stephanometra

Title: Drunk Sincerity
Pairing: James/Lily
Rating: PG
Summary: In which James picks a rather dumb spot to get trashed, there is a friendly floor, and Lily has a change of heart.
Warnings: NONE! Er. I guess underage drinking? Or something. But who the hell warns for that?
Word Count: 1607
A/N: Written for

jamesfqf Challenge 15 - After a wild Gryffindor party, James, who isn't used to drinking, gets really, really sick. Who takes care of him and what happens as a result? I played fast and loose with the prompt, mostly because I didn’t want to write James puking his guts out. Hugs and love to

goodkingnerdnor for the beta and to

xylodemon and

moshes for holding the fest.

-

Of all the things that Lily generally does not want to see first in the morning, James Potter slouching on her favourite Common Room sofa, humming to himself and lovingly cradling a mostly-empty bottle of some clear liquid with gold sparkles, is fairly high on the list.

She had helped to supervise the previous evening's raucous party following Gryffindor's taking the Quidditch Cup (230-110; Ravenclaw had put up an excellent fight), but she'd gone to bed at midnight with the expectation that Remus and the seventh-year prefects would be able to contain the rest of the waning celebration.

Apparently she'd been wrong, and classically, no other prefect is anywhere in sight. Hell, no other person is anywhere in sight – this early in the morning on a Sunday, there really by rights oughtn't to be, which is why she had planned on coming down early to study.

"Potter," she says, keeping her voice level and calm as she edges around the detritus of bottles and crisp packets that litter the floor around the couch, "it is half-six in the morning." And in just half an hour, it won't be too early to take you to McGonagall.

He swivels his head towards the sound of her voice. "'Lo, Evans." Alcohol is coming off of him in waves, and his eyes are glazed over slightly.

She snatches the bottle from his loose grasp and examines the label. Goldschläger, it proclaims. Fantastic. "What in God's name are you doing drunk this early?"

Indignantly, Potter opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. "S'not early, Evans. S'late."

"I do not care, Potter. Now get off my couch."

He pouts. "S'big enough for two, y'know."

"Not when one of us is you. Move."

He crosses his arms over his chest and blinks crossly at her.

"Fine." She sets the bottle down and shoves him off the sofa with both hands, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

He cries out in protest as he lands on his hip, but his look of ridiculous outrage quickly gives way to a pleased smile. "Oh, that's where you'd got to," he says, reaching for the bottle with a clumsy hand.

Lily sighs and picks it up again, keeping it out of his reach. "No you don't, Potter."

"Oi, Evans, s'mine! Get your own!"

"I am confiscating this, Potter, not trying to nick it. Now go to bed." She slips the bottle into her schoolbag and pulls out her Charms book before settling back on the couch to study.

Potter doesn't move a muscle, but his breathing doesn't even out enough for him to be asleep.

She shuts her book and sighs again. "Potter."

"Evans," he replies, giggling as if her name is a joke.

"Do you actually intend to get up off the floor sometime this morning?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "No. Lovely floor, this is. Very…flat. And friendly. S'a flat, friendly floor. You should sit on it, you'd see."

"The floor is not friendly."

"Is so." Potter reaches up and tugs on her leg, clearly under the delusion that he could drag her off the couch in his inebriated state.

"Is not." She slaps his hand away.

"Okay." He slumps back down and looks at the ceiling. "Come sit down here anyway?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I am quite comfortable where I am, thanks."

"Please?"

Lily pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Will you shut up if I do?"

He considers. "Maybe."

She eases herself onto the floor, back against the couch and book on her lap.

Potter is quiet for a whole minute before he asks, "What're you doing?"

"I am revising for Charms, Potter. If you would be quiet, I might even be able to get something done."

He sits up and leans over to peer at her textbook. "Why're you doing that?"

She grits her teeth. "Because there is an essay due tomorrow and I would actually like to receive a decent grade on mine. Shut up and leave me alone."

He manages to keep quiet for another two minutes after that. "Know what?"

Lily doesn't bother to reply.

"You smell nice." He leans in again like he wants to rest his head on her shoulder.

She scoots to the side to avoid the contact. "And you smell like a liquor cabinet, Potter. You should go to bed and sleep it off."

"Don't wanna."

"Obviously."

"Prolly can't, anyway."

She looks at him from the corner of her eye. "And why is that?"

"S'a secret."

"Is it."

"No, really." He motions for her to come closer; she shrugs and leans over. "Because," he whispers, breath hot and moist against her ear, "I'm drunk." And then he falls over, clutching his belly and laughing like an idiot.

He is an idiot. "You're an idiot, Potter."

He stops laughing and regards her solemnly. "Only for you, Evans. Only for you."

"Lucky, lucky me," Lily mutters under her breath.

"I love you, y'know."

She grips her book with both hands, knuckles turning white. "Alright, Potter, that's it." She sets the book on the sofa and stands up, bending down to drag Potter to his feet by his wrists.

He collapses back on the couch as soon as she lets go.

"Fine, have it your way," she says, pulling her wand from her pocket. "Wingardium leviosa." He floats off the couch with a surprised giggle, and she prods him towards the boys' dormitory staircase with the hand that isn't holding her wand.

"Where are we going!" Potter exclaims.

"You are going to bed, Potter."

"Okay." He twists around to look at her. "Come with me?" he asks, leering stupidly.

"No."

"Okay." He breathes in and then exhales loudly. "You smell nice, Evans."

Lily grits her teeth. "So you've said."

"We should get married."

On a cold day in hell. "Should we."

"Yeah. Because I love you."

"No, Potter."

"You'd like it, y'know. I know."

Lily rolls her eyes. "Somehow, I don't think so."

He looks up at her with eyes full of drunken hope. "Please?"

"No, Potter."

"The wedding'd be. What's the word? Be…beautiful. Yeah. Beautiful."

"I'm so sure."

"Promise!"

She rolls her eyes again. "What would be so beautiful, then?"

"Candles! An' flowers, flowers everywhere. Roses and – ha – lilies. Lilies…for Lily." He dissolves into giggles that end abruptly in a hiccup.

"Lilies are for funerals, Potter, not weddings."

"Lilies are for our wedding, Evans. Lovely, lovely lilies." He looks very serious. "But that's not the best part."

"Pray tell, what is the best part?" She manoeuvres him up the first flight of stairs, bumping him into the walls of the spiral staircase a little more than is strictly necessary.

"You."

Lily stops short and swallows audibly. "James Potter, you are very, very drunk."

"Yeah. Yeah."

"I should report you to McGonagall."

"Still love you," he says quietly.

She doesn't really know what to say to that, so she just pushes him further up the stairs. Thankfully, the sixth-year boys' room is on the next floor.

Pushing the door open, Lily peers around the room. Pettigrew is passed out in his clothes with his curtains open, one bed is neatly made, one bed has the curtains drawn tightly shut, and the last looks like its occupant just left it. Without leaving the doorway, she levitates Potter over the messy, unmade bed and sets him down lightly on his back.

Potter props himself up on his elbows and looks at her warily. "Are you gonna call me a toerag and faff off to tell McGonagall now?"

Lily suddenly has no desire to do that, for all that she'd been planning on it since the moment she had seen him. "No, Potter. I won't tell." She smiles a little. "I'm going to keep the Goldschläger, though."

"Okay." He sits up and reaches for his shoelaces, trying to untie them with clumsy fingers.

She rolls her eyes and crosses the room. "Let me," she says, pulling off his shoes and setting them on the floor. She untangles the mass of blankets at the foot of the bed and gently pulls them up over his still-clothed body. "You don't think you'll be sick, do you?"

He shakes his head.

"Good." She leans in to pull his glasses from his face.

He sits up and kisses her briefly before pulling abruptly back, dragging the blankets over his head and muttering, "Sorry, sorry, sorry," over and over again.

She touches the spot where he'd kissed her, shocked. He'd been trying for square on the lips, probably, but he'd landed at the corner of her mouth instead. She licks her lips and got the barest taste of him, cinnamon and alcohol and a little bit of salt. "Potter."

He pauses in his apologetic chanting and peeks out from under the blankets like a child afraid of the boggart in the closet, eyes wide and unfocused.

"Don't do that again."

Potter draws a shaky breath. "Yeah, okay."

"Not without asking, anyway."

He gives her a tentative, incredulous smile. "Evans."

"Yes?"

"Come to Hogsmeade with me, yeah?"

She rolls her eyes. "When you wake up, you won't even remember that you've asked me."

"Is that a yes?" He has that stupidly hopeful look on his face again.

She refuses to admit that she almost finds it endearing. "Goodnight, Potter," she says, heading for the door.

"Night, Evans," he says, and she's just closing the door when he adds, "Love you."

When she gets back to the Common Room, she looks at her sofa for a moment before sitting down on the floor.

She supposes it might be kind of friendly, after all.

-

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