Harry/Aaron (Haaron? Aarry? Oh, who needs ship names, anyways).

Don't knock it 'till you've tried it :)

Knock On The Door - Chapter 1

It was one of those nights for Harry, the kind when all the repressed doubts and regrets about how his life had turned out came to the surface and it felt like being punched in the gut with every step he took; when the pressure of the job finally got to him and the demands started to sink in. Harry knew when he was cornered – he knew he had no way out whatsoever. So on those nights, he usually resolved to drown his sorrows with ample booze in some nameless pub, and probably with some half-attractive bloke who he would make sure to Obliviate in the morning, just in case.

It was a sad way to live life, but Harry had made peace with the fact that he rarely saw his son and friends long before stealing files had turned into blackmail and, yeah, assassinations eventually. It was a circle he couldn't seem to get out of, and in a way, didn't want to get out of. He got to catch the bad guys, mostly Muggle, but that was a given considering the wizarding population was hardly extensive enough to be called influential. Wars and such, yeah, those affected the Muggle world, but everyday politics and gang-related stuff – even the scandals, if Harry remembered the resignation streak in the Ministry's high ranks correctly – were kept under wraps for the most part.

It was a tricky business, and too many identities that sometimes – though not a lot – Harry got mixed up, but it was a rush. Merlin, it was a rush. It reminded him of the old days, with Ron and Hermione and sneaking around to find details of something they had caught scent of. After so many years of non-stop adventures, Harry was a bit addicted to the feeling, the constant danger and secret missions. He could do without the killing part, but it more or less came with the job, and as Harry climbed higher up the ladder it had, at some point, become inevitable.

How he ended up in the States was confidential, but let's just say his employer had supplied Harry with plenty of fake green cards, IDs and passports to fit his multiple identities, as well as documented backgrounds and birth certificates. He had used magic to make some points more believable, like providing concrete evidence for his temporary persona – forging documents and tinkering with people's memories wasn't what you would call legal, he admitted, but when had he played by the rules? – but mostly he had refrained from using his abilities for his own gain. Thankfully, his employer had not asked any questions about his unorthodox methods of completing tasks.

Tonight, Harry was between tasks, which meant he was free to do as he wished. He discarded himself of his previous identity – a blond bastard named Mark, who had stolen several important documents about illegal immigrants (rather ironic, considering Harry was, by all accounts, an illegal immigrant) – and strolled to the first pub he found, a few blocks from his hotel, looking like Harry Potter, for a change. He gave the guard at the front a fake ID with the name 'Erick Jacobs' and a sultry smile, as he realized the picture was obviously fake – but that's what you get when you try to make your own ID without the aid of magic or an employer – and was granted entrance to the pub. He smirked as he passed the guard. Obviously gay.

It was packed inside, warm, too. Harry took off his coat, sidestepping a smoking couple on his way to the bar. He placed his order and hopped onto one of the high chairs, grimacing as a pretty lady shot him a look that seemed to mock his need to hop to reach the seat. (It wasn't his fault he was short, blame genetics.)

He noticed a tall man sitting almost next to him at the bar. The man gave a heavy sigh as he ordered his drink, his hair falling over his forehead in a way Harry would bet his arse was not a regular look for him. Harry smiled and raised his glass when the man's eyes fell on him, and shrugged when he was not even acknowledged.

It was drink after drink, after that. Harry had every intention of getting sloshed and picking up some guy to screw relentlessly afterwards. His plans were interrupted when the man next to him stumbled out of his chair and somehow managed to fall onto Harry, making his drink spill all over the counter, and partly onto Harry's lap.

Harry cursed and turned to detach the bloke, but stopped when he met a pair of exhausted brown eyes, staring deeply into his own. The man had a defined jaw darkened with stubble, high cheekbones and thin, somewhat uneven lips that glistened under the pub's soft lights, the remnants of his last drink a wet, slick cover. It was the man from before, Harry realized. It was surprising, because Harry had been here for a while now, the stream of drinks keeping him occupied enough not to keep track of his surroundings.

"S'rry," the man slurred, frowning as the word left his mouth.

Control-freak, Harry deduced. Probably hated the thought of failing to speak properly.

Their faces were close, so Harry would have been a fool to miss the obvious way the man's drunken eyes flickered to his lips for a fraction of a second, and then darted back to Harry's eyes.

Bingo.

"It's alright," Harry answered, making sure the man took notice of him licking his lower lip. The man's tongue darted out to wet his own lip in reaction, and Harry suppressed a smirk. "Want to get out of here?"

He knew he was being blunt, but alcohol predictably shut down his verbal filters and so he was left with a rather obvious pick up.

As expected, the man frowned. Did he ever do anything else than frown? Harry thought it was rather unattractive, but no, actually, it was sort of cute how the man wrinkled his little nose as he tried to keep some measure of control.

"Are you a serial killer?" the drunken man asked in a defeated manner.

Actually… "No," Harry half-lied, because okay, he wasn't a serial killer, but he did kill more than the average person.

The man seemed to have a moment of relative-clarity, his eyes narrowing and his forehead adopting a few extra creases.

"Fine," the man finally said, and Harry grinned victoriously and hopped off the high chair, which made the man snort.

Harry rolled his eyes, somewhat sober – not really, but clearly more than his companion – and grabbed the man's wrist, distractedly reaching to his pocket with his other hand and throwing a large sum of dollars onto the counter. He led him to the exit, ignoring the incredulous look the guard at the front sent him – or the man he was dragging, really, though Harry had no idea why – and hailed a cab. There was no way he was walking all the way to the hotel in his state, not to mention while he was responsible for the man at his side.

Stumbling into the cab, Harry mumbled the hotel's name and nodded at the price the cabbie asked for the drive, not really listening but accepting that it would be overpriced and probably ridiculous by any standards. The drive was short, and Harry probably paid the driver more than he had even asked, but he didn't care. All he cared about was getting the man from the pub into his bed, and hopefully being able to forget what alcohol couldn't mask, aka the most recent assassination assignment. A man who had been privy to some sensitive information that he had stolen on a disk-on-key from a secret operative of the CIA, and his pregnant wife slash accomplice who had stumbled into the scene. Fuck.

Pushing the man into the lift, Harry wondered if he had made the wrong choice in bringing him here. The man was clearly far too drunk to even walk by himself. As soon as the elevator doors closed with a 'ding', the man was all over him, though, and this time, it was in a good way.

The surveillance camera was dealt with easily, and the person monitoring it would get the picture of two men standing side by side and waiting patiently for the lift to reach their level. That, though, couldn't be further from what actually happened.

Harry moaned softly as his tongue slid against the man's, his head tilting back to make the kiss easier as the man bent his own to match the pose. There were hands, really large and really warm hands, on his cheeks and in his hair, and Harry slid his own hands around the man's waist under his coat, bringing him closer and angling his own head just so…

Harry nearly froze as he felt something cold and solid attached to the man's side. The man's insistent mouth efficiently distracted him from the suspicious object, before he even had time to determine what it was.

The 'ding' went off again and Harry pushed the man away hastily, fumbling to distance himself to a socially acceptable distance, as the heavy doors opened and a young couple walked in, holding hands and making goo-goo eyes at each other in a way that made Harry grimace.

The next two stories were a struggling attempt to keep his companion's hands off of him, though the man certainly was determined, Harry would give him that.

He couldn't be more relieved when the lift reached his floor and he dragged the nearly-passed-out man out with him and down the carefully-carpeted hall to his room. He conjured the key discretely and let them in, locking the door after them.

The man immediately attached himself to Harry from behind, covering his body with his strong one, head dropping forward to rest on Harry's shoulder.

"Clingy," Harry remarked.

"I don't know your name," the man said back.

Harry considered it for a moment. "Harry," he finally decided on telling the man his real name. It's not like he would remember it in the morning, alcohol or otherwise.

"'m Aaron," the man replied.

Harry chuckled. "Jewish?"

Aaron hummed.

"Circumcised?" Harry tried again.

The man hummed again, making Harry doubt whether he'd actually heard him.

"Are you falling asleep?" Harry continued.

There was no response this time but the increase of weight upon Harry's back, so Harry spun around swiftly, catching his taller companion as he fell into his chest, their legs entangling slightly. If Aaron was not yet sleeping, he would be soon, if the way he was breathing slowly and evenly was any indication.

Harry sighed.

"Let's get you into bed," he murmured, and then proceeded to drag the man to the double bed, hauling him onto it.

He took off Aaron's shoes, throwing them on the floor by the bed, and then toed off his own shoes and crawled up the bed, stopping when he was directly above the taller man, straddling him. With another sigh, Harry took off the man's belt, his movements slowed due to the alcohol and exhaustion. Aaron seemed content just to lay there and sink into unconsciousness, much to Harry's disappointment.

Harry stripped down to his boxers and then lay back next to Aaron, staring at the ceiling. He should have known this would happen. The man was practically out of it when he agreed to come back to the hotel with Harry. Harry sighed again.

He felt a jolt of surprise when the man curled around him, one hand circling Harry's waist while the other wormed under Harry's pillow, a clothed leg sliding between Harry's own and resting there. Harry smiled amusedly. A cuddler, who would have thought?

He could fall asleep like that, he guessed. It was comfortable enough, and the warm, rhythmic breathing fluttering his hair was kind of soothing, in a way.

If anything, the relaxed feeling this man had created within Harry, this sort of peacefulness, made up for the lack of sex. Maybe he wouldn't even have to Obliviate the guy.