Hear ye, hear ye! I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters affiliated, nor am I profiting monetarily from this story in any way, shape, or form. All ownership and profiting rights belong solely to J K Rowling, but for these beautiful men she allows us the pleasure of borrowing from time to time, we are thankful.

Draco storms into the small apartment and tiredly drops his work bag to the floor. Without hanging up his heavy winter cloak, he stalks into the kitchen just as furiously as he slammed the door open moments ago. He hears the clanging of pots and pans coming from the kitchen; and from the smell of something burnt lingering in the air, he safely assumes that Harry was, once again, unsuccessful in his attempt at preparing dinner.

Harry is unaware of the dark cloud headed his way and is humming quietly to himself as he tries to remember what else is supposed to go into the stew that he is making. It is quietly simmering on the stove and he turns to scan the open cupboards hoping that he'll recognize any missing ingredients if he sees them. He's looking at the open cupboards, eyes raking over ingredients—herbs, spices, and sauces— when he becomes aware of Draco stomping through the living room with his heavy boots. A welcoming smile stretches across his face and he tucks his wand into his pocket, waiting with his arms crossed in front of him. When he sees the sour expression on Draco's face though, his smile falls from his face and he holds out his arms for the hug that Draco needs but won't ask for. Draco gazes, but Harry's open arms that are reaching—waiting—draws him into the space where he fits so perfectly and he throws himself into the familiar embrace that makes everything not so bad.

"Bad day?" His arms run up and down Draco's back.

Draco doesn't want to let go and mumbles a soft "yeah" into Harry's neck. He nuzzles the soft, sweat-scented skin and holds on just a little bit tighter.

"It's only a few more weeks though. I'm sure you can hold on for that much longer." He squeezes Draco's arms in encouragement.

Draco pulls back, his arms resting on Harry's hips. "I don't know, Harry," he sighs, pulling away. "The only reason the team hasn't been sacked is because I'm the leader and I'm picking up after everyone else. If it's not Geoffrey, it's Thomas. If it's not Thomas, it's Natalie. And all the work that's not getting done is piling up on my shoulders and I just need a fucking break. I'm so tired of it all," he admits. He shuts his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose tightly, trying to ease the ache that bloomed there hours ago after that first extra assignment was placed on his desk. The pressure dulls the ache for a moment, but only a moment as it spreads to his temples instead.

"Come here," Harry beckons.

"Hm?"

"Just come," Harry urges. He turns around and starts rummaging through the cupboards above the stove with determination.

On any other day, the very nice view of Harry's ass from where he's pressed against the counter ever so slightly would be all Draco needs to wrap his arms around the willing body and take him right then, right there, but Harry's looking through the cupboards like he needs to find something right now, and Draco doesn't want to get in the middle of that, but—"I don't need a calming draught, Harry," he sighs.

"I know that." Harry stops ransacking the cupboards and turns toward the pantry instead. He stands in front of it with his hands on his hips like he could think the object out of hiding if he tried hard enough.

Draco stares, irritated. "What are you looking for?"

"You'll see," he replies, though his voice isn't clear because he's talking with his head stuffed into the pantry. Harry's mumbling to himself a lot, but he finally turns around with something hidden behind his back and anticipation shining on his face. "Turn around, please."

"Is this going to end with you beneath me begging for more, because otherwise..."

Harry smiles before uttering a drawn out "No," motioning for Draco to turn. "Please?" he begs, "You'll ruin it."

"Alright," Draco acquiesces with his hands in the air, "Keep your pants on," he says, starting to turn to face the living room. "On second thought—"

"Don't be cheeky," Harry teases. Draco turns to respond, hoping to spy what it is that Harry believes will please him so much more than plunging into his tight ass. "No peeking," Harry warns, all the while sliding across the counter to slip the contents of his hand into one of the small drawers.

He stalks up behind Draco and removes his heavy cloak from his shoulders, making sure to slide his hands ever so sensually over the tense muscles of his back, allowing them to linger just a little longer than necessary. With a quick flick of his wand, he vanishes the cloak to the living room couch and his hands knead the tight knots of stress and frustrated energy that were constantly blooming on Draco's shoulders. Draco's head drops and he groans with a quiet "fuck" when Harry's thumbs press into a particular growth by his shoulders.

"I know you'll love it," Harry whispers into his ear.

Draco pushes his ass into Harry's groin. "Is that an invitation into your bed, Potter?"

"My bed is your bed," he replies coyly.

He growls when Harry's knuckles start to knead his lower back, fingers teasing the skin above his ass. "So that's an open invitation, then?"

"You know it, sexy," he says with a teasing smack to Draco's ass; he guides him out of the kitchen with a gentle hand on his back, then a shove. "Go shower, you stink."

Draco's hands fly into the air in aggravation. "I know! And this isn't even the worst of it," he huffs, pulling at his shirt.

Though Harry's half hard himself from Draco's groans and grunts of approval of his hands working over his skin, not to talk about his blunt advances since he walked into the kitchen, he has other things planned for tonight—first.

xxxxx

When Draco gets out of the shower a short while later, dinner is complete and Harry has set aside his parchments that littered the coffee table earlier. Even after burning his attempt at roasted potatoes, he's glad that it was his turn to make dinner because with the way Draco marched into the kitchen with a will to destroy whatever was in sight, Harry believes they would have probably ordered some more takeout from that diner downtown. And they've done that four times already in the past two weeks. The fact that the servers know what he wants before he even has the chance to order makes him blush with embarrassment every time and it's all Draco's fault.

He dishes out two bowls of the beef stew and two steaming mugs of something sweet and decadent. He's sitting in the living room with old picture books and a brown package filled with new pictures he received earlier today. Upstairs he hears Draco rummaging through the closet like he always does when they haven't done laundry in a while and all that's left are the things he usually doesn't like to wear; he smiles at the empty scrap book in front of him, running his fingers along the gold edges and the dark green leather with the shadows of vines creeping all along its surface.

Draco falls comfortably into the cushion next to him, nonchalantly draping his arms around Harry's shoulders. "A penny for your thoughts?"

"Hm?"

"That's new, isn't it?" He asks, pointing to the scrapbook on Harry's lap, his hand reaching to trace the patterns.

"Yeah," Harry drawls, and his hands are smoothing over the surface again, swirling in unpredictable patterns.

"Well, what's in it? Do I have to pry it from your grip?" Draco jokes, already in a better mood from before after only a short while back home.

"It's empty, stupid." Harry disentangles himself from Draco's embrace to set the book back on the table. "Let's eat, I'm starving." He grabs a bowl and shoves the other one into Draco's hands, moving to the far end of the couch where he curls up to watch Draco eat.

"So what's the special secret?" His brows rise suggestively.

Harry points at the steaming cups on the table. "It's that hot cocoa we had in France a few years ago?" He says, though is sounds a lot more like a question in Draco's ears.

And all of a sudden, the blond is sitting taller in the couch, and the spoon that was slowly making its way to his mouth freezes midway; Draco is gazing at Harry curiously, and an amused Harry is watching as drops of the broth slip off the spoon and unto Draco's pale blue shirt. He shakes his head in disbelief and blows gently on the surface of his stew before sipping directly from the bowl.

"Well? Aren't you going to have some?" He asks, peering at Draco from above his bowl.

Placing his bowl on the edge of the table, Draco picks up the large half-circle mug and wrapping his arms around it, he draws in a breath of the decadent dark chocolate, cream, peppermint, and that secret ingredient the owner of the cafe just would not divulge. The steam warms his face and the moment warms his soul. He smiles slightly, but one little detail—"If I remember correctly, this was very expensive..." he thinks out loud.

Harry knows what he really wants to say and answers to save the blond from fumbling through his words. "It was a gift from, Hermione, Draco," he grumbles. "I told you they went to France for their anniversary months ago,

"Don't you ever listen?"

In the blink of an eye, Harry is off the couch and marches into the kitchen with his own cloud over his head. Draco, completely taken aback by the sudden change in mood—and so very fucking confused—doesn't immediately move from his spot on the couch, stunned. He watches as angrily Harry dumps the contents of his bowl down the grumbling garbage disposal, and then he's vomiting violently into the sink, a pale hand gripping the edge of the counter tightly and the other pressing into this stomach.

"Harry." Draco comes to his senses, hurrying to comfort as he was comforted. "Is everything okay?"

In the kitchen, he runs into the sour smell of vomit like a solid wall in front of him and it's all he can do not to turn around and come back later when things are more pleasant. He hates the smell of vomit, but admittedly, he loves Harry more. His hand rubs comforting circles on Harry's lower back, it runs through his hair and the skin beneath is hot, warmer than usual, and sweaty.

Harry swishes some water around his mouth, runs a bit over his flushed face, and swallows some of the cool liquid before he stands tall, pushing Draco away with an angrily muttered "I'm fine."

"Maybe you should go see the Healer tomorrow?" Draco suggests carefully. He brushes a few strands of damp hair away from Harry's eyes.

The sound of skin hitting skin loudly reverberates around the kitchen, then silence. A burning red handprint blooms on Draco's face and he staggers back in shock, carefully pressing a hand to the hot skin.

"I can't believe you!" Harry yells, and he pushes Draco out of his way, stalking out of the kitchen.

"Harry, I don't—"

"Don't tell me you don't understand, Draco," he yells from the living room. "I told you last night that I was going to see Healer David today, just in case." He falls to the couch and cradles the scrapbook in his lap. "I told you," he repeats sadly.

Draco kneels beside him, removing the book from his lap. He holds Harry's hands though his cheek is still stinging from the abuse. "I'm sorry," he admits.

And Harry only looks at him for a moment before staring at their intertwined hands. "You don't even know what I'm talking about," he says dejectedly.

"I do," Draco persists. "I just forgot. I'm sorry. There's just been so much going on at work lately and it might have slipped my mind..."

Harry wipes at his eyes. "Don't try to make excuses," he admonishes.

"I know—I'm a pathetic fool that doesn't deserve you."

"That's more like it," he replies with a gentle shove. Then silence.

"So?" Draco asks, his thumb gently caressing quivering hands.

Harry squeezes Draco's hands and excitement lights up his eyes. "Two months!" And he flings his arms around Draco's neck, Draco, who's still yet to recover from the whirlwind of events that has been his whole day. His head is swimming with emotions and he barely comprehends the meaning of those two words, but then the empty scrapbook is jutting into his side and he smiles, holding Harry tighter.

FIN.

The smallest hint of Mpreg at the end. I just had to.

ScarlettLilly