You talk it through in your mind before you and James enter the restaurant. You're here to pick up takeaway and bring it back to his place for a movie night -- and you are determined to pay. You have cash in your pocket, ready to produce before he can even whip out his wallet.
It's silly, sure. But James always pays for you. And you know the reason why -- he's rich. You've always known that, even before you were together. Weekends at the country club with his parents, stories of holidays to places you've only dreamed of. His clothes are always a brand you've never heard of, beautiful shirts and creased trousers. Leather shoes and bags, a nice watch, and gold signet ring on one pinky. His flat is beautiful and far too big and you're not sure who pays the rent.
Sure, you thought he was an asshole at first. Most people do. But as you got to know him you found that he's always generous. He picks up the tab most nights out, always offers to get dinner for the boys when everyone is too busy to go to the shops, buys nice but personal presents for holidays and birthdays and just because. And you? Sometimes you think he's trying to buy you the world. And they're not empty, hollow gestures. He's loving in every way possible -- picking you up out of the blue and leaving you notes to find after he's left your apartment. His touches are free yet priceless, his hand on your elbow or your back or in yours worth a thousand dinners. James Potter was born to love, he's exploding with it everywhere he goes, and you feel incredibly lucky to be on the receiving end of it.
But the git won't let you pay for dinner. Ever. And you don't know how to bring it up with him. Is it because he thinks you can't? No, that's not James. Is it because he thinks you don't want to? Also stupid, also no. But it feels like you have something to prove, to show him that you want to do this, too.
But James being James, he finds a way to thwart your attempt.
"Pickup for Potter?" he says to the counter, one hand firmly in yours. You reach into your pocket, primed and ready. But before you can, he's handed a large paper bag and waved off.
"Don't we need to pay?" you say. James looks at you with mild interest.
"Did it when I ordered," he says. "Thought we'd want to get home fast as possible." You blink at him as your plan dies a slow death.
"Oh," you say.
"Thank you!" James calls to the restaurant, pulling you out the door and down the street back to his place. He doesn't try to chat with you, happy to stroll through the evening, swinging your hands as you walk. You, on the other hand, are trying to sort through the frustration you're feeling. Is it fair to be mad at him for this? In the grand scheme of things, it's not a big deal. Right?
But your mood remains in flux when you get back, as James unloads the food you've ordered onto his cozy kitchen table. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" he asks you. You realize you haven't said a word to him.
"James," you say, sucking in a big breath. "Can I ask you something?" He stills at your tone then runs a hang through his hair.
"Course," he says. "Anything." You sit and he follows, choosing the chair next to yours rather than across, the food forgotten for now. You cross your arms and your knee bounces up and down.
"Why don't you let me pay for anything?" You look at your hands as you say it. "I know you're rich, James, and that's fine, but it's making me feel like you think I can't, or that I shouldn't, or that I don't want to--"
James's hand is heavy on your knee, stilling it. You look up and find him staring at you, looking a few shades away from heartbroken. Like he can't believe he's made you think any of that.
"No," he says, breathily. "No, that's not it at all." You wait. He seems to be searching desperately for the words. "I know that you can, but I don't want you to waste money on me--"
"It's not a waste," you interrupt. "If mine's a waste on you then yours is a waste on me."
"I mean, what kind of a boyfriend would I be if I let you pay?" he tries. "That's not how you should be treated--"
"I think I can discern how I should be treated just fine, James," you say tightly. "Money doesn't mean anything." James scrubs his face with his free hand before flipping the palm on your knee up, begging for your touch. You grant it, though you don't totally want to continue this conversation. You're not sure that it's a fight worth having to begin with, but you're still frustrated.
"I'm not doing this right," he mutters. His shoulders go back as he sits up straight and he circles your hand in both of his, thumb stroking the top. "Look," he says, his dark brow furrowed. "I've got more money than I know what to do with. You know that. I didn't earn it, I don't need it, but I have it. I like to spend it on the people in my life that I love -- the people in my life that matter to me." He brings one big, wam palm to your cheek. You lean into the touch. "And that's you, darling," he finishes softly. "You're right that it doesn't mean anything. I know you'd be with me if I lived out of my car. I'd do everything I could to make you happy no matter my circumstances."
You sigh, turning your head so your lips brush the edge of his hand. He knows that, at least. That you'd love him with or without the money. "But, you're not going to let me pay for things, still?" James shakes his head, scoots his chair closer to yours. His knees slot between yours in a way that must be uncomfortable for him, but he doesn't seem to case so long as he's close.
"You can pay for whatever you want." The thumb on your face swipes under your eye. James touches you with tenderness you didn't know existed. "It's not that I don't think you can, or want to. I'm sorry that I made you think that. I know you want to..." He tucks his chin into his chest just a little bit.
"I want to take care of you, James," you murmur. "Partners take care of each other."
"I know," he says, looking at you again. "And you do. You take such good care of me. You remind me to bring my keys, you have my favorite tea in your cabinet, you run those magic fingers through my hair when I'm being a right asshole." He squeezes your face gently and you smile.
"Those are easy, James," you tell him. You mean it. Loving him is easy, always has been.
"And paying for your meals, or clothes, or anything you want is easier," he says firmly. "You know, one time Remus said to me that love isn't something that needs to be repaid. And he's right. But if I can use my stupid fortune to make you happy and comfortable then I will."
You pull his hand from your face and lean in so that your foreheads touch. "I'm getting dinner next week," you tell him. He huffs a breath and you feel it on your mouth.
"Whatever you want." He kisses you a little harder than you expected, his hand moving to the back of your head to keep you from falling back in your chair. You consider climbing into his lap right there, your worries assuaged for now, but then the kiss is over before you can move.
"Was this a fight?" James asks, turning to the cooling food. He remains in the chair next to you rather than moving across from you like a normal person. "If it was, does that mean we get to have make-up sex?"
You laugh, digging your knee into his thigh. "Let me eat the pasta my rich boyfriend bought for me first." He sighs dramatically, but he's smiling.