Interactions:all - Blog Posts
Rain & papers
HEADCANON: James adores rain. The sound of it, the smell of it, the exhilaration that comes with feeling alive. One of his earliest memories is being whisked up into his father's arms, and taken out into the rainfall, bundled up in a warm embrace and surrounded by his mother's laughter as they danced together, James between them. He can remember the feel of each drop, the smell of springtime and the flowers Euphemia had planted the week before, the joy of being safe, and home. Lily can find him out there, sometimes. Sitting on a broomstick on the quidditch pitch after a tough match, eyes closed, only a foot off the ground, but still weightless. In the summer before their seventh year, the pair tucked up together in a small doorway of some little pub near her hometown, and he takes a deep breath in, a small smile on his face despite the cold that seeps into his socks. In their last few weeks at Godric's Hollow, it becomes his coping mechanism. To sit out on the step of their back door, watching their little garden, rain falling on his outstretched palm. Harry's usually asleep by the time he goes out, and Lily is quick to follow her husband, only stopping behind him to thread her fingers through his hair. The combination of her touch, and the fresh smell of the rain, and the gentle sounds of Harry fussing in his cot nearby is everything that feels like home to him. He loves the rain.
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DRABBLE: It looks like a bomb has hit their living room. For a moment, James is willing to not ask any questions. His girlfriend, - fiancée, his mind helpfully corrects, and he has to stop himself from dancing on the spot right then and there, - looks to be the culprit of the crime, a bundle of scrunched up papers in a little pile behind her as she tries to organise through.. whatever she's organising through. It's far too early in the morning for her to have any reasonable excuse, but he's long since learned to roll with the punches when it comes to Lily Evans. She's a whirlwind, a woman who can't be stopped when she's on a mission. Merlin, he fucking loves her. She's frantically writing something on a new piece of paper, and James knows better than to stop her and ask exactly what she's doing. Instead, he turns his attention to the tossed-away, crumpled up paper ball that's nearest to his position at the living room door, and he carefully leans down to pick it up. There's writing on the inside, scribbles, and James scrunches his nose up in confusion as he unravels the paper ball, reading over her handwriting. Blue flowers. Red? Yellow? Check J suit. No white. Center pieces. NO LILIES. Green foliage - talk to Molly about best leafy flowers for center pieces. framed? keep one center piece. preservation charm - ask alice. A smile pulls at his lips, and James tucks the paper into his pocket, picking up another. The same, again, - scribbles of wedding plans and ideas, written down like it's plucked straight from her mind and shoved onto the paper. Something about it makes his heart soar, the fact that she's so invested in making their day absolutely perfect, for both of them, while still keeping their friends in the loop. It's a small blessing, given the circumstances.
Pets
[I'm choosing to take this as 'pets', the verb, as in 'getting petted'!]
The first time Sirius gets his full animagus form, James is euphoric.
It's months of work, hours upon hours of research, and potions, and charms, and stupid divination classes, all building up to this exact moment. Keeping the finer, grittier details of it from Remus had been a challenge, for the most part, but it's all worth every single ounce of sweat they've put into perfecting the magic behind it. Remus is worth it all, and that had been agreed upon ever since they had come up with the idea on day one, no questions asked; and while they're not expert wizards just yet, McGonagall seems relatively pleased with their extra interest in potions, lately.
Shes not all too pleased with their extra interest in the restricted section of the library, but that's neither here nor there, and nothing for her to be concerned about.
Yet.
The fact is, what they've achieved now is a monumental victory. In Sirius' place is a great, big, fluffy dog, panting and whacking his tail on the wooden floors as he wags it, very obviously delighted with himself. James' own reaction is instantaneous, a delighted, "YES!", and before he knows it, he's lunging at Sirius, wrapping the dog up in a tight hug. "Look at you! You're brilliant! You're amazing! I could fucking kiss you!" And he does, right on Sirius' hairy forehead, between perked up ears, hands scratching and petting instinctively, wherever he can reach.
"We have to show Moons," James beams, giving him another kiss.
‘ hold up ‘ reverse
It takes everything he's got to hoist Peter back, ripping the back of his shirt in the process.
There's a panic in it, an urgency to run, and James follows that instinct like it's the only thing guaranteed to keep them alive. He keeps one hand on Peter's shoulder, pulling him tight, the other one covering his mouth quickly to stop him from making a peep. At the same time, there's footsteps rushing down the alleyway behind them, chasing them, and James keeps his eyes on Peter's, staring him down, daring him not to say a fucking word. Their silence is crucial, especially now, and the last thing he wants is for either of them to get caught.
Lily's due in a week. He can't leave her like this.
There's a second set of footsteps, and James' eyes widen slightly, still watching his friend. They're the only two out of the mission, and while part of him wants to believe it's just concerned citizens rushing to help, another part of him knows it's their worst fear; an ambush, more Death Eaters, coming to get them if the first pair couldn't. It's a lot more dangerous than either of them had realised, and James sits with the reality of it for a beat, trying not to get too overwhelmed.
When enough time has passed for him to be convinced that no-one else is coming for them, James finally lets his hand drop, resting on Peter's shoulder instead as they both catch their breath.
"Too close," James decides, slumping agaisnt Peter in a half-hug.
❝ I don’t think I can make it…❞
"You say that every time." It comes off as a little more of an accusation than he intends, but it's not necessarily untrue. Peter does say it, almost every time he suggests something, and James is reaching his tipping point. There's something going on. The war has taken it's toll on all of them, dragging down their spirits like a fucking vice. It's not fair, not when they're only just graduated, only just on the precipice of becoming adults, and they haven't had a chance to live. And as tolerant as James wants to be, tries to be, none of that can relieved the ache he feels every single time Peter says no, or doesn't show up, or cancels at the last minute. Once upon a time, all he could do was spend every waking moment at James' side, and James misses his best friend. It hurts. It's his fucking birthday. It's a slow descent into losing him. He can see it from a mile away, can tell that Peter's mind is somewhere else, even in Order meetings. Maybe he's planning on becoming a hermit, on running away, on totally disengaging from the wizarding world to keep him safe. James wouldn't blame him, really, - the bigger Lily's bump gets, the more tempting the thought becomes for him, too. "Don't worry about it," James settles on finally, lifting a hand to pat Peter's shoulder. He doesn't smile when he says it, simply shrugs, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "There's always next year."
❝ I…I’m sorry. I have to go ❞
"Go where?!" He asks it with a laugh, using it to hide the disappointment he feels. It's natural, he knows, his mum had warned him a thousand times; people drift apart by the time school starts to end, friendships change, people change. James wants to believe that Peter's only running away from hanging out behind the herbology greenhouses because he's stressed about NEWTs, or because they all still have a history essay due in two days, or because McGonagall's been breathing down his neck about his plans for the future. They're all stressed about NEWTs. About classes. McGonagall. It's barely an excuse. It's been happening more and more lately. Peter's distance. Seven years of being joined at the hip is starting to dwindle, and as right as his mother usually is, James doesn't want it to be true. Any plans about the future are usually shot down, any questions about hanging out for the weekend, or going to Hogsmeade, or even just studying together, most of them are rejected. And he understands, truly, - it's an exhaustive time for all of them, mutually. But surely they're supposed to be leaning on each other, supporting each other, not drifting apart? They're supposed to stay together, the four of them. They're supposed to save the world. He seems insistent on leaving, however. And for the hundredth time, James lets him go, letting out a soft breath of Peter's name in protest. It's not enough to keep him around. It never is.
❝ It’s okay — you’re going to be okay! ❞
[TW: injury description.]
"Your faith in me is absolutely reassuring." His words come out dry, forced through the ache of the pain shooting up his leg. He's fine, for the most part, - the Death Eaters they had been chasing have long since been taken care of, and he and Amelia are a bloody good team. "It's a quidditch thing," she had joked, though he had agreed wholeheartedly. Their issue now is the nasty way his leg is twisted, and James stays slumped up against the brick wall, keeping his weight on the other foot. He's had injuries, before. Quidditch, stupid tricks and pranks with the boys, that one time he had flown around to Lily's window of Gryffindor tower in the rain, and had slipped off his broom. Countless full moons. Auror training, and being in the Order. He's seen the inside of the medical wing and St. Mungo's more times than he can count, and he's learned to handle the pain. But it's something else. The hex the Death Eater had used is nasty, and James feels like his leg is still twisting in the wrong direction, tightening, like bone and muscle is fit to burst. The longer they wait, the worse it feels. Amelia's there, though. She's got one arm under his shoulders, helping to keep him upright, and he's more than grateful. There's a grimace on his face, and James fights a groan as his leg twists again, his hand grabbing onto her tightly. "Please don't tell my wife about this," he huffs, giving her a look.
