo.

“I love you.”