Draco's never been one to sort out his feelings with strangers-but fatigue and a pushy waitress be just the right combination
A/N: A huge, mega, ultra thank you to my sadkjlnklfgds beta, WrittenMatrix! Seriously Keno I can't actually thank you enough for putting up with me and helping me through this little ficlet and for offering your totally boss editing skills. This wouldn't have been HALF as good without you. Love you hun, <3
Also thanks to Mella who went over it and fixed stuff as well, apparently I make a lot of spelling mistakes, haha. <3 <3 <3
Also, there's a quote in here that Marcy uses from a movie called 'The Other Side of Dawn', it's what inspired this fic, so here you go:
“This is the most complicated relationship since Romeo and Juliet,” she complained. “You’re both hopeless. I mean, what is the big problem? You love him. He adores you. You get together and live happily ever after. Any questions? No, of course not. That’ll be ten dollars, thank you.”
— John Marsden (The Other Side Of Dawn)
Marcy looks across the cafe to booth number five and its occupant, wiping her hands on her apron to try and rid them of the damned stinging soap the manager insists on buying. The booth is situated in a corner of the restaurant, hiding its patron from the wandering eyes of passersby but still allowing him a clear view of the street. It's the booth people sit in when they've got a problem to sort out, when they want to be alone. Most of the time Marcy takes this to mean they need a good slap upside the head. The man who sits there now is handsome, she notes, before scoffing softly to herself. Try bloody gorgeous.
The thin crease between his eyebrows belies the confusion he feels but it is the only line on his perfectly smooth, pale skin. Light blond hair frames his face in thin tendrils, falling just above his eyebrows and just brushing the back of his neck. It's artfully crafted, as if it's been well trained to not put a hair—if she would forgive herself the pun—out of line. His skin has a healthy glow about it despite being so light, the kind that comes from years of eating what one should and staying in shape, taking care of one's body. His clothes are fashionably simple, elegant, and she’s confident they also cost more than her yearly salary. She's sure he's got a girlfriend-no one that good looking would stay single for very long unless they were a complete cretin. She knows he’s not; he always leaves a generous tip on the table and always mutters a polite—if distracted—'please' and 'thank you' as she serves him his customary espresso with cinnamon and chocolate flakes. She knows his order by now; he’s been coming here for the past week, always ordering the same thing, sitting in the same booth, wearing the same puzzled, lost look on his face. His eyes never meet hers, nor does he spare a glance at anyone else as he stands to leave. He drops his change on the table and silently walks out, his expression not having changed one bit.
It is Thursday and the tall blond is back, sitting as always in the corner booth, drinking the same drink. This time she notices a crumpled piece of paper under his hand. It’s got writing on it but she can’t read the untidy script the way his hand is positioned.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks as she hands him the change from his coffee. He looks up at her, his eyebrows drawing up in surprise and she notices for the first time that his eyes are not the blue she had thought they were but rather a soft, almost misty gray. There’s an edge behind them—that of stone behind mist and she‘s sure he’s got a temper behind this cool, postured exterior.
“…I’m sorry what?” he asks, his voice cultured, a hint of a drawl. She smiles kindly.
“You want to talk about what‘s bothering you?” she repeats, pointing briefly to the paper beneath his hand. His hand reflexively shifts on the paper so that it’s completely covered.
“No,” he replies firmly, looking away out the window again. She shrugs, turning back to her other customers. She notices though once he’s left that there’s a larger tip on his table than usual and he’s left the note behind. She quickly glances at it.Draco,
I was wondering if you’d meet me for lunch at the Leaky… we need to talk. You know about what. Stop avoiding me. I haven’t been able to ignore you for seven years, I’m not going to start now.
I miss you,
Marcy frowned at the piece of paper in her hand. She assumed ‘Draco’ was who she’d been serving but what did this Harry want to talk about that had the man so spooked?
The next day Draco surprises her; as soon as he sits down he pulls out a roll of what looks like parchment. He starts to quickly scrawl across the page with an elegant swipe. He suddenly stops, looking unsure, confused again.
“Sometimes it helps if you say it out loud before you write it,” she offers as she sets his coffee down on the table. He says nothing—she doesn’t expect him to and she turns away but his hand catches her wrist, surprising her. She looks back to him and sees he is surprised as well, staring at his own hand as if it’s betrayed him.
“I…” he starts, looking unsure as to whether he should continue or not. “…I think I love him,” he says softly, obviously more to himself than to her and she has to hold back a gasp of surprise. Well that certainly changes things. Suddenly he stands, leaving the money on the table, grabbing his coffee and brushing past her in a hurry.
Yes, she thinks, that would explain the letter and Draco’s hesitance to talk to Harry. For all the blond’s cool exterior, he doesn’t seem to be one for facing his problems.
It is more than a week since she’s seen the blond man and she has almost let herself believe he’s worked it out until he comes striding in again, looking even more forlorn and distressed than usual. For goodness sake, how long does it take to pluck up the courage and admit you love someone?
“You know he’s going to move on if you don’t tell him,” she says a bit more harshly than she means to. He scoffs slightly at her words, as if they’re the most ridiculous ones he’s ever heard.
“He hates me,” he replies simply, not once looking in her direction. She smiles. If the letter is anything to go by, Harry doesn’t ‘hate’ Draco. She pulls out the letter from her apron pocket, almost blushing that she’s kept it. She drops it in front of the dumbstruck blond.
“He does not hate you.” This seems to be the wrong thing to say as the man’s brows knit together in anger, his mouth deepening in a sneer.
“What would you know? He does hate me—he hates everything I stand for! He only stays around because he’s got that bloody hero complex of his, because he feels sorry for the poor bastard who’s fallen so hard, who can’t even think when they’re together so he has to go someplace he knows he won’t run into the git so that he can try and pull himself together!” As his rant ends, he leans his head into his hands, turning his petulant glare to the window, as if it’s offended him by being there.
“He doesn’t hate you,” she repeats and walks away.
The next day finds Marcy again in the coffee shop, waiting on the lunch time rush when the door slams open and the same tall blond stalks in, dragging a shorter brunet man with him. The man is spluttering, fighting back somewhat as he is dragged directly in front of the counter Marcy is leaning against. Draco turns the man towards her and stares imploringly.
"Tell her you hate me."
Ah, so this must be ‘Harry.‘ The shorter man looks puzzled, his eyes flying between his captor and Marcy, pleading for one of them to please explain what the bloody hell is going on.
"Well, go on." The blond’s face is a mask and she realizes she’s never seen him this closed off before. There is something in his eyes though she can’t quite make it out, he’s looking back at the other man too quickly. She thinks it might be fear.
"Draco I... I don't hate you. Why would you think that?" The brunet’s voice is a bit raspy, but low and pleasant. All around the boy is pleasant, she notes, with a kind eye and almost boyish features, jet black hair that is sticking up at all angles as if defying anyone to tell it to do otherwise. She notices his eyes—strikingly green even through the slight glare of his glasses—haven't left Draco‘s face. They're fixed on the pale blond’s elegant features, running from his eyes to his mouth and back again as the man speaks. No, Harry definitely doesn’t hate Draco.
"You do hate me. You've always hated me. My father hates you, The... his boss wanted to kill you. Tell her you hate me, Potter!" With every word Draco grows angrier and the man beside him more confused. By the end he’s glaring daggers, his grip tightening around the forearm in his grasp.
"Draco what your father and his....” here Harry pauses and a look passes between them Marcy doesn’t quite understand, “...boss think doesn't matter." Harry's turned straight towards Draco now and it's as if Marcy has suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth along with everyone else in the cafe. There's no one there but the two men standing together, close together, as the short brunet brings his hands up to clasp Draco's upper arms, as if to steady him. Draco is looking more desperate by the minute, as if he wishes the man would just tell him he hates him and be done with it. The look of growing hope when he doesn't is almost enough to break her.
"Honestly," she cuts in, drawing them both back to reality. "This is the most complicated relationship since Romeo and Juliet,” she complains, fixing them both with a stare that has them sheepishly looking at each other. “You’re both hopeless. I mean, what’s the problem?” She pauses to jab Draco in the chest. “You love him. He adores you. You get together and live happily ever after. Any questions? No, of course not." She looks at them once more, seeing Draco flush at her admission of his feelings and the other man's jaw nearly drop to the ground as his head whips to stare at Draco. She smirks and walks away, far enough to give the men privacy but not far enough that she can't hear what they're saying. Now she's invested in this, she wants to see how it works out.
The brunet's voice carries, soft, almost in wonderment as he leans into Draco. "You love me?" Draco looks as if he's about to refute the statement but Marcy catches his eye as he looks up and she stares pointedly at him. She's not going to be as understanding if she sees him in here again, looking forlorn and lost and generally pathetic. He sighs.
"...She said it, not me." Marcy has to fight the urge to roll her eyes but it seems it's the right thing to say. Harry, she figures, knows Draco well enough by now not to be put off. At least she hopes not, because the look on the pale blond's face as Harry leans up to kiss him is pure happiness and it’s enough to put a goofy smile on Marcy's face, despite the fact she would deny a hardened matron like herself could ever do something so sappy. As the two sit down in the corner booth she can't help but let her eyes wander over every now and again. Just to check Draco is behaving himself, she insists. When Harry shifts closer, leaning into Draco and resting his head on the blond's shoulder as they continue talking softly, she knows it will be all right.
Perhaps this Romeo and his... Juliet, won't end in tragedy after all.