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Lance Hunter, from a young age, knew some very colorful language. Not because his parents had a habit of yelling at him (they did) but because the tattoos on his body… well, they were certainly colorful. If he were a part of a normal family, Lance was sure that his parents would have made him cover up his soulmarks so that he wouldn’t ask his Year 2 teacher what a fecking wanker was, but Lance did not come from a normal family.
After the Year 2 incident, Lance took covering his soulmarks onto himself. He spent most of his life with his hands wrapped in bandages, covering the words cradled in each of his palms. The words in the small of his back were easier to keep covered. Honestly, he preferred keeping his soul marks concealed; he would rather not spend his entire life reminded of his fact that his soulmates, like his parents, would probably enjoy hurling insults at him.
When he joined the army, Lance wondered if maybe he would find his soulmates among his foul-mouthed regiment. He didn’t find them, but his time in the SAS did teach Lance that it was possible to call someone a wanker with some semblance of affection. He still wasn’t convinced that his soulmates meant it in the back-clapping, twinkle-eyed manner that his fellow soldiers did, but it was a nice thought to hold onto when he was particularly upset with the harsh black lines on his hands.
Most of his mates ended up leaving the SAS within the year that they met their soulmates. Lance understood; being in a regiment that asked them to defy death on a regular basis wasn’t compatible with wanting to start a life with the person you loved. He was surprised, though, by how quickly most of his regiment seemed to find their soulmates. He was just a few months shy of thirty, and he was one of the last of his selection cohort to remain with the SAS. Everyone else had run off to start families or find a cushy office job.
None of that bothered Lance, though. It made his path to the higher ranks easier – not that he was much of a climber, but it was almost inevitable. And Lance was hoping that if he was a high enough rank when he met his soulmates, he’d have an excuse not to leave the army.
Lance wasn’t thinking about any of that – not his mates, not his soulmates, not the SAS – when he walked through the busy London streets. He was thinking about Harry Potter. The sixth movie had been released the week before, but today was the first day that Lance had been able to secure leave. He had spent most of the day putzing through various shops, but the nearest cinema had a showing of The Half-Blood Prince at half-seven, and Lance figured that would be a great way to end his day.
The cinema was, predictably, crowded, but Lance had arrived with enough time that he got a seat in prime real estate – center of the row, about two-thirds of the way from the top. He hadn’t read the book (sue him) so the movie was an emotional roller coaster, to say the least. And it ended, tragically, with the death of Albus Dumbledore.
Lance sat through the credits, still numb. “I can’t believe Dumbledore died,” he said to no one in particular.
He hadn’t paid attention to the couple in front of him – he didn’t make a habit of looking at anyone when he went off-base – but both of them whipped around to glare at him.
“Why the bloody hell would you say that, you fecking wanker!” The man said, his Scottish brogue thick as he spit out the words.
The words, which were written on his right palm. Lance closed his eyes, waiting for the second set of words he knew were coming.
“I can’t believe our soulmate is such a ruddy pillock!” The woman seemed less like she was angry, and more like she was frustrated by it all.
Lance pressed the heels of his hands to the backs of his eyes, blowing out a long breath. He had spent his entire life being worried that his soulmates were going to be abusive idiots, and here they were, just nerds who were upset that their soulmarks betrayed the fact that Dumbledore died before the first Harry Potter book had even been released.
When he opened his eyes again, both of them were staring at him.
“Sorry.” The woman said, two crimson stains appearing on her cheeks. “It’s just –” She gave a defeated shrug. “Can we start over? I’m Jemma.”
She reached her hand out for a shake. Lance pulled his hand out of his pocket; it was covered in a fingerless glove that kept the words on his palms hidden. They were chicer than bandages, even if they did make him look a little grungey.
Jemma stared at his hand for a moment, and then turned her wrist so he could see what was written there. His handwriting was scrawled from the fleshy base of her thumb and trailed to the tip of her middle finger. I can’t believe Dumbledore died. He nodded, but didn’t say anything, holding out his hand a little more insistently. Jemma grasped his hand firmly, looking a little grim.
“I don’t go bare-handed often,” Lance said, offering no further explanation. He didn’t intend to take the gloves off.
“Right,” Jemma said. “This is Leo Fitz. I call him Fitz.” She nudged the man beside her, who raised his hand in a limp wave. He wasn’t blushing, but he did look rather mortified.
“Hunter.”
“Is that your first name or last name?” Jemma asked.
“Get a drink with me and I’ll tell you,” Lance blurted out. He knew he was acting like a bit of a tosser by being so – he didn’t even know the word for what he was being, but he knew that there were about a hundred ways that he could be nicer to his soulmates. “Unless… you’re on a date, aren’t you?” Lance had known that this would be a peril of having more than one soulmate, but he hadn’t actually thought of the possibility of meeting his soulmates while they were on a date with each other. This was complicated.
“We are,” Jemma confirmed. “But we wouldn’t mind, would we Fitz?”
Fitz just gave a nod. He didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about this whole thing. Maybe he thought they were never going to meet their Harry Potter-spoiling soulmate, and was now having to come to terms with it? Either that or he was still upset about the whole first words thing.
“Right, well, we should get moving.” The movie theatre was mostly clear already, and Lance knew they were having another showing at half-ten.
They walked out of the movie theatre in awkward silence, and Lance sent up a prayer to whomever was listening that this would not go totally sideways. As they walked down the street in search of a pub, Lance noticed that Jemma and Fitz were holding hands; as if he wasn’t enough of a third wheel already.
Eventually they found a suitable pub and slid into a booth in the back, Fitz and Jemma on one side and Hunter on the other. After being seated for not more than thirty seconds, Jemma announced that she needed to use the ladies’ room, and left Hunter and Fitz alone.
“I, eh, didn’t mean wha’ I said. ‘Bout you being a wanker.” Fitz fiddled with the menu.
“Fecking wanker, I believe it was,” Hunter corrected. He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s fine, mate, just a little off-putting is all. My last one isn’t much better, language-wise.”
Fitz winced at that. “Musta been fun, growing up thinking your soulmates were a buncha rude –” He cut himself off before he could utter another impolite word.
Lance shrugged. He figured the first date (if that was what this was?) wasn’t really the time to talk about all of his baggage. He doubted Fitz wanted to hear all about how his soulmarks were not the worst abuses that he had heard or seen as a child. “Gave most of my teachers a scare. Wasn’t allowed to have them showing in school after I asked what a fecking wanker was.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood, and Fitz grinned back.
At that moment, Jemma returned to the booth – but she wasn’t alone. She was leading a tall blonde and looking right pleased with herself. “Hunter, Fitz, this is Bobbi. She’s the fourth.” A blush was spreading across Jemma’s face, but it was nothing like the embarrassed scarlet she had turned earlier. Lance thought she looked rather pretty like that, and it took a moment for him to realize that Fitz was talking.
“Do you have the Dumbledore thing, too?” The Scot asked. Really, it seemed like he was trying to set himself up for his last soulmark being about Dumbledore.
“What Dumbledore thing?” Bobbi asked. She was American, Lance noted with a bit of surprise.
“Aw, c’mon!” Fitz moaned. “How come me and Jemma get spoiled but you don’t?”
Bobbi turned to Jemma for explanation. “Hunter’s first words to us were saying that Dumbledore died,” Jemma said, showing Bobbi her hand. “We were rather disappointed when we knew what was going to happen years before the first book was published.”
Bobbi’s blue eyes looked Hunter up and down once before she spoke. “Why the fuck would you do that, stupid?” Her voice didn’t have any bite, but she obviously didn’t think much of Lance.
“Well, I didn’t know they were going to be listening to me,” he answered, unperturbed. He had gone to the theatre alone, so Lance thought he was right to assume that no one cared what he had to say about Dumbledore’s death.
Bobbi sighed, shaking her head.
“I was wondering if it would be alright with you two if Bobbi joined us?” Jemma asked. Lance swore he saw her bat her eyelashes.
Fitz nodded, and Hunter stood up, waving Bobbi into the booth. “I’ll go get us a round,” he said. After pausing a moment for objections, Hunter made his way to the bar. It was surprisingly empty for the time of night on a Saturday, but he wasn’t going to complain.
There was already a low buzz of conversation when Hunter returned to the booth, carrying the four pints carefully. He set them down in front of his soulmates before taking a long draw from his own glass, wiping his mouth on the back of his glove when he finished.
“We were just talking about why Bobbi’s in England, Hunter,” Jemma informed him brightly. “She’s getting her PhD in biochemistry, isn’t that wonderful?” Hunter nodded. “Fitz and I also have PhDs.” Jemma told him. “Mine are in biology and biochemistry, Fitz’s is in mechanical engineering.”
“If you’re expecting me to say I have a PhD, too, no dice,” Hunter said, taking another long drink.
“What did you study in undergraduate?” Jemma asked.
Lance blinked at her. “I didn’t go to uni, love.” Jemma’s face fell. “Sorry to disappoint.” It seemed that was all he was doing that night.
“No, no, not disappointed!” Jemma said hurriedly. “Just surprised.” She winced. “That’s not much better, is it?”
“No, not really.” Hunter sipped at his beer again.
“Slow down there, tiger,” Bobbi said from beside him. He was already halfway through his drink; Fitz and Jemma hadn’t even touched theirs.
Hunter picked up his glass and gulped more of it down, not breaking eye contact with Bobbi. He didn’t like being bossed around; he got that enough at his job.
“Hogwarts houses!” Jemma blurted, obviously desperate to find a subject they could discuss without any animosity. “I’m a Ravenclaw.” As if the two PhDs hadn’t given that away already.
“Slytherin.” From what little Lance had seen of Bobbi, that made sense, too.
Fitz didn’t answer immediately. He was staring across the table at Hunter, and Lance looked right back, trying to interpret what Fitz was trying to communicate to him. After a moment more, Fitz seemed to give up. “Gryffindor, I think.” Fitz gave Bobbi a nervous glance.
The blonde shrugged at him. “I don’t really subscribe to the whole houses fighting thing.” She said.
“Hunter? What about you?” Jemma asked.
Hunter scratched the back of his neck again. “Dunno,” he answered. “Never really felt like I fit in any of them. Not smart enough for Ravenclaw, I don’t really give a flying fuck about ambition, I’m definitely not patient enough for Hufflepuff. Guess I could be a Gryffindor, too. Not much courage, though.” He ended his rambling with another pull from his beer, wishing that it was enough to get him at least a little buzzed. It wasn’t, not even drinking as fast as he was.
“We’ll figure it out,” Jemma promised him.
“I do like a challenge,” Bobbi murmured in agreement. Lance hadn’t realized he was a challenge, but apparently, he was. Hunter looked at Fitz for backup, but the other man just shrugged helplessly at him. They were doomed to be outvoted by the girls, it seemed.
The song on the speakers overhead, and Jemma paused for a moment, cocking her head up towards the sound. “It’s the Pussycat Dolls, love,” Lance informed her.
“I knew that,” Jemma said, flushing again. It was easy to make her turn pink, and Lance kind of dug that.
“Course you did.” Under the table, his foot nudged Jemma’s, at that made her turn even pinker. Jemma picked up her drink for the first time that night, and Lance bit his lip to keep from laughing.
“Kind of dumb they’d play a breakup song at a pub,” Bobbi commented.
“Maybe I want to tell you all I’m breaking up with you,” Lance fired back without pausing.
“Technically, we’re not even together yet,” Bobbi pointed out.
“Pre-emptive breakup, then,” he answered. That made Bobbi smile. “I’m sure when it gets later they’ll start playing rowdier songs.”
“How late were we planning on staying?” Fitz asked from the corner he had wedged himself in.
“As long as we want, I suppose.” Jemma looked at Hunter and Bobbi. “Unless you two have to be somewhere.”
Bobbi shook her head, but Hunter couldn’t. “I’m on Cinderella leave, so I’ve only got,” he checked his watch, “another half-hour before I have to be heading back.”
“Cinderella leave?” Jemma's brow furrowed.
“Have to be back on base by midnight.”
“Oh.” Jemma looked rather put out, and Hunter wondered if she was remembering that one of her soulmates wasn’t even intelligent enough to earn a bachelor’s degree, let alone two doctorates. “You’re in the army, then?” Lance nodded.
“We have to make the most of our half-hour,” Fitz piped up from the corner.
“Do explain, Fitzy.” Bobbi leaned forward. Her eyes flashed, and Hunter’s mouth suddenly felt very, very dry.
“I just meant getting to know each other more,” Fitz mumbled. “None o’ that other stuff.” Now Fitz was the one blushing, and Hunter wished that he could high-five Bobbi for making it happen. Fitz was cute when he blushed, too.
“Too bad.” Bobbi tossed her hair over her shoulder. “The woman’s bathroom is actually quite clean, for a pub.” Hunter shifted in his seat, and the movement was enough to attract Bobbi’s gaze. She gave him an innocent smile.
She was definitely going to be the death of him, and Lance did not mind one bit.
“So, Fitzsimmons.” Bobbi leaned back in the booth. Her arm settled around Hunter’s shoulders, obviously on purpose, and he wondered what her plan was with that. Was she trying to make him more uncomfortable? “Have you two kissed yet?”
Watching Jemma and Fitz blush separately had been fun, but Hunter couldn’t keep from chuckling at the sight of both of them turning the same shade of pink at the same time.
“No,” Jemma squeaked out. “This is only our fifth date.”
Bobbi’s laughter flowed like honey through the air, sweet and golden, and she tugged Hunter closer to her side. “Darling, by the fifth date most people have gone far, far beyond kissing.” She said. As if on cue, the song changed again, and Hunter joined Bobbi in her laughter.
“Why are you laughing!?” Fitz whined.
“The song’s title,” Bobbi answered. “If You Seek Amy.” Fitz and Jemma gave her a blank stare.
“F-U-C-K me,” Hunter translated. “She’s singing about how she wants someone to shag her.” Bobbi hummed her agreement, pulling Hunter closer still to her. If Fitzsimmons got any redder, they were going to turn into tomatoes.
“Well, that’s… uncouth.” Jemma then began drinking her beer again, and Hunter watched as her blush began to fade with the cool liquid.
“She’s pretty when she swallows.” Bobbi’s breath was warm against his ear, and Hunter smiled as he bobbed his head in a nod.
He twisted his neck so that he could speak in her ear, just as close. “She’s not the only pretty one at the table.”
“That’s right,” Bobbi replied, voice still low. Hunter wasn’t sure if he was imagining things or if she had just kissed his jaw. “You’re pretty too.”
“And Fitz,” Hunter added quietly.
“And Fitz,” Bobbi agreed. That time he definitely hadn’t imagined anything – she had kissed his neck.
“Are you trying to kill them?” Hunter mumbled as Bobbi kissed his neck again. Bobbi hummed against his skin, sending a delicious thrill up his spine.
“Them, or you. Don’t particularly care which.” Hunter let out a breathy laugh as Bobbi kissed him again, but before he could banter back to Bobbi he heard a choking noise from across the table.
Fitz was pounding on Jemma’s back, and Bobbi gave Hunter a pleased smile. He had stopped paying attention to Jemma when Bobbi had gotten up into his space, but she obviously had started choking on her drink at some point, which meant that Bobbi’s mission had succeeded.
She was done kissing his neck, but it was obvious to Hunter that Bobbi was a tactile person and that she had decided he was hers to touch as she pleased. Her fingertips were drawing spirals on the exposed skin on the back of his neck, raising goosebumps along his arms. Her fingertips were cool and dry and soft, and it felt nice.
They lapsed into silence while Fitz and Jemma both recovered from the obviously-traumatic experience. The song switched to something that was neither a breakup song nor horribly suggestive, and that seemed to calm Jemma somewhat – enough that she was ready to attempt to start another conversation.
“So, do you all like art? Fitz is very interested in van Gogh. We were going to try to go to the National Gallery sometime,” Jemma said.
Bobbi paused her movements for a moment while she thought. “I can appreciate art, I guess, but I don’t like museums. Too quiet.”
“I like poetry,” Lance offered. He felt Bobbi’s body tense for a moment beside him. “Not exactly a museum fan, either, though.” That relaxed Bobbi somewhat, and she began moving her fingers again.
“What poets do you read?” Fitz asked, breaking his long silence. “I like Robert Burns.” Scottish Lance thought with a chuckle.
Lance smiled. “My love’s like a red, red rose, newly sprung in June,” he quoted. Fitz positively beamed.
Bobbi prodded him on the back of the neck, and Lance let out a little yelp, surprised by the movement. “You memorize poetry?” She asked him.
Lance nodded. “Just ‘cause I didn’t go to uni doesn’t mean I’m illiterate, love.”
“Never said you were.” She pinched the back of his neck to make her point. “Just curious how you got into it.”
“A lot of people use poetry for epitaphs.” Lance explained. “When my dad died, I was looking for something I could put on his tombstone.” He had gotten a lot more than he had bargained for, that much was certain.
“Sorry,” Bobbi said. Lance grabbed her knee and squeeze it softly.
“Don’t be. He was a right tosser.” Lance shook his head a little. “Figured I’d just get more of the same when it came to soulmates.” He winced at that. He hadn’t meant to let on to just how much the words had bothered him, but… here they were.
Jemma made a soft, distressed noise. Before Hunter realized what was happening, she had moved to the other side of the booth, effectively wedging him between Jemma and Bobbi. Jemma’s hands were fluttering like frightened birds before she settled one of them on Hunter’s thigh, the other resting in her lap. “I’m really sorry.”
“Hey.” Hunter said, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair behind Jemma’s ear. “It’s all fine now, yeah? You just have to accept that your soulmate will never get a doctorate and is rubbish at not giving you Harry Potter spoilers.”
“Minor flaws.” Jemma assured him.
Hunter kicked Fitz under the table. “You coming over here, mate?” He asked.
“There’s plenty of room on Jemma’s lap,” Bobbi teased. Needless to say, the duo blushed again.
Sadly, to preserve Fitzsimmon’s sanity, there was no lap-sitting for either of them. Instead, Hunter ended up in Bobbi’s lap, insisting that the inverse would rapidly become uncomfortable for both of them.
They were chatting absently about something or other when Hunter felt Bobbi’s fingers ghost along the top of his soulmark, exposed now that his shirt had hiked up a little. “Tattoo?” She asked, once again leaning close enough that neither of their other soulmates could hear.
“Mark,” he responded. He felt Bobbi yank her hand back.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Shouldn’t have touched without asking.” Lance had never understood when or why it had become taboo to touch someone else’s soulmark, but for him, it had been basically impossible to avoid, since his marks were on his palms.
“S’fine. Felt nice.”
Bobbi pressed a kiss into the nape of his neck but didn’t go back to tracing his soulmark. “You smell nice.” It was a rather strange comment, and Hunter chuckled.
“Are you falling asleep?” He asked. Bobbi huffed, but didn’t deny it.
“The lab I’m working for is working on a grant application. Everyone’s putting in extra hours,” she explained instead. “I almost didn’t come here tonight.”
“We’re glad you did,” Jemma said. Lance didn’t realize that they had started talking at a normal volume again, or that Jemma had been listening, until she interjected. “If you want me to read your grant proposal, I can.”
“That would be nice,” Bobbi answered. She let out a yawn.
“Maybe you should go back to your flat and get some rest,” Jemma suggested. “And it’s almost time for you to go too, Cinderella,” she told Lance with a small, teasing smile.
“Gimme your phone,” Bobbi said. She nudged Lance off her lap, which meant he was mostly sitting on Jemma now instead. The brunette looked more confused with what to do in this situation than anything else.
“You never answered my question,” Jemma told him, wrapping her arms around his waist after giving Bobbi her phone.
“What question?” He asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Hunter. Is it your first name, or last?” Jemma asked. “I got a drink with you, so you have to tell me.”
“You didn’t finish your drink,” Hunter argued.
“Neither did you,” Jemma pointed out. That was a first; Lance had gone to a bar and not drank more than a single beer – and not even a full one. His mates would never believe him.
“Hunter is my surname. But everyone calls me that, anyways. Hunter, Captain, or sir.”
“Captain’s good, isn’t it?” She asked. She had not, after all, gotten a doctorate in army rankings.
Lance chuckled. “Good enough.” He liked his rank just fine.
Another set of arms wrapped around his waist, and Hunter felt himself being tugged back towards Bobbi. “I just got him,” Jemma whined. Despite her original discomfort she seemed to have taken a shining to the idea of Hunter sitting on her lap.
“You can use Fitz,” Bobbi retorted. “Hunter’s mine.”
“Hunter isn’t anyone’s,” Lance inserted himself. Bobbi scoffed. “I really need to be going, though. It’s already half gone eleven and I need to get back to base.” That was enough to get both girls to release him, and Hunter crawled over Fitz to get out of the booth. “Give me your phone, Jem.” Jemma passed off her phone once again, and Hunter created a contact for himself, making a point not to include his first name. He had to retain some air of mystery, after all.
“Walk me out, Fitz?” Lance suggested. The other man looked mildly surprised but nodded. They threaded their way through the crowd, leaving Bobbi and Jemma behind to talk about… well, something.
Lance stopped just outside the pub’s entrance, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. He hadn’t realized how stuffy the pub had been – though sitting on someone’s lap probably hadn’t helped keep his body temperature down. “It occurs to me that I should have asked what sort of thing you want this to be.” Hunter said, leaning against the brick wall of the building. “I mean, I swing both ways, so.” He shrugged. He hadn’t ever had any clues as to the genders of his soulmates, and even if he had, Hunter wouldn’t have cared. Guys were hot. Girls were hot. Everything in between was hot. Everyone was hot. It was a little unfair.
Fitz looked mildly perplexed. “I dunno,” he answered after a second of thought. “I mean, I never thought about it,” Fitz rephrased. “But I guess it doesn’t hurt to try.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Lance said with a broad smile. He reached over and clapped Fitz on the shoulder. “Have a nice night, mate.” He turned to make his way to the nearest tube station so he could save some time getting back to base, when he felt a surprisingly strong grip on his wrist.
“Fitz, I can’t stay any longer,” Hunter said apologetically, turning back to the curly-haired Scot.
“Don’t need you to stay much longer,” Fitz said. “Just needed a little more courage.” Hunter was about to ask what on earth Fitz needed courage for when he felt the soft press of lips against his cheek. “Have a nice night, yeah?”
Hunter nodded dumbly, still not quite believing that Fitz had been the one to initiate something. He only moved again when Fitz ducked back into the door of the pub, leaving Hunter alone.
He made it back to base with literally thirty seconds until midnight. By that time Jemma had made a group chat for the four of them, and Lance’s phone was constantly pinging with new messages. Most of them were Bobbi and Jemma talking about the movie, and how excited they were for the seventh movie to come out.
Hunter was sitting on his bunk and scrolling through the slew of messages when he saw something that made his heart stop.
Without thinking, Hunter hit the button to start a group call. When everyone was on the line, he unleashed his outrage. “What do you mean Dobby dies!?”