Inclination

Princesses, Perceptible Paintings, Propositions

Six long hours into Harry's shift finds him hovering over a five year old girl who lays on his examination table with her mother peering over his shoulder. His hands are tender as they poke and prod her bare tummy, searching for clues as to why her stomach aches and why she's lost her appetite. He apologizes each time she winces, particularly when his fingers crowd an area directly below her ribs.

The child reaches up and touches a strand of hair that falls across his forehead and Harry's concentration is broken when he looks at her and smiles brightly, "what's that about, darling?"

She hisses when he seems to dig into the same spot and her mother sighs in distress. Harry tosses her a warm and comforting smile over his shoulder before returning his attention back to the girl who's watching him intently. He mumbles a loving praise before she asks, "why did you get a haircut?"

He pulls her shirt down to cover her stomach before he sits her up and plops down onto his stool, using the heels of his feet to wheel himself close and rest his forearms easily beside her, the paper on the exam table crinkling with his weight, "it was time. What do you think?"

Her mother watches the interaction with a soft smile on her face; the girl shrugs and swings her legs, "I liked it better before. You looked like a princess."

Harry laughs fondly and drops his head forward, his dimple appearing and softening his expression, "I'm so sorry that it's gone. Hair grows though, yeah?"

She nods and shrugs as she stays quiet for a while, scratching her arm and rubbing her sore stomach before she asks, "do you have a wife?"

Harry's pager goes off and he breaks out into a cold sweat - children ask him this sort of question all the time, as well as whether or not he has a girlfriend or any children of his own. He always found ways to awkwardly avoid touching on his sexuality by asking young girls if they would please be his girlfriend, or simply redirecting cleverly with responses such as "never ever," or "I'd have a hundred kids if they were as cute as you."

This is the first time that he's been asked this question by a child and has had his mind stampeded with images of a particular person. He can feel his cheeks heat up when he remembers what you looked like curled up this morning in your own bed, your legs woven around your sheets and your hair draped across your pillow. You must have been dreaming about something because you kept exhaling softly through your mouth while he lightly kissed your neck and your shoulders, too nervous to allow his hands to drift far up your t-shirt across your stomach.

He licks his lips and smiles at his patient, "maybe one day," before benevolently tapping her knee and spinning towards her mother to give his diagnosis and explain the ins and outs of gastritis and how to properly cure it with time and diet.

He practically runs from the examination room to his office, sliding across the linoleum in his slippery boots and gripping the doorframe to stop his trajectory. He stumbles his way into his office and closes the door behind him, fumbling his pager from his waistband and checking the screen with a shaky hand. When he sees a mysterious phone number followed by 223, he sits on the edge of his desk and returns the call as he tries to calm his nerves.

His chest tightens when you answer on the third ring with a simple 'hey handsome'. He slides into his desk chair and hums at the elegance of your voice, the natural way in which you both excite and calm him, the way time loses all meaning when you're present.

He starts to speak but no sound comes out; he moves the phone from his ear to cough into his elbow before swallowing and trying again, "hi pretty." His voice is gravelly and it's your absolute favorite when it's like this - in the mornings or anytime he hasn't used it in awhile, after he takes a sip of particularly hot coffee or whenever he's feeling a bit awkward.