Jily Oneshots (pt2)

The Art of Self-Defense

by cgner

Lily's in the middle of compensating Mrs. Wixton for the towel shortage when the main door swings open. She glances over, hoping beyond hope it's her linen man arriving with towels, sheets, and a massive apology.

It's not.

Mrs. Wixton shakes her wrinkled finger at Lily from across the front desk, but Lily barely notices.

There stands James, slightly crooked, somehow never fully able to use both his legs equally at the same time. His dark hair and matching black t-shirt stand out vividly against the cream double doors behind him. He's paused on the step leading down to the lobby, watching her. When he sees Lily noticing him, one hand tangles in his hair.

Hi, he mouths.

Her world narrows down to the curve of his lips, his vaguely lopsided glasses, and those stupid, awful, world-changing hands.

Mrs. Wixton's sharp, "Pardon?" yanks Lily back into the rest of reality.

"Yes, of course," Lily says to her, wrenching her gaze away from James. In the corner of her eye she sees him hop down the step and saunter toward the desk. "We'd be happy to send up a complimentary breakfast." She waits for Mrs. Wixton to wheeze out her final grumbles, and reassures her once more that the first towels that come in will go directly to her room (just like Lily has told every other guest). Once Mrs. Wixton has waddled over to the lift, Lily permits herself a small sigh and watches James close the remaining distance between them.

He rests his forearm against her beloved oak desk, his sleeve just covering up the top of the guest book. He's wearing his favorite smile, the slanted one with only a hint of teeth showing.

It is absolutely not working on her. She won't let it. She is thirty-four years old and not thick enough to let that smile get her into trouble anymore.

Or so she tells herself. The swooping sensation in her stomach begs to differ, but Lily has also given up on having conversations with her stomach. Mostly, anyway. Somehow it's always had a mind of its own when it comes to James.

"I'm thinking of holding a conference," he says. "D'you have fifty rooms available tomorrow night?"

"Depends," Lily says with a grin. "What's the conference for?"

"The Tragically Too Handsome conference. I, for one, am sick and tired of being treated differently because I'm stunning, and I think it's about time I meet similarly positioned men."

"So it's just you and Sirius at the conference, then?"

"Just Sirius. I don't find my fitness off-putting. I live for the special treatment."

"This comes as a complete and absolute shock to me."

"I'd worry about your delicate constitution but I know much better than that."

They're both grinning at each other, and it doesn't matter that it's been seven months since she last saw him (for the whole five minutes it took to pick up Harry from James's house) or two years since they last slept together (also at James's house, out on his balcony after Easter dinner, a complete and utter mistake). There's something about talking to James that's like slipping into her oldest, most comfortable pair of jeans.

"You're two weeks early," she says because she cannot get caught up in this again. She needs to get him out before Harry hears him.

"A wizard is never late, nor is he early—"

"Tolkien didn't know wizards were real, and Harry's birthday isn't until the thirty-first."

He stands upright, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Almost like it happens on the same date every year. I think there's a term for that – weekly? Daily? There's got to be a –ly word for it…."