Jily oneshots

The Right Track

by B.C Daily on fanfiction.net

When James is first handed the train ticket, his immediate reaction is to laugh openly in his father's face.

"No," he snorts, thrusting the Eurostar itinerary back at Fleamont. He briskly moves on to the next stack of paperwork. "These research contracts need to be signed before you—"

"No?" comes Fleamont's startled interruption, hazel eyes going blink, blink, blink in bemused confusion. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean 'no'," James says simply. "I'm not going to the conference. The contracts—"

"Not—of course you're going!" The blink, blink, blink turns to gasp, gasp, gasp, and Fleamont pushes back in his desk chair, looking positively scandalised. "It's the Sleekeazy International Conference! Everyone is going! You're my assistant—"

"Temporary assistant," James pointedly corrects, with a none-too-subtle lift of his finger. "A temporary admin, Dad. Brought on only through a sly act of familial coercion when Honora got herself put on bedrest in the midst of a corporate overhaul and someone needed to step in quickly. A glorified auto-reply and scheduling service, really. One who you were meant to replace four bloody months ago, if you'd care to recall. What ever happened to that stack of CVs I left in here before Christmas?"

Fleamont bats away the question like an annoying housefly (ta kindly, London's eager workforce!), and skittishly resettles his thick-rimmed specs upon his aquiline nose. On his best of days, the elder Potter might be most fittingly described as a bespectacled Doc Brown sort—wild graying hair, a perpetually distracted frown, prone to random outbursts of scientific babble, genius with a happy touch of madness—but this day, cruelly defied by his difficult spawn, is apparently not a best day. He looks fit to be tied. James would not be surprised if he soon launched himself from his desk chair, stormed out of his office, and started waving his hands about crying, "1.21 gigawatts!" while marching up and down the corridors.

Heavy.

"This is our first corporate-wide gathering since opening the cosmetics division!" comes Doc's frantic reply, sans Dolorean. "And the research facility here next! There will be so much to organise—you've been integral—part of the team, James! They'll all be there! Really—"

"Dad." James draws out the word with slow, painstaking patience. He doesn't add they won't all be there, but he thinks it. "I'm on deadline, remember? My actual job? I've an entire signature of panels to finish before the end of the month. I'll organise whatever you need remotely—"

"Remotely won't do. It just won't do—"

"It'll have to—"

"—think of the team—"

"—it's in France—"

"—so disappointed—"

"—hate France. They wear impractical scarves, and just smugly brag about all their good food all the time—"

"—very important plans—"

"—stupid word, baguette—"

"—James—"

And on and on it went, back and forth, forwards and backwards, time travel not included, and James is certain—almost, honestly,certain—that'd he'd made firm points and persuasive asides. That Dad had gone "France!" and James had gone "No!" and they'd somehow landed there, in a place of reasonable rejection, where Dad abandoned Ye Olde Good Isle for a swotty solo sojourn to the mainland, and James stayed home where things were decent and smoggy and wet.

Except they must not have done, because here James is, striding briskly through the brewing crowds of dreaded St. Pancras, attempting to make his noon Eurostar without actively vomiting up his dodgy station Pret sandwich.