Top Harry Drabble: Harry/Booker

Chapter Summary: In which Harry is intrigued about a man. (The Old Guard, post movie)

AN: Spoilers for the Old Guard if you haven't already seen it. Warnings for attempted suicide and self-harm.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the man that stood opposite him, in the middle of what would have been a dragon sanctuary, if Harry hadn't stepped through the veil. Slicked back short hair lay flat over the man's scalp and those blue eyes… held so much pain and self hatred that Harry did a conscious double take. After a minute of meeting those eyes, the guy slipped on sunglasses and got up, taking a swig of whiskey as he walked out of the pub.

The site of what would have been Charlie's dragon sanctuary now held a tavern and Harry took the last sip of his hot chocolate and got up too. He heard the engine of a motorcycle before he walked out of the building and he stepped out of the tavern to see the backlights of a sleek motorcycle. It didn't look like a fancy vehicle, only one that was sturdy and light, fast. It soon disappeared in the falling snow and light spitting rain, the clouds above them moving slowly.

He watched as the man sped off up the road, pondering what to do, and then shrugged. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his broomstick, the trusty Firebolt that had always flown so faithfully for him, and cloaked himself before lifting up into the air. There was something about that man that lured him into following, something that Harry wouldn't know how to explain. He idly flew right below the clouds, spelling a sense enhancing charm into place to better be able to follow the man.

The man rode and rode, not stopping as the weak sun made its journey through the sky and began to lower. They passed the border of Romania and rode through Moldova and onwards into Ukraine, driving through the night and into dawn, as the sun rose again. The man slowed a little, clearly beginning to tire, but didn't stop, some spark of something clearly keeping him awake as he drove through the morning and on into Russia.

Harry kept on following him from the air, having drunk a pepper up potion several hours ago. It kept him awake and alert as only a journey known to the motorcyclist continued. The guy took country roads, avoiding big cities and towns, and clearly avoiding cameras.

Harry drifted downward as the second night descended and signs began to signal for Moscow began to show up. When they were about ten miles away from the outskirts of Moscow, the motorist stopped in a little corner of the suburb. There was another tavern or pub and Harry watched as the man parked his bike outside and headed in, taking his pack with him.

The moon shone down him bright and glowing as he circled into land, tucked his broom into a pocket and uncloaked himself. He looked around at the city of Moscow ahead of him and then ventured into the pub, idly watching as cars passed by on the road. The pub was loud and full for a Friday night and Harry took a quick glance down at his clothing before changing it with a quick word.

He walked through the door of the pub in clothes that fit in just perfectly, a thin dark red shirt and black casual pants. Both revealed hints of tattoos. Harry slipped through the crowd, on the lookout for the motorist he had followed. It didn't take long for him to locate the guy as he danced, sliding over the dance floor while listening to the electronic music that was being played. It was loud and joyful, a Friday night after a long work week, and he bumped shoulders with his target.

The guy startled a little, a mug of what smelled like strong alcohol in hand, and his pack on the floor underneath the table.

"You want to dance?" Harry questioned, extending a hand towards the man.

The man's eyes narrowed, far away and lost in drink and memory, and turned away. Harry raised an eyebrow and then reached out to cup the man's cheek. The man's eyes widened only a little bit as Harry turned his chin around, staring at him blankly.

"Dance with me. Leave the memories in the past."

Booker stood up fast and stumbled a little, wanting more of that almost heavenly warmth. The man continued to stare at him, his thumb smoothing circles on Booker's chin, and a sound tore itself from his throat as the man's grip kept him standing. The guy's accent was English but there was something wild underneath it, some hint of something that Booker hadn't heard before. The man's eyes softened a little and kept his other hand out, an offer that seemed to not have an expiration date.

Booker reached out, his mind hazy with drink, with anger, with grief, with… so many other things and touch won out. The man reeled Booker in with a hand at his waist, pulling him onto the dance floor in a pub in the outskirts of Moscow, and began to dance. Warmth filled him as he swayed with the music, held up by a hand or an arm.

Heat gathered on the dance floor as people moved around them and the man kept his eyes on Booker, his light green eyes sparking with warmth. The man was all graceful movements like Nicky, all precision like Joe, but as muscular as all of them and Booker's heart clenched in his throat. His stomach roiled and he sucked in breaths, fast and shallow and he couldn't breathe.

An arm curled around his shoulders and led him out and off the dance floor, over to the back of the bar, alone in a side room.

"Breathe," the man whispered, meeting his eyes. "You're alright. Was I too forward?"

Booker shook his head as he tried to catch his breath, inhaling deeply finally. "You remind me of some… friends. That's all. Thank you for…"

"Distracting you?" The man asked, tilting his head and his messy black hair moved around enough so that Booker could see the scar on his forehead. "You need more?"

Booker hesitated at the man's question. "I don't…"

"Just say the word and I won't bother you anymore."

"You were beautiful," Booker remarked, quiet and low and… he didn't deserve it. "I should head out."

The man continued to look at him, his eyes narrowed in thought. "You sure? You seem like you're hurting for any kind of distraction."

"I should go," Booker tried again, thinking again of his destination and five months ago and...

The man stared at him and then leaned in lightly, pressed his lips to Booker's. Booker groaned against the man's mouth, letting the man move his lips for a second, not moving his own, not doing anything. Heat fluttered in his stomach and his cock took interest in the kiss, blood thundering in his ears.

The man pulled back, ran a hand through his hair and swore under his breath. "What's your name then?"

"Booker. Call me Booker."

"Harry."

"It was-"

"Booker, kiss me."

Booker groaned and leaned back in, meeting Harry halfway for a bruising kiss. His heart kickstarted and began to race as Harry pressed into him, in their little backroom, away from everyone else. He opened his mouth to let Harry's tongue in and wrapped an arm around Harry's back, clutching at the other man's shirt. His cock hardened as Harry brushed his tongue against his, as the man curled a hand around the nape of his neck, fingers lightly scraping skin.

Heat slithered into him and he whined as Harry slid a leg between his thighs, the sudden friction causing sparks of pleasure to go dancing through him. Sweat dripped down his forehead and back as a strangled gasp tore out of his throat, his hands clutching at Harry's shirt, as the man rolled his hips. Booker swayed into the movements, arching into the fingers that danced over his skin. He helped Harry pull off his own shirt, rocking into the man for more. Harry groaned and pulled him closer, steered them around and Booker found himself walked up to the back of a table, tripping over bar supplies and falling back against it.

Harry peered down at him, his eyes blown with desire, and leaned down over him, trailing fingernails over his bare chest. Booker shuddered as goosebumps followed fingers, his eyes closing as Harry pressed lips to his stomach, his chest and licked at a nipple.

"Never had table sex," Booker muttered, his eyes still closed, thoughts and memories invading his mind.

"Neither have I," Harry whispered, pinching his side. "First time for everything."

Booker opened his eyes and met Harry's eyes, watched as Harry leaned down and licked a path up his chest, the man's hands curling into Booker's hips. "I was not… planning this."

"No one plans table sex," Harry offered, winking up at him and began to peel Booker's jeans off, rubbing heated, teasing circles into his skin.

Booker blinked, shivering as his nerves lit up in anticipation, as if he was waking up from a deep sleep. His cock hardened even more and he bucked up into Harry's hands as the man wrangled his jeans off, the material sliding off his cock and making him gasp with it. The table was cold steel underneath him, against his bare back and he arched into Harry's mouth as the man licked and nipped a path down his skin, trailing fingernails over heated skin.

Booker stared down at Harry as the man curled fingers around his cock, pleasure bubbling through him. He closed his eyes at the sensations, warm fingers stroking him once, twice, and then moving further yet still. His heart raced loudly, like it usually did right after he came back from death. He moaned and arched into Harry as the man stroked his inner thighs, slipping fingers around his balls, rubbing the pads of his fingers over them and then slipping down to trace his ass.

Energy floated around him, something unlike what he felt each time he died, and then a warm tongue slipped into him and he cried out, his eyes opening frantically. Booker's eyes widened and he opened his mouth as he watched Harry lick into him, eating him out like a feast. Words dribbled out of him unconsciously as pleasure jolted through him, as pre-come spurted from his cock.

Harry licked at his hole, lapping at his skin, invading him like no other being had, and his fingers scrabbled at Harry's back, curling into cloth and skin. Harry's eyes were on him, a light entering them that was foreign to Booker, as he withdrew, a pleased grin on his face.

"What…"

"You speak French?"

"I… Yes… What…" Booker cried out again as Harry slipped two fingers into him, wet and sloppy.

"You look gorgeous," Harry remarked, his voice husky and low, lust filling his voice as his fingers twitched and curled into him, stretching him open. His cock ached and pressure built, his nerves alight with fire, with something he hadn't felt in years. "Am I being distracting enough?"

Booker groaned and tried to yank Harry up into a kiss but the man didn't move, adding a third finger to open him up. "Enough. Fuck me."

"As you wish, good sir," Harry replied, his fingers slipping out, slick dripping from Booker. The man's thighs were slick with sweat and come and he felt as Booker's fingers tightened and then pushed down his own jeans and slid into wet heat.

A noise left Booker's throat as Harry slid into him, as he felt spread open and filled and…

"Fuck, you feel good," Harry muttered, gripping onto Booker's hips and punching into him.

Booker shut his eyes and held on, as pleasure boiled within him, as heat speared through him. He felt full and tight and enveloped, as Harry withdrew a little and then slid back in, deeper this time to hit his prostate, sending pleasure shooting down his back. Harry pushed his thighs farther apart, holding him open for him and Booker lost himself to the heat.

The sounds of skin hitting skin filled the room and Harry's tongue once again skimmed his chest, biting at a nipple and twisting it. Fingers stroked his cock, pumping him once, twice and squeezing lightly while Harry thrust in again, hitting that spot again and again until Booker fell over the edge, yelling out hoarsely, his eyes opening as his muscles clenched around the cock inside him.

He distantly felt Harry spend inside him, a hoarse sound leaving his own throat as fingers ran through his hair. A kiss was pressed to his forehead and he panted through pleasure, as Harry stroked him through aftershocks of heat. Harry slipped out of him, wiped him down with a wet cloth and Booker sighed, shuddering and leaned into the hands that helped him up. He felt even hungrier for those touches, for something soft and welcoming and warm but… He didn't deserve it. He deserved none of that.

Those green eyes looked at him intently and Harry raised an eyebrow, as if he was trying to figure him out. Booker straightened, peered down at his pack that had somehow made it to their feet, and picked it up.

"I should get going," Booker finally spoke, finally catching his breath. "I have business elsewhere."

Harry nodded and watched him go without saying a word.

It was a few days later that Harry had had enough of feeling that… blip in his radar. A blip in his other power, the one that came with mastering all three hallows. The one that kept him from dying permanently. The one that brought him back after stepping through the veil and spat him out on this side.

Every few minutes, the magic of the hallows would race through him, humming loudly, rudely and then go silent. Another five minutes and it would begin again, like a bee buzzing right next to his ear. He was on the other side of the country, on the border of Russia with the Pacific Ocean in front of him. There was no sign of anything magic. No sign of Hogwarts, no sign of… the ministry of magic. No nothing.

He slipped up onto his broomstick and took off, heading finally to follow the path that his magic was telling him to go. It was cold and blustery, beginning to snow again in a blizzard as he traveled through Russia's winter landscape.

Fat snow balls bounced off his shield as he drew nearer to twenty miles outside of Moscow and he circled down closer to the ground again, peering down at the ground. He flew for another few minutes and spotted a wooded area, covered in snow and deserted except for… a wooden platform.

Harry stopped midair and stared, wide eyed, at the noose that hung from the plank, at Booker, who hung from it. He stared and stared as Booker's body, at the motorcycle parked next to the platform, and nearly fell off his broom as Booker's eyes opened, gasping for breath. Harry's heart stopped at the sight, frozen on the spot or in the air, his stomach roiling, as Booker died again, three minutes later.

After the second 'rebirth', Harry sped forward, severed the ropes with a word and caught Booker in his arms, holding him on his broomstick. Booker gasped for air, peering up at him, eyes wide.

"Booker," Harry whispered, even as snow fell around them, bouncing off his weather shield. "Booker, what's going on?"

"I want to die," Booker murmured, tears pooling in his eyes, his voice hoarse, dry and weak. "Let me die!"

Harry flinched and pulled him closer, murmuring words under his breath and slowly landed. He cast a featherlight charm on the broken man in his arms, withdrew one arm to grasp his tent and laid it on the open ground next to him. Booker trembled in his arm, a strangled cry leaving his throat and twisted in his arms.

"How many times…" Harry trailed off, his heart aching as he watched his tent pop up. He spared a glance to Booker's motorcycle and charmed it, watched it float into the tent. "Nevermind. Let's get you warm."

"Let me go!"

"No," Harry retorted, walking into his tent and heading right for the shower. He dropped his broomstick to the floor of the tent but kept Booker in his arms, coaxing his shirt and jeans off. The shower turned on with a thought and steam rose up almost immediately. Booker winced and struggled, writhed in his arms. "Booker, stop fighting me. I'm not going to hurt you. Shhh."

The minute warm water touched them both, Booker went limp in his arms and strangled sobs left his throat. Harry flinched and slid down onto the floor of the shower, curling his arms tighter around Booker, smoothing circles down the man's back and began to hum.

"Shhh, I've got you," Harry whispered, dropping a kiss to Booker's forehead and felt more than watched as the man melted into him, falling limp. "Get some sleep, darling."

AN: If you haven't already seen it, go watch The Old Guard. It's wonderful and Booker deserves many good hugs.

According to the comics, Booker's original death was as a French soldier during Napoleon's failed invasion of Russia. Booker deserted the French army and was caught, hung and died.