...and randomly, out of nowhere, there is a rarepair
title: a well-earned skiving
pairing: Percy/Oliver
rating: pg
warnings: none.
disclaimer: Transformative work of JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.
notes: For the lovely and talented brinimc, who challenged me once upon a time to write these two and was then made of patience about it. Here, bb. Have a bit of Percy/Oliver. <3
Oliver loves visiting the Ministry, getting Percy’s staff all aflutter when he winks his way through the office. It’s all the best bits of being famous and none of the annoying ones, because they all know him and he’s already done the autograph bit with everyone here who’d ask, and really, he thinks now it’s less whispers and giggling over seeing Mr. January from their Quidditch calendars in the flesh, more someone dropping by to see Percy socially.
He has it on good authority the bulk of Percy’s staff find that baffling. Oliver loves that, too.
He’d clear it up for them, why he makes a point of stopping by when his schedule allows, but Percy is meticulous about keeping “a safe distance” between them while they’re in “public”, which he defines as anywhere at all they might be seen, and while Oliver thinks that’s plain ridiculous, it’s endearing, as well.
Percy’s only this neurotic when he’s worried about someone and since he never worries about himself like this, it’s got to be Oliver’s reputation. There’s been a time or two Oliver’s been tempted to grab someone-anyone while he’s out with his mates and get a quick snog in so Percy will stop worrying about the press finding out Oliver’s bent, but that’s likely not worth the trouble of explaining afterward.
Best, he thinks, to get caught snogging Percy, which he can’t do without permission. He’s not outing anyone, ever, no matter how frustrating the privacy rules get sometimes.
So he tips a hand to his forehead to salute the quill-pushers between Percy’s office and the lifts, fires off a round of winks for his favourites as he nears the door, and when he knocks, he doesn’t let alone at all that he’s there for a snog and maybe a chance to muss Percy’s robes up over lunch.
Tempting, but he’s promised, so he behaves.
Percy’s staff can’t suss out why Oliver’s there and while Percy should know by now, it’s still so often a surprise. He blinks up from his desk and frowns at first, like Oliver’s an apparition and not expected, and Oliver’s long past waiting to be asked before he steals a seat.
Percy has the distinct look of overtime and skipped meals again. This is why Oliver’s grown a distaste for games on the road; he inevitably comes back to find Percy overworked and exhausted. Needs a keeper, Oliver thinks, and spares a mental snicker at his own joke.
“So. I’m thinking lunch,” Oliver declares, putting his feet up on the edge of Percy’s desk and doing his best to own the space. He’s said it as though he’s keeping up with a conversation, said it instead of the greeting Percy no doubt expects, and watching Percy sift through the chain of events is appealing. Distracting, but the exact right sort.
“It’s half-three,” Percy says, baffled. “And get your feet down, please.”
“Had lunch yet?” Oliver counters, and doesn’t move anything beyond a cocky brow.
“Yes, of course,” Percy dismisses, which would be a first if it weren’t such an obvious, pitiful lie. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Don’t suppose I’d get anywhere if I said you,” Oliver muses.
Percy narrows his eyes, more concentration than threat. “Have you been injured?”
It’s the work of a moment to catch up; Percy’s trying to figure out why Oliver’s here. So this should be amusing. “Nope.”
“Has there been a rain delay, then? Inclement weather?” Percy’s office has a rather sizable window, but he’d have to look up from his work and turn about to make use of it, though Oliver thinks the stream of sunlight on his desk ought to be a clue.
He allows himself a lop-sided grin as he shakes his head, folds his arms behind his head and leans back in his chair, stretches out for a lounge.
“Right,” Percy mutters, lost in his own head. Oliver is never going to get tired of watching that, not if he still isn’t. “Is this…Have you been…?”
That one takes a bit more time, but only because Percy’s gone so stricken. “Cut?” Oliver tries. Percy blanches, which is as good as a nod. Vintage Perce, though, upset for Oliver’s sake over something Percy probably can’t be arsed about for his own. “No.”
“Suspended, then?” Percy tries, a bit forlorn. “Traded? Oliver, why are you here?”
“It really is just to see you,” Oliver says, but of course that wouldn’t do it.
“Don’t you have some sort of…Quidditch thing today? I’m sure I saw that on the schedule.”
Percy’s schedule is endearing, too. Annoying as shit at times, a right pain in the arse when the season starts and his games and practices and whatnot need to be filled in, but Percy puts such faith in it, is so earnest in keeping to it, that Oliver still smiles about it every now and then. As far as he’s concerned, if he hasn’t torn it down in a rage or anything yet, he probably never will, which makes it just one more quirk of Percy he’s come to enjoy.
“Game against the Harpies tomorrow,” Oliver agrees. “Off to Nationals camp the day after, home on the 12th if I’m lucky, the 17th if I’m not, and that’s presuming I don’t get tagged for the League All-Stars game again. Which, frankly, I am not counting on, because there is a sad and sorry field of Keepers this year.”
He can see it, he thinks, the realization of his schedule sinking in, all those different colours Percy makes him use to keep track of things knitting together into one big lot of away. Normally he’d have at least a bit of kicking-about time at home in there somewhere but it’s a World Cup year and much as Oliver enjoys playing for England-he will, by Merlin, heft that Cup someday-the training schedule is brutal.
Camp’s going to eat up most of his free time and all of his All-Star break. The publicity schedule and his commitment to the Kestrals is going to do the rest; if he’s lucky, he’ll have a night at home sometime next month. If he’s lucky.
Oliver hasn’t come this far on luck.
“So you’ll be busy, then,” Percy says, sadder and smaller than Oliver likes hearing. Percy’s so steady about so many things, so determined and resolute about his work, but he gets like this sometimes about his personal life, small and tentative.
Oliver hates that he does almost as much as Oliver hates being the reason for it. “Come to lunch with me, Percy.”
“All-Stars already?” Percy parrots, but it’s clear he’s not thinking, that he’s trying to hide his own response in the unfailing support of Oliver’s achievements. That’s Percy straight through, though, still too busy making peace and being agreeable to let his own reactions out.
There are times Oliver wants a quick and careful word with Percy’s family for making him think this is how he needs to be with people.
“Percy,” Oliver says, calm and flat and direct. Percy blinks off the worst of his shallow facade and stares at him patiently. “I’ve run off from Holyhead and I’m skipping practice. Come to lunch with me?”
“The 17th, you said?” This time, Percy sounds quite a bit more like he should, thoughtful and calculating, eminently practical.
“The 17th, yeah.” Oliver nods. Holds Percy’s gaze while he does and lets the sight sink in, Percy mentally reorganizing his day to accommodate Oliver’s presence.
Then Percy nods back, subtle but sure, and Oliver lets himself relax a little as Percy sets his work aside.
“Do we have time for a quick pop out somewhere or should I have something sent in?”
“Anything,” Oliver says, melting a little all over again at how resolved Percy gets when he’s set himself to action. “I’m due back by 6.”
“Are you,” Percy muses, looking him over the way he does while they’re at home. “It’s only half-three now.” Oliver’s half-hard already at just the promise in that tone.
“It is, yeah.” This, he thinks; Oliver’s run off from work for this, Percy staring at him at heat and wicked intentions, making Oliver the centre of his world in ways all the fans put together couldn’t manage. Percy knows him, every last quirk and all of his flaws, and Percy has for ages, and Percy still wants him to distraction whenever they have time, which is more than worth a skiving.
Oliver wants to be kissed now the way he knows Percy will, long and meticulous, a deliberate claiming that’s going to match the way he kisses back, though Percy’s always got more patience. He wants to be touched, too, reminded thoroughly that Percy wants just him, not the name or the fame or the Quidditch skills or anything, only just Oliver, and that Percy’s put time and effort into sorting out what Oliver likes.
He wants Percy on the right side of that desk, is what, but he won’t get any of that here, so he bides his time and waits for Percy’s next move.
“Home, then?” Percy doesn’t really ask it. Oliver still nods. “I want you on our bed tonight. I want…”
The faltering then, Oliver swears, is all the rush of things Percy can’t quite choose between, which suits him just fine.
“Yeah,” he says around the tightness in his throat. “Yeah, sounds good to me.”
::
Oliver loves visiting the Ministry, giving Percy’s staff something to wag their jaws about and doing it with a smile, but he’s rarely done it quite like this, left them all baffled and bug-eyed.
Running off with their boss in the middle of the afternoon is perhaps not the slickest thing he’s ever done, but he can’t regret it. Not with whole weeks apart hanging over their heads and just a few hours to spend together before Oliver’s due off again.
He’s not there, of course, so he can’t be sure, but he bets Perce heads back the next day smiling.
~ f ~
pairing: Percy/Oliver
rating: pg
warnings: none.
disclaimer: Transformative work of JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.
notes: For the lovely and talented brinimc, who challenged me once upon a time to write these two and was then made of patience about it. Here, bb. Have a bit of Percy/Oliver. <3
Oliver loves visiting the Ministry, getting Percy’s staff all aflutter when he winks his way through the office. It’s all the best bits of being famous and none of the annoying ones, because they all know him and he’s already done the autograph bit with everyone here who’d ask, and really, he thinks now it’s less whispers and giggling over seeing Mr. January from their Quidditch calendars in the flesh, more someone dropping by to see Percy socially.
He has it on good authority the bulk of Percy’s staff find that baffling. Oliver loves that, too.
He’d clear it up for them, why he makes a point of stopping by when his schedule allows, but Percy is meticulous about keeping “a safe distance” between them while they’re in “public”, which he defines as anywhere at all they might be seen, and while Oliver thinks that’s plain ridiculous, it’s endearing, as well.
Percy’s only this neurotic when he’s worried about someone and since he never worries about himself like this, it’s got to be Oliver’s reputation. There’s been a time or two Oliver’s been tempted to grab someone-anyone while he’s out with his mates and get a quick snog in so Percy will stop worrying about the press finding out Oliver’s bent, but that’s likely not worth the trouble of explaining afterward.
Best, he thinks, to get caught snogging Percy, which he can’t do without permission. He’s not outing anyone, ever, no matter how frustrating the privacy rules get sometimes.
So he tips a hand to his forehead to salute the quill-pushers between Percy’s office and the lifts, fires off a round of winks for his favourites as he nears the door, and when he knocks, he doesn’t let alone at all that he’s there for a snog and maybe a chance to muss Percy’s robes up over lunch.
Tempting, but he’s promised, so he behaves.
Percy’s staff can’t suss out why Oliver’s there and while Percy should know by now, it’s still so often a surprise. He blinks up from his desk and frowns at first, like Oliver’s an apparition and not expected, and Oliver’s long past waiting to be asked before he steals a seat.
Percy has the distinct look of overtime and skipped meals again. This is why Oliver’s grown a distaste for games on the road; he inevitably comes back to find Percy overworked and exhausted. Needs a keeper, Oliver thinks, and spares a mental snicker at his own joke.
“So. I’m thinking lunch,” Oliver declares, putting his feet up on the edge of Percy’s desk and doing his best to own the space. He’s said it as though he’s keeping up with a conversation, said it instead of the greeting Percy no doubt expects, and watching Percy sift through the chain of events is appealing. Distracting, but the exact right sort.
“It’s half-three,” Percy says, baffled. “And get your feet down, please.”
“Had lunch yet?” Oliver counters, and doesn’t move anything beyond a cocky brow.
“Yes, of course,” Percy dismisses, which would be a first if it weren’t such an obvious, pitiful lie. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Don’t suppose I’d get anywhere if I said you,” Oliver muses.
Percy narrows his eyes, more concentration than threat. “Have you been injured?”
It’s the work of a moment to catch up; Percy’s trying to figure out why Oliver’s here. So this should be amusing. “Nope.”
“Has there been a rain delay, then? Inclement weather?” Percy’s office has a rather sizable window, but he’d have to look up from his work and turn about to make use of it, though Oliver thinks the stream of sunlight on his desk ought to be a clue.
He allows himself a lop-sided grin as he shakes his head, folds his arms behind his head and leans back in his chair, stretches out for a lounge.
“Right,” Percy mutters, lost in his own head. Oliver is never going to get tired of watching that, not if he still isn’t. “Is this…Have you been…?”
That one takes a bit more time, but only because Percy’s gone so stricken. “Cut?” Oliver tries. Percy blanches, which is as good as a nod. Vintage Perce, though, upset for Oliver’s sake over something Percy probably can’t be arsed about for his own. “No.”
“Suspended, then?” Percy tries, a bit forlorn. “Traded? Oliver, why are you here?”
“It really is just to see you,” Oliver says, but of course that wouldn’t do it.
“Don’t you have some sort of…Quidditch thing today? I’m sure I saw that on the schedule.”
Percy’s schedule is endearing, too. Annoying as shit at times, a right pain in the arse when the season starts and his games and practices and whatnot need to be filled in, but Percy puts such faith in it, is so earnest in keeping to it, that Oliver still smiles about it every now and then. As far as he’s concerned, if he hasn’t torn it down in a rage or anything yet, he probably never will, which makes it just one more quirk of Percy he’s come to enjoy.
“Game against the Harpies tomorrow,” Oliver agrees. “Off to Nationals camp the day after, home on the 12th if I’m lucky, the 17th if I’m not, and that’s presuming I don’t get tagged for the League All-Stars game again. Which, frankly, I am not counting on, because there is a sad and sorry field of Keepers this year.”
He can see it, he thinks, the realization of his schedule sinking in, all those different colours Percy makes him use to keep track of things knitting together into one big lot of away. Normally he’d have at least a bit of kicking-about time at home in there somewhere but it’s a World Cup year and much as Oliver enjoys playing for England-he will, by Merlin, heft that Cup someday-the training schedule is brutal.
Camp’s going to eat up most of his free time and all of his All-Star break. The publicity schedule and his commitment to the Kestrals is going to do the rest; if he’s lucky, he’ll have a night at home sometime next month. If he’s lucky.
Oliver hasn’t come this far on luck.
“So you’ll be busy, then,” Percy says, sadder and smaller than Oliver likes hearing. Percy’s so steady about so many things, so determined and resolute about his work, but he gets like this sometimes about his personal life, small and tentative.
Oliver hates that he does almost as much as Oliver hates being the reason for it. “Come to lunch with me, Percy.”
“All-Stars already?” Percy parrots, but it’s clear he’s not thinking, that he’s trying to hide his own response in the unfailing support of Oliver’s achievements. That’s Percy straight through, though, still too busy making peace and being agreeable to let his own reactions out.
There are times Oliver wants a quick and careful word with Percy’s family for making him think this is how he needs to be with people.
“Percy,” Oliver says, calm and flat and direct. Percy blinks off the worst of his shallow facade and stares at him patiently. “I’ve run off from Holyhead and I’m skipping practice. Come to lunch with me?”
“The 17th, you said?” This time, Percy sounds quite a bit more like he should, thoughtful and calculating, eminently practical.
“The 17th, yeah.” Oliver nods. Holds Percy’s gaze while he does and lets the sight sink in, Percy mentally reorganizing his day to accommodate Oliver’s presence.
Then Percy nods back, subtle but sure, and Oliver lets himself relax a little as Percy sets his work aside.
“Do we have time for a quick pop out somewhere or should I have something sent in?”
“Anything,” Oliver says, melting a little all over again at how resolved Percy gets when he’s set himself to action. “I’m due back by 6.”
“Are you,” Percy muses, looking him over the way he does while they’re at home. “It’s only half-three now.” Oliver’s half-hard already at just the promise in that tone.
“It is, yeah.” This, he thinks; Oliver’s run off from work for this, Percy staring at him at heat and wicked intentions, making Oliver the centre of his world in ways all the fans put together couldn’t manage. Percy knows him, every last quirk and all of his flaws, and Percy has for ages, and Percy still wants him to distraction whenever they have time, which is more than worth a skiving.
Oliver wants to be kissed now the way he knows Percy will, long and meticulous, a deliberate claiming that’s going to match the way he kisses back, though Percy’s always got more patience. He wants to be touched, too, reminded thoroughly that Percy wants just him, not the name or the fame or the Quidditch skills or anything, only just Oliver, and that Percy’s put time and effort into sorting out what Oliver likes.
He wants Percy on the right side of that desk, is what, but he won’t get any of that here, so he bides his time and waits for Percy’s next move.
“Home, then?” Percy doesn’t really ask it. Oliver still nods. “I want you on our bed tonight. I want…”
The faltering then, Oliver swears, is all the rush of things Percy can’t quite choose between, which suits him just fine.
“Yeah,” he says around the tightness in his throat. “Yeah, sounds good to me.”
::
Oliver loves visiting the Ministry, giving Percy’s staff something to wag their jaws about and doing it with a smile, but he’s rarely done it quite like this, left them all baffled and bug-eyed.
Running off with their boss in the middle of the afternoon is perhaps not the slickest thing he’s ever done, but he can’t regret it. Not with whole weeks apart hanging over their heads and just a few hours to spend together before Oliver’s due off again.
He’s not there, of course, so he can’t be sure, but he bets Perce heads back the next day smiling.
~ f ~