Cowboys and Angels

moment thirty-nine: writing [the fine print II] (November 1995.)

To say the Aurors had returned was an understatement. The three rogues had returned as had all the others a few weeks later, and been suitably humble. They'd fitted back into their old jobs, no complaint, and seemed like their old selves, from the office gossip Percy had caught onto, and then chastised himself listening in to.

Then at roughly twenty minutes past twelve today, eleven of the Aurors who's gone rogue and returned had gotten up from their desks, drawn their wands and proceeded to go through the Ministry buildings at Shoreditch, killing and maiming anyone they could get their hands on. It was estimated that around one hundred and twenty people had been killed, and there were another two hundred in hospital. Only Merlin knew how many files had been destroyed in the fires they'd started, how much information. In some ways that was almost as precious as the lives that he been lost.

In historical terms, it was the worst assault on the Ministry since its foundation, with an even greater loss of life than the attack by Voldemort of twenty years previously. Percy himself had been relatively lucky; the offices of the Department of International Magical Co-operation were situated quite far away from the Auror building, but when he's seen the smoke pouring from nearby buildings and rushed into the passageway, confused, a familiar cloaked figure had been striding down towards him, wand at the ready.

Auror. And then one of his colleagues from an office had leapt from a side passage, tackling the Auror to the ground, and Percy had run, leaving a flash of green lightening behind.

Eventually, they'd all been cornered by loyal Aurors, and every single one had turned his or her wand on themselves, and committed suicide rather than admit why, or who, or how. Except one, who'd been knocked unconscious by a rather courageous group from the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. Percy grimaced internally. Probably his father had been involved, he thought sourly, and then told himself off for being so damn petty, especially now of all times.

He heard Penny was in the hospital, and made a note to visit her, sometime. Once he'd got out, the field medics had treated Percy for smoke inhalation, a few cuts and abrasions, mild shock, and then left him to apparate home while the medics dealt with the next casualty.

Which was why Percy found himself just outside the flat. Home. Oliver. And why when he opened the door, exhausted, he was enveloped in strong arms and a sudden almost crushing hug, and then just as suddenly Oliver retreated, awkward, tucking his hands into his pockets, and Percy had never felt so alone.

"I, um, heard about the attack," Oliver said, looking at the floor.

"As you can see, I'm all right, if a bit tired." Percy swayed gently, and Oliver caught him with a hand, and Percy felt his skin tingle under his robes at the touch, and with a sudden, tired clarity, he realised this was what they needed. Someone to break Marcus' hold from the grave over Oliver, and to break death's hold on Percy himself.

So he leaned forward, closing his eyes, and brushed his lips against Oliver's.

There was no response, and as Percy opened his eyes, he saw Oliver, stunned, looking at him, fumbling for words. "You - You kissed me, Perce."

"Oh, was it too obvious?"

"Don't play games with me, not now. You almost could have died today, and you just fucking kissed me-"

"And that is precisely why I did it. I nearly died today, Oliver. And for a moment, I'd like to believe someone might actually be capable of caring about me, even if it's just pretend. You have your shrine and your grave, and memories. I have nothing."

Oliver looked at him again, silently, his large eyes accusing and hurt, but when Percy kissed him again, he didn't stop him.