Cowboys and Angels

moment forty: comprehension [the fine print III] (December 1995.)

Awkward, Percy reflected, was a word meant for other people, other situations. It could not even begin to describe the depth of emotion that lay between them now. The following morning, Percy had woken in Oliver's arms - yes, in the bed - and Oliver had asked him simply and quietly, "How long have you been in love with me?"

Disgusted with his own sheer transparency, Percy immediately got out of bed, and went to his wardrobe - Marcus' old wardrobe - getting dressed for the day, all too aware of Oliver's eyes on his back, and before he'd left the room, he turned half way in the door, and murmured, "Since you rescued me from the Slytherins, I think."

Knight in fucking armour.

Since then, they had tried to pretend it hadn't happened, as if they could go back to the slightly-at-breaking-point cheeriness of the months past. But Percy had seen the way Oliver's eyes widened every time they brushed up against one another, and Oliver, rather painfully, had persuaded Percy to take time off and see some of his games for Puddlemere, pushing free tickets onto him until he couldn't refuse. He'd even suggested that they have dinner together once or twice, until Percy had given him that flat, cold stare, and Oliver had conveniently found something else for him to do.

Percy was many things, but even with his current feelings, he would not be some pity case for Oliver Wood's more charitable instincts. He would not be condescended to, patronised or otherwise treated any differently from the way he wished to be treated. Oliver was, and always would be fixed on Marcus, and that was a good thing, because Oliver's rather passive chivalry that night, the morning after, and since, had left Percy with the nagging certainty he wasn't good enough for such a fellow.

Even at mealtimes, they barely talked, just chitchat. And played with their food. And didn't go out, except to Quidditch, and Percy was always Oliver's 'friend', because however much he want to be something different, he would not allow himself to be. So there.

One cold night Percy came home late in a mood that wasn't helped by Oliver's rather unfortunate attempts to cook dinner in his place, and he'd nearly bitten Oliver's head off. Then, they'd had the argument.

"They finally managed to get the remaining Auror to confess."

Oliver looked up from where he'd been cleaning away their small dinner table. "He cough up it was Voldemort then?" For all his intelligence, Oliver was clearly in the Dumbledore camp when it came to those silly rumours. And that night of all nights, Percy wasn't having it.

"I assure you, Oliver, it wasn't He Who Must Not Be Named. Minister Fudge has undertaken a thorough investigation into such matters, concluding that He Who Must Not Be Named is indeed, quite deceased, and as you may have noticed his stance was vindicated by the recent election for Minister, in which he did win an overwhelming majority."

"Oh, come on, Perce. You know the overwhelming majority of wizards and witches want to pretend it's not happening. They voted for Fudge because the man's in active denial like they are."

Percy pressed his lips together thinly, and adjusted his glasses. "Minister Fudge is my employer, and responsible for wizarding Britain. A great and immense burden rests on his shoulders. As I have personally spoken to him five times, I can assure you, he only thinks the best-"

The dishes clattered into the sink. Percy looked to see Oliver, standing, angry, wiping his hands on the dishcloth. "From the sounds of it, Perce, you'd probably be better suited stopping dreaming about sucking my cock and starting dreaming about sucking Fudge's! What happened last year was not some desperate pack of Death Eaters. What happened to the Ministry wasn't either. Voldemort's back, and you wanting to be idiotic about it won't change that fact."

Percy's eyes flashed, stung by the accusation, and the awareness now brought into the open. "The only fact, Oliver," he stated coldly, with a peeved tone, "is the one we have managed to garner from the remaining Auror, who, despite your little conspiracy fantasies, does not mention He Who Must Not Be Named at all."

Oliver swallowed. "Ah. He doesn't?"

"No. Indeed, he mentions one Peter Pettigrew, who was supposedly murdered fifteen years ago. It appears that Pettigrew is not dead, and therefore the person who was accused of the crime, Sirius Black, is to be released from Azkaban with full pardon. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some paperwork for my 'idiotic' job to do."

He strode out of the kitchen, shoulders set, proud and stiff, and didn't respond when Oliver tried to apologise. And he didn't hear it when Oliver cursed under his breath.