Sneak peek of Gang Harry part 2! (Patreon)

Tell me how ya feeellllll :D i really like these two

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ii.

Y/N doesn’t really drink coffee like she used to. 

When she was still in school, she would toss it back like it was water; she was almost a hundred percent sure at one point that 92% of her blood was cold brew. However as time progressed and it was less of a thing that keeps her up and more of something she felt as if she would just keel over without, she decided that it was probably time to start guzzling water. Plus she was finally going into the healthcare field where she would be pushing non-caffeinated like drinking it might just cure all illness and render them immortal, and, well -- practice what you preach. 

Yet here she was in the family-owned Coffee Parlor where the sheer essence of mocha permeated all of her senses. The drink in front of her was one she had been privy but the taste of it makes a shiver rattle down her spine, her tongue already recoiled at that taste she remembers burning her taste buds: a cafe americano with two shots of espresso. It would keep her energized enough to hammer through research papers, studying for three different classes, and prepping for her clinical. The taste of it was bitter, but it was strong, so she treated it like a shot and would chase it with a chocolate croissant. 

She doesn’t have much time to contemplate how wired she’ll be for the rest of the night after taking this at 7 PM, because of the man sitting in front of her. Harry himself had chosen a vanilla latte, simple and sweet, and even him ordering it had made her smile a bit to herself. Though his stoic face told her that he was feeling anything but simple and sweet right now; his whole demeanor had shifted after what she told him in the stairwell about what she experienced -- about the man on Apple Avenue who had sought her out for information about Gibson, later found dead. 

Her heart was still racing, fear still tinged her being like ash smudged on paper and Harry seeming so. . so uncharacteristically serious worries her even more. Was what Niall had been saying true? Were he and Gibson tied up in something mafia-related? Had she unknowingly gotten involved in something much bigger than herself? 

“I won’t bother with semantics, Babe,” Harry had begun and it made her jump, not having expected him to begin speaking -- they’d been sitting quietly for only a moment, but she would have expected a few minutes for him to gather his thoughts, “I’m concerned about the other man that you saw with the guy found in the canal today. . .the whole situation feels very skeevy to me, and it sounds like something -- sounds like something they should not be involving you in at all.” Y/N nods, encouraging him to continue, and after a small, slurped sip from his mug he continued, “Are you able to tell me anything about the other guy? Like what he might look like?” 

Her brows furrow, “I -- what will that help? Do you think you might know him?” 

“Maybe,” he tells her, “If I do, then I can tell him to bugger off and leave you alone. You don’t need any more visits.” 

The reasoning is solid enough for her as she searches through the dredges of her brain, passed the muck of bed baths, ambulating, and passing medicines to sitting outside alone. Feeling goosebumps raised on the back of her neck, not akin to the ones that follow a chilled breeze, but that comes from eyes boring into you. The kind one gets when someone is not far off, staring hard -- unreservedly -- making you shift uncomfortably from left to right before letting her eyes flicker up. She would keep her head tipped down as to not draw attention but she would try to get a good look at them.

The pinch of her brows is pertinent as she tries to make him out from memory, “Um, he was kind of scrawny -- like I might be able to take him in a fight kinda scrawny,” he smiles at her, and it soothes her some, “His hair is like a muddy kind of brown? Not like yours -- yours is more chestnutty but his was like the kind of mud you scoop up from the bottom of a river, with a little grey? But it's not like he was greying, just like highlights. I promise I’m not a maniac about hair, I just remember staring at it for a minute because it was like floofy. It caught me off guard compared to his friend.” 

“Knowing the hair is good -- lots of people can be differentiated by hair alone,” he reassures her, only pausing to thank the woman who brings them over two warmed croissants, a plain one for him and chocolate chip for her -- though she hadn’t told him she even liked chocolate chip croissants, he pushes the plate over to her carefully, “Did he have any tattoos?” 

She takes the plate before smiling gratefully to him, “None that I could see. He was always wearing these long sleeves that seemed too thin to really do anything against the weather.” Her face scrunches, “I -- his face was kind of broad and long but I couldn’t tell much more apart from that. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” he counters almost immediately, “You told me so much, that’s good. I don’t know him but I can ask around and maybe one of them will.” He clears his throat a bit, scooting forward, “How are you feeling after today? Are you still feeling weird?” 

Again, she shifts a little uncomfortably, and maybe on another day, she could blame it on the worn seats that they were in, but not today. No, today, ever since the news she’s felt like she was suppressing bile from rising in her throat. Her nerves felt exposed and frayed, her mind a warzone of possibilities and unanswered questions - questions that she could ask Harry, but she’s scared to know the answer to. 

“It’s okay to feel weird, you know?” He continues when she hasn’t spoken and she wonders if he recognizes the distress warping her features, “It’s a scary thing to happen.” 

Y/N gives an uneven nod, pulling the mug to her mouth and taking a drink, eye squinting up at that sharp, bitter stab on her tongue, “S’like. . .murder is scary, isn’t it? Like obviously, but it’s just -- it’s unsettling. Sometimes I’ll watch those old documentaries about serial killers and it freaked me out so much that I bought a third lock for my door, and barter treats with Ubbe to make sure he spends the night in my room, but the bastard rarely stays the whole night.” 

Harry gives a small, puffed laugh, “Ubbe?” 

Y/N realized then that she hadn’t gone in depth about her dog to Harry yet, which she deems weird because Ubbe is usually the first thing she tells anyone about herself now. 

“Ubbe is my dog,” she explains to him, “I named him after the viking guy -- commander of the great army and all that but he panics at the sound of a dime dropping.” 

Grinning, Harry lies one hand on the table while the other plucks at the croissant, and Y/N catches a glimmer of his rings again. They seem to have differed from the first time she’d seen them but she couldn’t tell someone how -- maybe they were new rings, or maybe they were just in different positions, but she did recognize the H and S. She wonders if it was a stylistic choice or if he were to punch someone, would the imprints show up on their skin where he’d hit them. She also wonders, on a less innocent note, if they feel cold and brassy against skin -- if he were to touch her, would the jolt of their icy metal send goosebumps pattering down her body? They would be when it was cold outside; the kind of cold to make her thumbs move snail-like as she tries to type on her phone. After being inside though, maybe they’d be warmed -- a conduction of the heat from his skin to each, individual ring. Nice and toasty from being snuggled up in a throw or something. 

“What kind of dog?” He asks her, tearing her from her reverie. 

“Swedish Vallhund.” She responds, hoping he hadn’t caught her staring so intensely at his rings but she’s got a feeling that he had -- he began fiddling with the rose ring with his index finger and thumb of the other hand. 

“Ahh, the viking dog -- nobody can say you aren’t creative.” His eye drops in a wink and it sends sizzles through her body, “I’ve always wanted me a dog, but I fear I’d be no good for him. Feels like m’never home.” He punctuates the statement with a pout, his puffy, pink lip sliding from its resting position, “With my luck, I’d be gone a few hours, come home and he’d forgotten all about me.” 

She shakes her head, “Not possible, dogs fall in love at first sight -- s’like they have little brain shrines of their owner that they close their eyes and see every time you leave.” She tears off another piece of the croissant, pointing at him with the hand she held it in, “I reckon we should go to the humane society and pick out a nice little puppy for you -- s’where I found Ubbe; I wasn’t even planning on adopting, sometimes I just like to go and spend time with them a bit, but he licked me and then excited peed all over my shoes and I knew he was the one for me.” She smiles fondly at the thought, “You would find one in no time, and of course I’d be there to monitor your decision so you don’t walk away with a ferret.” 

The amusement that decorates his features is grand and warming -- it makes Y/N forget the entire reason that they had been there, why she had been nervous, why her stomach had been curling and twirling with anxiety -- because he’s nodding, “I’d like that.” He expresses, “We ought to see each other more outside of the hospital, Babe. I have fun with you.” 

She feels her face warm considerably and she rolls her eyes, however, she gets those jitters that having a crush gives you, but she rarely got this part -- normally her crushes were reduced to her glancing from afar and wishing she would procure enough courage to do something but sheepishly laugh when they said something. Harry was the only one she was able to talk with and she doesn’t know if it was because she felt comfortable in the hospital and with her position as a nurse -- it was easy to speak with family members and patients far more than people who begin as potential conquests. 

So this part - the validation of him saying he has fun with her is something she hadn’t experienced yet and it feels good. Insurmountably good, actually.

“You just want me to bring you pudding cups at all times of the day,” she tries to play off the way she’s flushed, tossing back a little more of her drink, face grimacing once again, “I’ve been fooled by this trick before.” 

“Dammit, you caught on,” he leans forward, “But honestly, babe, we aren’t in the hospital you’ve got every chance to tell me exactly what they do to make that pudding taste so good? Are they injecting it?” 

“Legally, I’m not allowed to disclose this information.” 

He snorts a laugh, falling backward, and lets the quiet fall back among the table for a moment before continuing, “M’serious though, if you’re comfortable with it we should. At least think about it — I’ll give you my number, yeah?” He grabs a piece of tissue, looking for a pen and ever the nurse she is, Y/N has about thirty different pens in her pockets. She gives him his pick of blue, red, and black to which Harry chooses the black one (after pointing at the small cat plunge and grinning at her) scrawling out his number carefully, “And if you ever see those guys or somebody starts bothering you or if you even jus’ want to talk, then you give me a call, yeah Babe?” He slides the brown, wrinkled napkin over to her, “Don’t ever worry about botherin’ me or anything either -- I’ll make all the time in the world for you.” 

There’s a teasing lilt in his eye and Y/N wonders if he’s just naturally this flirty as she takes the napkin, nodding as she folds it and pushes it into the pocket of her scrubs, “Thank you.” She responds, feeling warm that he’d even offered, but a chill creeps around the back of her neck when she remembers why they were here in the first place and her eyes shift to look out the window they sat beside. The days were much shorter now, the ink-y black had long since spilled and stained the sky, the moon seeming more like a threatening white globe as it stood almost full -- at a waning gibbous -- like it was making fun of her. Laughing at her for being so scared. . .for managing to get involved in something unnerving when the comfort of day is capped around six. 

“So,” he leans back, slurping at his cup again and there’s a little foam that dots his lips but he slips his tongue out of his mouth to rid himself of it, “Tell me more about this Ubbe. Is he one of them dogs to wake you up when he’s got t’a piss or does he just leave you a present on the floor?” 

They speak for awhile -- about Ubbe, about his potential puppy of choice, how he had a dog when he was younger that he had been in love with but ran away when he was seven. There is some dabbling into their plans for tomorrow, which don’t deviate much from one another since Harry is practically at the hospital all day like he could be Gibson’s bedside maid. Harry explains that when they part ways he would be taking a bath and Y/N explains that she might do some baking (a little stress baking was actually quite soothing when done right; she could stop by the store on the way home and pick up some stuff for about three different variations of pumpkin anything that she could bring into work), and Harry had expressed that whatever she made he would love to try. 

“You just seem like someone who ought t’a be good at baking,” he had expressed, pointing down at the croissant, “Especially after eatin’ this stale thing, m’looking at you and seeing quality baking material -- which is a good sign, considerin’ I used to be aces at baking.” 

“Used to?” She had prompted and he shrugged. 

“Fell out of it -- too preoccupied with work to do much of anything besides visit Gibson and sleep.” 

This peaked Y/N’s interest, her mind floating a bit to what Niall had said to her, “Basically, word is Gibson and the blokes that are always coming to visit him are in some sorta mafia, gang, mob type shite, yeah? Like drugs, killin’ fuckers, turf wars and the whole lot, but it is like way organized. Like Godfather type shit.” 

So she takes the stirrer and moves it around the mug, watching as the whipped foam dissipates and dissolves, “S’your job hard then? Like -- are you second in command or summat?”  

“We all like to think that we work on equal rankings but yeah, you could say that. S’why Gibson wants me in there all the time,” he reaches up, shaking the strands of his hair in a small ruffle that makes the more unruly curls flop around, “Trying to guide me through what to do while he’s out, or if things turn. . .well, more sour than they are -- he wants me to be ready to take over.” 

She doesn’t want to pry but she wants to know. . .wants to be sure that she isn’t allowing herself to fraternize with someone in a gang and manage to intertangle herself further in the small mess that had been created already. “What kind of company do you guys run? Gibson’s never told me but to be fair, I never bothered asking after the first time.” 

Harry replies without missing a beat, “G Industries, since the old man’s modest n’all. It’s a media agency, so it’s primarily advertising, public relations, all that boring shite,” he rolls his eyes, “I get bored talkin’ bout it, but it’s good money and the people are nice enough -- loyal as all hell.” 

Her brows raise, his answer so fluid, without missing a beat and it was something that she would be able to Google so why would he lie, right? Either he had been really well-rehearsed or he wasn’t lying. 

“How’d you get into that kinda thing? Did you go to school for business?” 

A small smile works at his mouth as he nods, “Sure did -- got my Master’s in business the proper way, and my Uncle got me in on it with Gibson before he retired. I took his spot in the company and. . .well, now we’re here. Though I will say, I wasn’t expecting to be eating pudding cups at the old man’s hospital bedside with his nurse, but it’s been a nice change of pace.” 

Y/N plucks absently at the staling croissant, “So you’re close with your family?” 

“Listen to you!” He looks at her, mock shock on his face, his brows raised, “You wanna know about me, hm?” 

Her face warms, a hand raised in her defense, “I’m just wondering! I see you four to five days out of the week and I barely know a thing about  you!”

“To be fair Moppet, I don’t know much about you either,” he looks off like he’s considering something, “Apart from you being a massive nerd at the very least.” 

“Hey!” She scoffs, sitting up straighter, “I am not a nerd --” 

“Only a true nerd would deny being a nerd.” 

Huffing, she crossed her arms and rested them on the table, “Your primary school insults are insulting.” 

“If we’re in primary school, m’only teasing ‘cos I like you,” he notes, simpering when she noticeably gets bashful, and continues, “I’m close with my mum, not so close with me dad -- Gibson kinda takes his place in away, not to have daddy issues n’all that --, I’ve got a sister that m’pretty close with -- we’ve got matching tattoos kinda close -- I still go visit my Nan Saturday mornings to cook her brekkie.” He’s still smirking, “S’that what you were looking for?” 

Her brows furrowed deeply, “I was g’na say it was wholesome, but you’re being mean so m’taking it back.” 

“Oh you know I don’t mean nothing by it -- s’cute you wanna know,” he leaned in, “What about you then? Gimme a glimmer into your life.” 

“You’ll have to get me more than a croissant if you want me to open up about my travesty of a family,” she rubs at her face, “Plus, m’the nurse here, you tell me things that’s how this goes.” 

Harry hums, “I bet I can get you to open up. Gimme a lil while.”