Work Text:
A knock on the door signals his arrival. The butterflies in your stomach haven’t settled since you walked out of St Mungo’s.
“I brought Chinese food,” He says as way of greeting.
You groan, moving to the side to let him in, “My saviour. I am so hungry.”
He places the food on the table, leaning against the kitchen counter as you grab the plates and cutlery. It all felt very domestic; having Draco in your kitchen, in your home. It felt right.
“How was work?” You ask him, grabbing the takeout boxes.
“It was long, but I had this one patient – hurt herself building a bookshelf, if you can believe it.”
“She sounds like an independent woman,” You state, raising an eyebrow as you lift a forkful of food to your mouth.
Draco swallows his mouthful, “I don’t doubt it, but she was the highlight of my shift. It helped that she was cute.”
“Was!?” You shout, affronted.
He laughs, hands up, relenting, “Okay, you’re always cute.”
You point your fork at him, “That is correct, Draco. I’m ridiculously cute.”
Draco smiles; the kind of smile where his eyes crinkle and his teeth show. It makes him look so much younger and you wonder how long it has been since he’s had evening like this.
“You didn’t have to do this, Draco. I completely understand if you just wanted to go home and sleep.”
“I want to do this. I want to spend more time with you,” He says, honestly.
“You know Draco, I think you might be too good for this world.”
“Don’t be silly. Now hand me the instructions.” Draco mutters, grabbing the instructions and holding the close to his face – an attempt to hide the blush you had so easily brought to his cheeks with a number of words.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The bookshelves start to take shape in no time at all. Draco does most of the work, only accepting minimum work from you.
“Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself again,” He says as if it’s a good enough reason.
“Nonsense. Hand me the instructions, Malfoy, I am the resident expert on Ikea flatpack.”
“I think the screwdriver begs to differ.”
“Oh, we’re making jokes now. We’re joking about my injury?” You gasp, holding your injured hand to your heart, pouting at the blonde-haired man in front of you.
Draco laughs; the sound of it making its home in your heart. At Hogwarts, you never knew such a warm, luscious sound could fall from his mouth.
You remember your vow from earlier; determined to make that sound the soundtrack of the rest of your life.
Draco focuses on connecting the piece of wood that would make the back panel of the bookshelf. “How did you get into writing?”
“It was a coping mechanism after the war.”
He nods silently, a sign for you to continue. “I picked up a pen one day and didn’t stop until I had written my first book. It needed editing, desperately, so I did that. And then there were further revisions and such but after a couple of months, I had my first book, I sent it off to a publisher, and I was sleeping through the night again.”
“That was the worst part of it for me as well,” Draco murmurs, “The not sleeping. I’d be awake for days on end. I did try to sleep but every time I closed my eyes, I saw it all again, every awful thing I did. I started to avoid sleeping, eventually crashing after a few days.”
“Is that why you turned to healing?”
Draco nods, “My family… they did so much bad through the war. There would be no redemption or if there was, there would be very little. I wanted to help people; I didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore. So I started to read what I could on the subject; raiding my family’s library and it went from there. I love what I do, it’s helped me become a better person.”
“That…” You pause, thinking of the right words, “That is a very noble reason to become a Healer, Draco.”
A blush stains his cheeks, “Thank you. Do you talk to anyone from school?”
You take a sip of your drink, “A few people, not many. Hermione and Ron never fail to send me flowers after a book is published. Neville sends letters from Hogwarts, telling me how happy is to be teaching. Do you?”
“Not really. I spoke to Potter not long back, wanting to apologise for my actions in school. He forgave me, surprisingly. Hermione was harder; I was so awful to her, but she still forgave me. I have no contact with anyone from Slytherin.”
“You aren’t the same person as you were at school, Draco. They know that and they understand that.” You state, remembering the conversation you had with Hermione when she had mentioned that Draco had stopped by and asked for her forgiveness for his actions through their education.
Quiet falls between the both of you; the only noise coming from the hammer being used on the bookshelves. It’s comfortable, and you’re practically assaulted with visions of a possible future – complete domesticity for you and Draco; an office for each of you where you can write and he can catch up on paperwork, but the both you know that he would rather sit in your office on your couch so he can be near you through your thought process. You see early mornings in the kitchen, the both of you still bleary-eyed with sleep – soft touches and kisses exchanged over the first cup of coffee for the day. You see the celebration of another of your books being published coinciding with a promotion for Draco; champagne opened and quickly forgotten as Draco presses you into the couch in the living room.
It’s over just as quickly as it began, and nothing has changed yet everything has changed – for you. Draco continues to build the bookshelves. You, on the other hand, have been knocked breathless by the strength of how much you want the man in front of you.
“I never asked: what do you write?”
You blink, recovering from your realisation, “Romance, mainly. Some Fantasy.”
“I have to admit, I haven’t read anything of yours.” Draco says, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.
You chuckle, “That’s okay. I bet you’ve read nothing but medical textbooks for the last few years.”
“Got it in one,” He says, smiling widely.
“I’ve got plenty of copies of my books. I’ll happily give you one.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that offer. It means I’ll have to come back for the others,” He says, cheekily.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some form of sadness washes over you as the bookshelves finally stand independently. It’s as of Draco’s work is done, and the idea that you might not see him again for some time opens a hole in your chest.
You help Draco move the bookshelves into position against the wall; all the while, you’re wondering how you could see him again, trying to work up the courage to ask to see him again.
He beats you to it.
“I would really like to do this again,” Draco says, grabbing his jacket from where he placed it on the back of a chair.
“What? Build my bookshelves?”
Draco looks at you unimpressed, “No, I meant see you again.”
You bite your lip to keep from smiling; you don’t miss how Draco’s eyes home in on the sight of your teeth sunk into your bottom lip.
“I’d like to see you again too,” You whisper.
You both linger in the doorway. Draco’s jacket still in his hands as if he doesn’t want to put it on because if he puts it on, it means that he’s leaving, and he doesn’t know when he is going to see you again, and deep down, he doesn’t want to leave you.
“Can I try something?”
“As long as it’s you kissing me,” You say bluntly.
Draco drops his jacket. His hands caressing your face as he brings his lips to meet yours. They glide together effortlessly, as if they were made for each other.
He presses you into the wall, his body lining itself up with yours. A hand travels to your thigh, squeezing. One of your hands finds purchase in his hair, grabbing at the blonde locks and pulling, drawing a groan from his mouth. You smile into the kiss; Draco responds by biting down on your lower lip – something he had wanted to do since he saw you bite it. He kisses you with passion, with unrelenting feeling.
It’s almost too much; the feel of him pressed against you, it’s almost too much and you can feel yourself start to internally combust.
When you pull away to take a breath, Draco begins to press open-mouthed kisses to your jawline, travelling down your neck before settling on a spot to leave a dark purple bruise. One of your hands runs itself through his hair; the other begins to pull at his shirt, trying to get it off, off, off.
Draco continues his pursuit down your neck; very much enjoying the breathless moans falling from your mouth. He stops when you whisper one word: “Stay.”
He pulls back placing not one, not two but three light kisses to your lips. He relishes the sight of you chasing his lips. “Stay,” you repeat.
He nods, searching your eyes for the permission despite it being spoken, and that’s all it takes. All the both of them need to know.