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drawlfoy · 4 years

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The Wonders of Ohio P.5

masterlist (check here for parts 1-4!) request guidelines

pairing: draco x reader

request: from 14 year old me babey

warnings: cringe, mentions of drug use, mentions of sex, language, and just bad writing

summary: y/n is in her senior year of high school when she is asked to take on an exchange student from britain that’s a little...different. this is NOT a nonmagic AU. draco is still a wizard and this will become and integral part of the story shortly.

a/n: heyyyy everyone. i graduated from high school this week and i’m posting this as my happy-one-year-to-me. as some of you may know, i posted my very first fic on this day a year ago. i’m really happy to see how i’ve grown since and i’m so lucky to have shared this with all of you. anyways, nittygritty--

this part is really the last slow exposition chapter. chapters 6 on will be a whole whirlwind beginning with homecoming and i hope that you guys are willing to stick around. i promise itll be worth the wait. y/n is going to get the story arc of a lifetime and also please do not hate heather she is just going through it ok

anywayssssssss

tags tags tags @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry @ayo-cowbelly @nerd-domland @erisdogwood @loveissupernatural

word count: 4.6k (;))

song recs:

strawberry blonde -- mitski

in your neighbors garden -- mimi bay

wishes -- beach house

ode to artifice -- samia

pink in the night -- mitski

enjoy <3

The seatbelt buckle scorched the side of Y/N’s exposed neck as she turned to face the disheveled blonde in the passenger seat.

“Do I need to teach you to set an alarm?”

Draco let out a huff. “Stop. Do you have a….a comb, or a brush, or something here?” His hands looked abnormally fidgety. Their actions were shaky, varying from patting his pockets to running through his hair. He seemed more and more frustrated each time his hands left his pockets empty.

How curious Y/N thought as she racked her brain for any remembrance of putting a brush in her car. It was always a mess, and she honestly couldn’t blame Draco for assuming that anything could be in there.

“I don’t think there’s one here,” said Y/N, trying to sound at least a little sympathetic despite the fact that his tardiness had them 10 minutes late. “You can look around if you want, king.”

“What’d you call me?” His voice was suddenly sharp and awake.

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard that she thought they’d get stuck in the back of her head. “You don’t--ok. It’s a joke. You can call guys here that.”

“And it means that I’m…?”

“It means I’m acknowledging that you exist, I guess. It’s not like it has a strict negative or positive connotation. Like, I can say ‘Ok king’ to any man telling me something and it can either be sarcastic, or it can be because I don’t know what else to say and just want to let him know I heard him.”

Draco’s eyes looked a tad glazed over when Y/N dared a glance in his direction.

“I know it’s confusing. I’m sorry. I’ll try and ease you into the world of American slang.”

He granted her a little “uh-huh” before opening up the glovebox with great difficulty and rummaging through the mess. Y/N would’ve felt more embarrassed about the tampon that fell on the ground in the process if he seemed like he actually knew what it was.

Her attention turned back to the road as Draco continued to sift through things. Y/N couldn’t help but wonder if there was anything embarrassing hidden away in the corners of her car--after all, it hadn’t been organized since the beginning of summer--and decided that it was better to pretend it wasn’t happening.

It wasn’t the eerie silence that eventually prompted her to turn to look his direction--no, it was the weird energy in the car, like the feeling right before a thunderstorm. All the hair raised on her arms, and she shivered...but it was stifling hot in the car.

“Oh, did you find a brush?” she asked. His hair laid as perfectly as always, but his hands were lying shaking in his lap, palms to the sky. No hairbrush was in sight.

“Er... “ He was paler than usual, which was quite the feat for someone who looked like a ream of paper. “No. Just remembered a trick my father taught me.”

She tensed at the mention of his father--the very first time Draco had done so. “Oh. Okay. Glad you got it figured out, king.”

Her voice lightened on the last word, hoping she could coax a little smile out of him.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Ok.”

oOo

There were many things Y/N thought she understood, but Draco Malfoy being in her Physics C class was not one of them. She took pity and sat next to him as he fumbled his way through the first lecture. His notes, while neat, were littered with crossed out portions and question marks.

You do know there’s an eraser on your pencil, right? she jotted on a note that she sent his way. His brow furrowed and he seemed to tap at the end of the eraser for just a few moments before deciding otherwise and xing out another practice problem he’d done incorrectly. Symbols that she’d never seen before were scattered all throughout his notes.

Maybe the UK kids just learn stuff differently.

By the time that Physics came to an end, Y/N was eager to get away from the storm cloud that was brewing over Draco’s perfectly smoothed and infuriatingly pretty moonbeam colored hair. The amount of attention he was getting from all the other girls made Y/N want to jump off a cliff--suddenly everyone was her “best friend” “just wanting to check up on what happened over summer”. She was grateful to see the face of Lizzy, grinning and looking mischievous during their break period.

“You must be Draco,” said the redhead, a glint in her eyes. He looked a little scared.

“Er...yeah.”

“Mind giving us some privacy? Y/N and I have some urgent matters to discuss,” she continued, looking him up and down. Y/N attempted to ignore the twist in her gut as she watched him swallow and nod, turning away to go brood elsewhere. Once he was out of sight, Lizzy grabbed her arm and yanked her into the girl’s bathroom.

“It’s so funny how he’s following you around like a lost puppy,” Lizzy said. “Also, he’s gorgeous. If you don’t at least try to get some of that, then I’m never trusting your judgement again.”

“But, Li-”

“The boy’s a fucking walking Wattpad story cover. Dark, tragic past, unbelievably sharp jawline, rich parents, exotic accent....honestly, Y/N, I don’t know what else you could want.”

“Mom literally called him my host brother,” said Y/N. The bathroom was starting to smell suspiciously like cotton candy. “That’s wrong. On so many levels.”

“But you’re not related!”

“But it’s gross! And predatory! The kid doesn’t even know how to do basic algebra! I’m all he has!”

Lizzy’s eyebrow found its new home in the middle of her forehead. “You’ve gone absolutely batty if you think that every girl cursed with attraction to men in Cincinnati wouldn’t jump his skin at the chance. Use your head, queenie. He’s not alone. Shoot your shot.”

Y/N opened her mouth to serve back a retort--that was definitely there, thank you very much--but decided against it once she realized that the bathroom had become dead silent. “Um...maybe we can go over this later.” She flickered her eyes over to the line behind them that was now intently hanging on their every word. “I forgot I had to talk to the counselor.”

Lizzy was smirking as they exited the bathroom and began the search for Draco. It didn’t take long--the circle comprised of Heather and her friends was more than enough of a giveaway that he was about.

“Draco, sorry to make you wait,” Y/N called out. It took all her effort to abstain from cringing as her voice rang out across the group. Heather turned to send her a big smile.

“Hey Y/N! You didn’t tell me that Draco was from London!”

“He’s not,” she responded. “He’s from Wiltshire.”

“Wiltshire. Of course. That’s what I meant.”

Draco’s smile was tense as he looked down at Heather--who stood roughly 4 inches below him--but he was smiling, and that wasn’t something that Y/N was on the receiving end of frequently. She didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved.

“I’m sure. Break’s almost over, Draco. I can show you where the English department is before the time is up.”

He paused, looking down at the blonde grinning up at him. “Er, actually, Heather already offered to show me around for the rest of the day.”

“Yeah, for sure. I’ll see you in French.”

Y/N was shocked at the sheer amount of jealousy that rose up in her throat as she turned away and made her way to Art History---the only class Y/N and Draco didn’t share. The walk was strange. Being in solitude after having a gloomy British boy attached to her hip was understandably eerie. Because that’s all it was. Adjustment. Nothing else.

She settled in at a table full of her friends, namely Sylvia. The tall girl was always a bit whimsical, but Y/N found that she was a breath of fresh air compared to everyone else. It made sense that Sylvia would take Art History--her dark academic inspired aura and the perpetually hot mug of black coffee just screamed history nut.

“How’s your new brother?” she asked after the teacher had taken attendance. “I say that because I haven’t heard his name yet.”

“Ick, it’s gross to think of him as my brother,” Y/N responded. “And I know! We need to catch up. I’m sorry about not talking to you for a bit. The time difference was a bit weird during your trip.”

“It’s ok, I get it. I was away on family business, anyways. I didn’t expect you to spend your days staying up until the wee hours of the night to tell me all about your exchange student. Anyways. His name?”

“You’re gonna scream when you hear it, Vie,” she said. “Draco Malfoy. It’s so posh. You have no idea. It definitely suits him, though. He’s very...You good?”

Sylvia’s olive toned face looked a bit paler than usual. “Yeah. Yeah, I just remembered that I forgot to take the trash out this morning. I’ll have to text my mom about it.” She adjusted the wool cardigan that hung around her shoulders and came up looking composed. “Draco, huh? His parents must hate him.”

“At the very least! He’s so rude. And uptight. I can’t tell if it’s just a Brit thing or if it’s because he’s an asshole.”

Sylvia laughed. “I mean, when I was there over the summer, it was a different culture for sure. We’re by far louder. But I didn’t meet many mean ones. You must’ve just got a bad apple, then.”

“I guess so. He is pret--”

“Ladies, is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

“No, Mrs. Jensen,” Sylvia and Y/N said in unison.

oOo

“Thoughts, king?”

“I told you not to call me that.” Draco glared at her as he tried to open the passenger side door to find that it was locked tight. “Unlock? Please?”

“And I told you not to get cozy with ASB kids, yet here we are,” said Y/N as she slotted the key into the lock and turned.

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. I’m just looking out for you.” She slammed the door shut and threw her bag in the bag. The line of traffic to get out of the school was long and stuffy, and she was eager to just get it over with.

The wait was so hot that Draco peeled off his stupid formalish jacket that was on thin ice of being called a blazer and probably worth more than her car. Y/N tried to look away as his hair became slightly ruffled, but she couldn’t pry her eyes away. It was endearing, almost, how someone who could look so posh and serious could have ruffly hair--and hair that naturally light, too. She had asked him one night if it was dyed, and he scowled at her and told her the grammatically correct term was dead, and that his hair was alive, just like the rest of him, thank you very much. She dropped it.

Y/N finally rolled down her window after the AC simply refused to satisfy her, and the wind was a nice reminder to keep in her own lane. Draco was beautiful. There was no other way to put it. He had a feel of power to him, like he was capable of anything but just held it back. But he was just as inaccessible as he was pretty, and there was nothing she could do about that.

“Y/N?” He asked after a few moments of sitting in silence. “What’s Homecoming?”

“Who told you about that?”

“Heather. She asked if I had a date. Is that like a ball here?”

“She asked you if you had a date on the first day?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. ASB kids never do sleep, huh.”

“What?”

“Homecoming isn’t a ball. It’s like a...an…” Y/N paused as she saw Draco raise his eyebrows. “It’s, like, uh….Well I guess it is like a ball. An American one, though. Way less extravagant. It’s an excuse to get dressed up and run around the city. There technically is a dance, and all the ASB kids have to go, but literally no one else does but the underclassmen. Normally I go out with my friends and a date to somewhere fun and take pictures. And then get trashed afterwards.”

“Classy,” said Draco. “I think you can go now.”

A honk behind her emphasized his point as the space in between her and the car in front widened substantially.

“Thanks. Anyways, it’s not really a big deal. I’d suggest not going with Heather so you can skip out on the dance portion. Or if you want to go with her, get her to come with us into Cincinnati because I am not going to spend my last homecoming watching a grind circle.”

“A...what circle? And I don’t want to go with her.”

The relief Y/N felt was embarrassing. “Um...better if you don’t worry about it. You have a long time to figure it out anyways.”

He seemed satisfied with that answer, propping his elbow up on the center console. The pristine button up he was wearing had ridden up, exposing the pale skin and the bottom of the tattoo she had seen a hint of earlier. “Do you have a date?”

“Um. No, not yet. I don’t think anyone except for couples do yet. We have until the end of this month to figure it out, so I’m not too worried about it.”

He nodded as Y/N’s car finally left the school parking lot and began picking up speed.

“I’m assuming you had balls? At your posh boarding school?”

“Er…” Draco ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it further. “We only had one. It was when I was 14. We called it the Yule Ball.”

“Why only one?”

“It was for a special occasion. We had two other schools join us as well. It was quite a good time.”

“So every student only has one ball in their lifetime?”

“Of course not. Some of us--the ones from old families--have events like that regularly.”

“I’m sorry if this is overstepping my bounds,” began Y/N, noticing how he tensed up, “So you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But, I’m just wondering, what is your family like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like are they nice?”

“Oh.” The line in his forehead relaxed. “No. They wouldn’t like you.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “Do you like them?”

She heard the breath hitch in his throat. “I don’t know anymore.”

“I’m sure it’s hard to think about it when you feel like they’ve just shipped you off without anyone,” she added. “I’m really sorry, Draco. I know I’ve been a bit mean to you. I know that I’ll never be able to understand what you’re going through right now.”

The slight smile that spread across his face would’ve knocked her to her knees if she wasn’t already sitting down. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

The silence that awaited them for the rest of the journey was comfortable.

oOo

School began to pick up the pace after the first few days. Y/N got into the swing of homework and her extracurricular workload. Draco was having a bit more difficulty, she presumed, but he’d never admit to it. She took pity one evening and gave him her laptop opened to a Khan Academy tab for Physics and was pleased to see that he showed up to class the next day with completed homework. He asked to borrow her laptop on a much more frequent basis after that.

The routine they settled into had her heart leaping into her chest almost constantly--they’d eat breakfast together at the table, Y/N would try to ignore how pretty he looked across the table as they shared a pot of black tea (earl grey, which Y/N was thrilled to learn was his favorite as well), they’d get in the car, she’d write him notes in physics to help him (even though he never asked, he always smile and give a little shake of his head before unfolding them and intently staring at her writing), they’d drive home together and bitch about their French teacher, he’d retire to his room and do whatever pretty blonde Brits do in the afternoon, they’d meet unexpectedly at the same time in the late evening to have a final cup of tea, and then they’d go to bed and do it all over again.

It was difficult for her to admit, but Y/N was falling very quickly for Draco. It was gross, and wrong, and manipulative, and completely against the code of conduct for exchange families, but she couldn’t help but spend her days fantasizing about how his gold-spun hair would feel as she ran her fingers through it or how gently she’d trace her fingers around the tattoo on the soft flesh of his forearm…

But Y/N knew those thoughts weren’t right. And they would go away. Eventually.

“How’s it going?” Sylvia asked, effectively snapping her out of her thoughts. The Art History sub told them to go into independent study, whatever that meant. Y/N was not very good at either of those words.

“Pretty good. I can’t believe it’s been 3 weeks already,” she said. “It’s gonna be Halloween before we know it.”

“I can’t fucking waitttt,” said Sylvia. “I’m gonna be Wednesday Addams.”

“Again?”

“What else would I be? I get a new high collared black dress every year. It’d be a shame if it were going to go to waste. What are you gonna be?”

“One of the thousands of students finishing their UChicago ED app hours before the deadline.”

“You’re kidding. Can’t you just finish it the day before?”

“Where’s the fun in that? And, plus, I don’t have an idea as cool as Wednesday.”

Sylvia smirked as she opened up her planner and began to jot down something. “How’s Draco doing? I haven’t seen much of him lately. It seems like he never hangs out with us at break anymore.”

“Yeah, I ended up getting him connected with the Physics teacher. He’s getting tutored now. He thinks it’s all bullshit, but I don’t want to be the reason he doesn’t get into a good school.”

“Is that all you care about?” She smiled at Y/N. “Lizzy was telling me that you’re interested in him.”

“First of all, keep your voice down. Second of all, I’m not supposed to be, so I’m not.” Y/N hoped that the edge in her voice was convincing enough.

Her friend raised her eyebrows so dramatically that her glasses nearly slipped off her nose. “Y/N, who’s gonna hear about it. You guys are both going away at the end of the year anyways, and I’m sure he’s not going to be writing to his dear mum about his love life. If it’s consensual, there’s nothing wrong with it. I think it’d be good for both of you.”

“I see that, but let’s put me in his shoes right now.” Y/N shuffled in her seat and clasped her hands. “I’m rich. I’m British. I’m very hot. My parents throw extravagant balls for me and I kiss pretty girls that say water like ‘wota’. I’ve spent my life in silk and I only drink the finest teas. My family is so important that I had to be shipped off halfway across the world just to be safe. And now my incredibly expensive life has reached a peak because I’m sleeping with a random girl in Ohio that has run approximately 4 stop signs since I’ve met her.”

“You’re sleeping with Draco?”

Y/N turned to see Lauren, a wide-eyed, obnoxious, but well meaning girl staring at her. She heard Sylvia stifle a laugh behind her. “No. I was kidding.” The smile that she followed with was awkward and showed way too many teeth.

“Oh, okay,” said Lauren. “Do you know if he likes anyone?”

Sylvia’s smirk widened.

“No, actually, he’s a pretty private guy.” Y/N sent her another tense smile, and Lauren finally turned away.

“Jealous, huh?”

“Shut up, Vie. You know I wouldn’t go for him. Even if I had the chance.”

She just raised an eyebrow and smiled.

The afternoon brought its own set of struggles. Their French teacher had blown up at another student who had been caught cheating on their last test, and it was all Y/N could do but hold back her snickers until they were out in the parking lot.

“I can’t believe they still managed to conjugate their cheat sheet wrong.” Y/N was gasping for breath as she unlocked the car door and threw her stuff inside. Draco was watching from the passenger seat, his lips in a soft upturn. “Can you imagine? Oh my god.”

He just shook his head and turned to look out the window, but she could see the smile slowly stretching across his face. “Ridiculous. You could totally tell Monsieur enjoyed it, too. I bet he gets off on making kids like Joey cry.”

“I had a teacher like that,” he started. “He was a Poti-a chemistry teacher.”

“Oh? Did he ever attack you?”

“No. He liked me. Family friends and all.”

“Ah. I almost forgot that your family was rich and influential. Thanks for the reminder.” She reached across and lightly punched his shoulder. His smile, though still remaining, seemed to shrink. “Hey, what’s that in your bag?”

Y/N motioned to the cardstock peeking out of his nondescript black backpack that always seemed to fit more than it was meant to. She could make out a few words written in what looked like a bright red sharpie--something that did not exactly scream Draco Malfoy aesthetic.

He froze up. “Er. It’s from Heather. I think she called it a Homecoming ask?”

Y/N’s throat dried up to the point that no words would willingly make the climb from her diaphragm to her tongue; instead, she settled for giving him a little nod and what she hoped was a convincing smile.

“I told her I’d think about it,” he continued. “I remember you saying that the school dances sucked. So I let her know that I wasn’t sure yet.”

She nodded again. “Super cool. You can do whatever you want, though. You can come with my group if you’d like, but you’re welcome to go with Heather’s.”

“What? So you aren’t coming with me if I go with Heather?”

“Fuck no, dude. I don’t hate her, but I would way prefer to spend a night with my friends than some girl from my French class that only talks to me because she thinks you’re hot.”

The expression Draco made reminded Y/N that he would never get comfortable with American girls calling him hot. “Ok. Have you found a date yet?”

“Chad from Econ asked me yesterday.”

“Is that why my seat was covered in glitter?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going with him?” Draco’s hand was clenched tight in a fist in his lap.

“I think so,” said Y/N, steeling herself and deciding to just go for it. “But, of course, if you asked me I would say no to Chad. Just out of principle. I am supposed to be your tour guide, after all.”

The only parts of him moving were the few stray wisps of his hair being pushed around by the AC going.

“But that’d be weird. I’d only expect you to take that up if you really didn’t want to go to the dance itself.” She swallowed and pulled out onto the main street, putting distance between them and the school. He was silent for a few moments. The quiet, normally comfortable between them, was stifling and strange. She pretended to ignore the way he was fiddling with his cuffs.

“Yeah, it could be,” was all he said before slumping against the window and closing his eyes.

Mrs. Y/L/N was sitting at the head of the coffee table when the two arrived home, carding between a stack of letters in front of her. The mug of something--probably that new decaf blend she hadn’t stopped raving about--was sitting lopsided on a coaster, just barely about to topple off the edge. She looked like she hadn’t moved for hours, the novel she had been previously reading sat face down to preserve the spot next to her no doubt lukewarm drink.

“Hey Mom,” Y/N said as she set her keys down. “Anything good?”

She looked up, her expression morphing from startled to happy. “Other than the college brochures? Nothing, except...hm, what’s this?”

Her well manicured hand pulled at a crimson envelope, with sloping writing that seemed to shimmer in the light.

To the Y/L/N Family, it read. The loopiness of the writing looked like it wiggled at the ends, but that had to be a trick of the light. It was dim in the kitchen during afternoons, after all.

“It looks cool, open it u--”

“No!”

Draco’s voice had never sounded so loud as it did then as he lunged across the kitchen, snatching it out of her mother’s hand and clutching it to his chest. “Er, it’s for me. I recognize the handwriting.”

“Cool, see you later,” said Y/N. She was up the stairs and slamming her door before either of her housemates could say another word. After the horrible embarrassment that was technically Draco’s rejection, she needed to be alone.

Even burying her face into her pillow and squeezing her eyes shut didn’t keep the scenes from their car ride at bay. She had been so stupid, so stupid. Why did she even think he wanted that? He was her brother, after all. Oh god, does he think we’re all from Alabama or something?

She wallowed for a few more mournful minutes before deciding that she had to pick herself up and handle it like an adult. After all, she was going to be 18 in just a few months. There was no excuse for her to act like a child anymore. And, plus, it wasn’t like she couldn’t just play this off as a pity invite. Yes,that’s what she’d frame this as if he ever asked her about it again. She felt bad for him was all it was.

Once satisfied with her internal dialogue, she rolled out of bed and made for the foyer where her bag was still on the table. She’d first walk on Legos barefoot before she had to let a stupid boy--especially one that didn’t know how to turn on their shower and had to ask for her help every time--come between her and her 4.0. Never.

Her thoughts were cut short, however, when she heard a new sound from his side of the hallway. She froze, listening closely.

Draco was crying.

#draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy #draco #draco x you #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco lucius malfoy #draco x oc #draco malfoy x oc

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saudadeonly · 4 years

Text

i loved and i loved (and i lost you)

Read on ao3. Chronologically posted second.

Death Eater! Sirius Black AU

The three times James Potter lets Sirius Black get away.

(And the one time he doesn't have to.)

Word count: 11453

___

I. December 1978

James’s breath fogs in the cold winter air as he heaves a frustrated sigh. He aims a kick at a small stone he finds particularly offensive but as it flies off and bounces on the paved ground he finds his irritation is no less present. “This is a waste of time,” he says as he crosses his arms in a vain attempt to shield himself from the biting cold. The warming charm he cast a couple hours ago has worn off and the streets around them are too crowded with Muggles for him to renew it without risking exposure.

“I wasn’t aware,” Remus says placidly from beside him. He, of course, thought to bring along a pair of gloves and a hat with a large ridiculous tassel so he’s looking positively toasty. “You hadn’t said so for the past 6 and a half minutes.”

James scowls. “Don’t be a prat.”

“Pot, kettle, black.”

James holds in a wince at the last word, fingers tightening almost unconsciously on the wand in his pocket. Chancing a glance at his friend, he finds his face equally strained for a moment before it smooths back into absent amusement, though it seems less genuine than before.

Well, if Remus won’t say anything about it, then neither will James. Absently, he notes that it’s a game they, along with Lily, Peter and another handful of Order members, have been playing since the mistress of 12 Grimmauld Place sent Peter and the two of them scampering away a couple of months ago, accompanied by a set of strong words and well-aimed jinxes. Their letters to the same address had been coming back unopened long before that.

“I just don’t see a point in patrolling here, of all places,” James grumbles in lieu of addressing a serious topic—pun not intended—and kicks another stone down the street. “It’s not a really note-worthy place, for anyone and especially not Death Eaters.”

“Moody’s orders,” Remus reminds him with the air of someone who’s done this a hundred times and tired of it, which James finds unfair, because, really, he’s only done it sixty-seven times. “We’ll just check for any abnormal activity and we’ll be on our merry way.” He bumps his shoulder against James’s. “You’ll be home before supper.”

It does little to lift James’s spirits—Lily is on duty at the headquarters until midnight, when James is supposed to relieve her so on top of having to freeze his ass off because of Moody’s bloody paranoia he’ll have to come home to a cold and empty house too.

At his petulant silence, Remus sighs. “I know this has been hard on all of us, Prongs, but really, there’s no need to be so—”

Remus’s would-be talking to is cut short by the sudden screams coming from the main square.

Sharing a reproachful look with his old friend, James dashes down the street toward the screams, pushing through the crowds who exclaim and huff at him, while Remus follows close behind, the picture of apologetic politeness compared to James’s rudeness.

They reach the main square at the same time, though, stopping side by side just in time to see a masked wizard upend an elderly woman mid-air while another five send streaks of light shooting at fleeing Muggles, laughing as the poor people topple over, helpless against their wands.

James is at a loss. He’s been an active member of the Order for the better part of six months and this is by no means his first mission, solo or otherwise, but it is the first time he has seen the Death Eaters’ cruelty in person, the way they taunt and mock their victims as they convulse on the ground.

Luckily for him, Remus seems to have his head on straight. He pulls James by the back of his overcoat until they’re both hidden in the shadows. He mutters a low incantation and a moment later, a silver streak shoots from his wand, bounding into the dark sky.

James stirs and starts for the square, but Remus stops him again, the grip on the collar of James’s robes surprisingly strong for someone so thin.

“Are you mad?” Remus demands, voice lowered to a whisper. “You want to go against six trained Dark Wizards on your own?”

James gives him a crooked smile, though it falls flat. He always used to have at least one other companion with even worse impulse control than his. “Well, not on my own, of course, Moony. I have you.”

Remus rolls his eyes, but must consider him deterred enough he releases him and uses his free hand to flick his sandy hair out of his eyes. “I’d rather not have my ears screamed off today, thanks,” he says.

One of the muggles in the square lets out a particularly blood-curdling scream and James tightens his grip on his wand.

“Moony,” he implores.

But Remus is as unaffected by his wide eyes as he has ever been. There has really ever been only one person whose eyes he isn’t immune to. He only levels him with a stern look. “We’re not good to anyone dead. It might even hurt the Order if we get captured.”

James has no good argument to that but before that can be properly obvious, there’s a streak of silver light through the night sky and a large horned owl of the same colour materialises in front of them.

“We’re on our way,” it says in Dorcas’s voice. “Do not engage until we arrive.”

“Well, too late for that,” James says, raising his wand as a dark figure splits off from their companions and slips into the dark alley, silver mask glinting in the moonlight. James curses under his breath. Talking Patronuses, while an incredibly quick and effective way to communicate with other Order members, are not very inconspicuous.

The Death Eater approaches, wand raised, and tilts their head as they examine the two of them. “Well, well, what do we have here?” they crow in a low but delighted voice. “If it isn’t baby Potter and little Lupin.” They cock their head to the side, strangely patronising even without the use of their face, and James’s fingers go white on his wand. “Here to play heroes, are you?”

“Certainly.” Remus is a picture of quiet confidence, his form perfect, his hand steady. If it weren’t for the way his eyes flick towards James just for a second, James might’ve thought him to be catching up with a Hogwarts classmate over tea. “Someone has to, if you insist on being the villain, Wilkes.”

Aidan Wilkes—for it is indeed Aidan Wilkes, James can see now, in the thin blond hair that shines green in the light of Death Eaters’ spells, and the pale scarred hand holding on to his wand—seems to not have expected to be recognised, but Remus always has been exceptionally observant. Wilkes sends his reply in the form of a purple light at James, who deflects it with a murmured “Protego.”

It gives Remus enough time to send a silent spell flying his way, but Wilkes easily dodges and takes a step back. They trade spells that way, some spoken, some wordless, and James finds his frustration returning with a vengeance when neither they nor Wilkes prevail. There’s two of them and only one of him and he thinks that the math there should be obvious.

He knows, of course, why they can’t beat the damn bastard—while they use spells hardly above the level they used for one of their more elaborate pranks back at Hogwarts, Wilkes fires curses at them that James hasn’t even heard of, much less experienced, and when one of particularly nasty ones grazes his shoulder, he finds he can hardly move his left arm.

The curses under his breath come quicker when he realises Wilkes has managed to retreat so far that one of the other Death Eaters jumps them from the left and they’re forced to dive to the ground to avoid the streak of green light.

Sharing a look with Remus, they spring back to their feet and press their backs together, spells shooting from their wands before they’re even fully balanced, James’s toward the new Death Eater and Remus’s toward Wilkes.

Now, James is a decent duellist, not the top of their Duel Club at Hogwarts—that honour belonged to the two most important people in his life—but he’s ended up walking away from his duels almost unscathed more times than his opponents have.

The problem is, the Death Eaters have obviously have come here to have fun and James has to assume that obliterating a couple of barely-out-of-Hogwarts wizards has to be more entertaining than simply suspending a few Muggles in air and laughing as they scream in terror.

They gather round Remus and James as they take notice of them, the Muggles they were tormenting only moments before falling to the ground. Their cackles of delight can be heard even over the sound of the explosion one of Wilkes’s spell causes.

“Just when I thought today was going to be boring,” one of them says and James sends a Backfiring Jinx—just to make things less boring for him—at him just as he shouts, “Flipendo!” He’s blasted back several metres, hitting the side of a tall building.

The one second James paid attention to him was one second too long—he is hit with a Knockback Jinx of his own, feeling like a giant has just punched him in the chest, and sent flying across the square. He lands on the cobblestones, the breath knocked out of him, black spots dancing in his vision.

He gasps for air and grapples for his wand with one hand, fixing his glasses with the other, but when he finally grabs onto something, it’s not the wooden handle of his wand but a hand, shrivelled and tiny, but still warm.

With horror, he looks to the side to see the elderly woman that was first to go up in the air blankly staring at him, blood trickling out the corner of her mouth.

He shakes his head—there’s no time to be horrified right now—and grabs his wand which rolled to the side to rest right next to the hip of the woman.

Once again, a bloody moment too late.

“Don’t move,” says a menacing voice above him, the end of a dark wand pointed at him.

The Death Eater standing in front of him is tall and lean, the intricate patterns on his silver mask almost beautiful. But there is something in the way he holds himself, high-strung and casual all at once, that seems almost reserved for one particular—

There are several successive cracks—James counts five—and the Death Eater is blasted to the side before he can so much as turn.

Marlene McKinnon—Merlin’s socks, he’s never been so happy to see her in his life—offers James a hand, which he gladly accepts, and gives him a stern look that seems almost as alien on her as a smile on her girlfriend. “I thought you weren’t supposed to engage.”

James gives her a sheepish look. “To be fair, they engaged us.”

Marlene doesn’t seem impressed but she shrugs it off. “I’ll let Lily and Dorcas do the lecturing,” she says instead, flashing him a lopsided smile.

She turns on her heel and sends a turquoise light toward Wilkes, who was just making a slashing motion toward Remus. Another swish of Marlene’s wand and he is out cold on the floor.

The remaining four Death Eaters seem to be reconsidering their life choices right about now as the combined strength and wrath of Marlene McKinnon, Lily Evans, Dorcas Meadowes, Frank Longbottom and Alice Fawley comes thundering down on them, along with rejuvenated Remus and James.

James stops only for a second to admire the sight of his fiancée dancing out of reach of one of the Death Eaters’ purple spell, her hair flying behind her as she sends a retaliating hex back. He smiles to himself, then plunges back into the fight, sending a Disarming Spell to divert a dark stream meant for Dorcas, who fluidly blasts her opponent back.

“Where’s your master now?” shouts Marlene at them, the taunt in her voice obvious as the Death Eaters flock together, retreating step by step. One—James thinks it’s the one that blasted himself back—even Disapparates. “Where is he now to hide you, you cowards?”

“Here I am, McKinnon,” says a voice, high and cold.

They all turn toward the source of it and James has to ask himself how it all went so horribly wrong so quickly.

A tall figure, garbed only in a set of elegant black robes and lacking shoes, stands in the middle of the square, the wand in his hand held almost loosely. His eyes are red, skin white and face almost snake-like, but despite himself James can still find something barely human in the tilt of his high cheekbones, the curve of his smiling lips.

Lord Voldemort holds out a hand to his followers, who, as if driven by some innate force, pick themselves up off the ground and drift toward their master. Even Wilkes, who should have been unconscious, gets up and joins him.

James moves a step closer to his friends, making sure to position himself directly in front of them.

Voldemort’s eyes focus on him first. “James Potter,” he drawls in his bone-chilling voice. His fingers slide along the length of his wand. “I heard quite a lot about you.”

James swallows. “All bad things, I hope,” he answers, shifting so that his useless arm isn’t exposed, his wand hand twitching in preparation to be raised. He is profoundly glad his voice doesn’t shake.

He chuckles, but the sound carries no humour. “Depends on who you ask.” His eyes flick toward the last Death Eater to join them, the one Marlene blasted away from James, his mouth curving up the tiniest bit before they focus back on James. “I must admit, I hoped the purity of your blood might lead you to me, but I see you need a bit of a stern hand.”

James opens his mouth, whether to tell him to sod off to hell, or to imply the same with his curses, but he’s already looking away from him and towards Marlene.

“Same goes for you, McKinnon,” he says, then adds with a glance at each of the Order members, “Longbottom, Fawley.”

All good, respectable pureblood families, though out of the four of them, Marlene is perhaps the furthest away from her family’s beliefs—while not outright blood supremacists, her grandparents are by no means fond of Muggles or Muggleborn, though her parents seem to counteract that with the way they adore Dorcas, a witch technically not a Muggleborn but close to it with her squib mother and Muggleborn father.

“The rest of you, of course, are not as worthy of following me as they are, but given the good things I heard about your talents, I will let you join me.”

Grave silence rules the square, no one daring to even let out a breath.

Lily slips her hand in James’s and though his fingers are still half-numb he is glad for it, trying to convey his gratitude through running his thumb over her knuckles.

“Rot in hell,” Dorcas spits, a deliberately Muggle saying, and just like that, all of their wands are pointed at the darkest wizard of all time.

James has a feeling they’ll all die tonight.

Voldemort seems unperturbed. “I thought you might be inclined that way—the old fool must have his claws deep inside you—so I brought along someone who might be more motivational than me.” He turns to the Death Eater directly on his right, the one that stood above James. “Prove to me they’re worthy.”

The Death Eater ducks into a shallow bow, his hood falling off as he straightens, revealing a shock of night-dark hair. “My Lord,” he murmurs and takes a few steps forward, still to the right of his master and nowhere near hiding him from their view. He walks with an easy sort of grace, strides even and measured, the back of his robes billowing behind him as if compelled.

Just like before, James finds something familiar in the way he moves, the way he carries himself, as if he’s made not of mortal flesh but of stars and steel, and there’s really only one family, pureblood or not, that James can think of that hold themselves like that.

And James knows, somehow, though perhaps it isn’t so strange all things considered, even before the Death Eater stops and pulls off his mask, knows and dreads and feels whose face they will see underneath that mask. And he prays, prays to every deity he knows, every god or goddess he has ever heard of that he is wrong, that it isn’t his dearest friend who is about to stand opposite of him.

His prayers go unanswered.

Sirius Black removes his mask with little dramatics. That particular flair of his seems to have been reserved for the way he grins at them, slow and crooked and so Sirius his chest cracks open, because he knows that smile, the one he’s seen millions of times before, the very same one that used to fall apart in a matter of seconds.

“Hello, James.”

Strangely enough, the first thing James notices about his friend that he hasn’t seen in roughly half a year—a hundred and sixty-eight days but who’s counting—is that his hair is much shorter than the last time he saw him, cut just above his ears, but still managing to retain its elegant wave. Sirius loved his hair—he used it as one of the many ways to drive his mother up the wall—and threatened anyone who so much as dared to tease him about cutting it with a gruesome death and James has never been convinced it was purely a joke.

The second thing that catches is eye is the prominence of his cheekbones and the hollowness of his cheeks, as if someone had sucked anything he could spare out of him. He wonders if Sirius has been eating enough, or even at all.

The third thing he registers—and really, he needs to get his priorities straight because this one is perhaps the most important—is the fact that Sirius Black, who has hated everything to do with Dark Magic since the day he met him, who has despised his family and their affiliations for much longer than that, is a Death Eater.

Someone lets out a sound that is between a choke and a sob. Marlene, James thinks. Marlene, who bleeds love and light like she was born for it, who adores Sirius above everyone else, her first ally, her first friend, who hexed Caradoc into oblivion just last week because he dared to imply Sirius had turned.

“Sirius kept some questionable beliefs when I first met him, I’ll admit,” says Voldemort, but his voice sounds far away to James, who currently has the mental capacity only to stare at Sirius. “But he has proven to be one of my most loyal servants and he is matched only by his dear cousin in terms of capability. Just proves my point of how remarkable such noble Houses are.”

A shadow passes Sirus’s face, gone quicker than James can blink and he convinces himself he must have imagined it.

“What did you do, Sirius?” Lily asks, voice as ashen as her face.

James squeezes her hand.

“What I should have done a long time ago, Lily,” Sirius says easily. “I was wrong before; this is where I’m meant to be. Serving eternally by the side of the most powerful wizard of all time.” His eyes flick toward someone behind James’s back and he can take an educated guess as to who’s standing behind him when something shifts in those grey eyes. He looks away and drawls on, “You can too. You take my hand and all that you have done against us, will be forgiven.” His hand, wandless and long-fingered, rises to stop mid-air, waiting palm-up for a clasp that James knows will never come.

Us. There was a time James was a part of that us. Now, looking into the face that is familiar and alien at once, too smooth, too cold, too impassive—for Sirius Black is a lot of things but impassive is not one of them—he finds he no longer wishes to be.

James lifts his wand higher. “Who are you?” He is terrified to see his hand tremble. “What did they do to you?”

“I’m me, James. They did nothing to me. Ask me anything and you’ll see.”

His voice is so calm, so reasonable, so very unlike Sirius James wants to throw up. He can’t speak past the lump in his throat.

“What did you do to him?” Marlene screams, wand pointed not at Sirius but at the dark figures behind him.

Voldemort throws a look at Sirius, a cruel smirk curving his lips. “Convince them or they’re dead, Black,” he says, the words barely more than a hiss. “I’m getting bored.”

Sirius’s hand shakes almost imperceptibly. “James, please,” he murmurs and James doesn’t think anyone other than Lily or him can actually hear him.

James shakes his head. “I’d rather die.”

Sirius’s face changes at once, harsh lines surrounding his mouth, a furrow between his thick brows. His hand drops, hanging limply by his side.

“So you shall,” the Dark Lord drawls. He looks to his Death Eaters, voice nothing short of bored as he orders, “Finish them.”

Alice, ever the vicious Hufflepuff, is the first one to throw a spell. It shoots right past James’s ear and heads straight for Voldemort, bathing the silver masks of his followers in red light.

He deflects it with a lazy flick of his wand, lazily prowling towards them, while the Death Eaters shoot forward. “Is that all you can manage, little Alice?”

Instinctively, James steps in front of Alice and feels more than hears the others do the same. Lily’s hand is still in his and he squeezes it.

Sirius has put his mask back on and his wand is a mere blur in the air as he sends a blue stream of light towards James, who barely manages to shout the incantation for a shield, though he can feel the shock of the hindered curse reverberate within his bones.

“You’re going to pay for that!” Lily shouts and throws a well-aimed Stinging Hex that hits Sirius straight into the chest and Merlin, James loves that woman, he adores her more than he has ever cared for anything else in his life. “Bloody traitor! Expulso!”

The stones at Sirius’s feet explode, throwing him several metres back, but he twists mid-air like a cat and manages to soften his landing with a shield charm. “Is that all you got, Evans?” he taunts, already making a circular motion with his hand.

James pulls down Lily just in time to avoid the pale light, and then they’re forced to twirl away as the Dark Lord himself starts for them, Alice now lying on the ground with a deep wound down her side.

“You are fools,” he says, brandishing his wand with a rather dainty swish. “You could’ve had everything in my service.”

“Everything but our dignity,” James mutters.

“Let’s be honest, James, you haven’t had that in years,” Sirius says and James doesn’t regret the Bat-Bogey hex he throws his way, an old reflex from their school tussles, in the slightest—but like always, Sirius is ready and gracefully dodges, laughing as he does.

“You’re on the battlefield,” he crows, then demonstrates that fact with a swish of his wand that sends Dorcas spinning in circles and then crumpling to the ground. Marlene’s face is a mask of fury, but Sirius seems oblivious as he drawls, “Act like it.”

James is forced to tear his eyes away from Marlene’s wand pointed directly at Sirius when Voldemort sends a jet of green light towards him, forcing him to jump to the side and land on the cobbled stones for the second time that night, which his tingling arm doesn’t take kindly to. Pain flares up from the tips of his fingers all the way up to his neck.

“James!”

But James doesn’t get to answer Lily, for there is another flash of green light and a number of cracks, announcing new arrivals.

“Expulso!” yells a familiar voice, deep but raspy, and James lifts his head just in time to see Sirius flail through the air along with his master and the rest of the Death Eaters.

He looks toward the sound of the voice and finds Moody standing in the middle of the square, the Prewett brothers and Benjy Fenwick behind him already firing curses at the fallen Death Eaters. Brilliant, brilliant people.

Voldemort is gone before the spells reach them.

The rest of them try to follow but most of them lost their wands and one of them, possibly Wilkes, is hit just as he grabs his, going down like a puppet with cut strings.

James ignores the pain still flaring up his arm, grabs his own wand and starts toward Sirius, who has managed to scramble away from the worst of the curses, though he seems to hold his leg precariously. His wand lies just out of his reach.

James points his own at him.

Sirius looks up at him, though James can see nothing of his face except for his eyes, which seem to almost match his silver mask. It is a beautiful thing, James can see now, intricate patterns engraved into it and he realises a beat later that they’re constellations, stories written in it, though James was pants enough at Astronomy to not recognise any of them. Black, indeed.

“Are you going to kill me, James?” he asks, hand blindly searching for his wand as he keeps their eyes locked.

“Why?” James demands in lieu of answer, hand trembling.

“I can’t answer that.”

“You—you could’ve come to us! To me!” His eyes sting but he promises himself he won’t cry. “You didn’t have to—”

“You’re right, I didn’t,” Sirius says, lifting his chin in that pureblood way of his, the way his mother did right before she hexed him so thoroughly he barely managed to get himself home. It rattles him to his bones that he can recognise Walburga Black, the epitome of hate, of everything that is wrong in this world, in his closest, dearest friend, a boy he considers—considered his brother. “I chose to.”

“Potter!” Moody barks. “Finish him!”

It’s a second James takes to glance at the grizzled Auror, but it’s enough. In his peripheral vision, he sees Sirius’s fingers close around his wand and he turns, the light shooting out his wand more of a manifestation of his anger, confusion and pain than an intended spell.

It hits bare stone, sending up a flurry of dust.

Sirius is no longer there, only a smatter of blood on the cobbles proving that he once was.

He feels arms around him then, strong gentle arms that are accompanied by a voice that he loves more than anything else in the world, and he lets himself sag against Lily as she murmurs in his ear, “You’re okay, we’re okay, we’re okay, . . .”

But as he recalls Sirus’s face, hard and ruthless, he isn’t so sure.

II. December 1979

The sun isn’t supposed to set for hours but James feels as if the warm autumn sunrays can’t reach him in the cocoon of darkness and numbness he has enclosed himself in.

The words of his parents’ oldest friend, Mrs Jowles, might as well be coming from underwater. The crowd around him, far smaller than it is supposed to be—but such is the time of war—seems blurry. His hands, clasped in front of him so tightly the knuckles are white, are trembling but he can’t muster up enough will to hold them still.

The grave in front of him is barely big enough to fit the complementary urns of his parents—the nearly frozen earth proved to be quite a challenge to dig up, even for wizards and their wands—but he thinks they might’ve liked it to stay so close together. He stares, not really seeing as the remains of their bodies are lowered into the earth, and clenches his jaw in an effort to keep the tears at bay.

It takes him a full minute to realise that Mrs Jowles has stopped speaking and is now looking at him with a mix of pity and expectancy. He wishes Lily were here. Or Remus. Or Peter. Or—he doesn’t let himself think of that last name.

He moves forward, toward the pile of dirt next to the hole. As their closest living relative, as their only living relative, it falls on him to cover them in the first layer of earth.

The tradition is to use your wand to lift and lower the soil into the ground, but that feels too detached, too formal, so James drops to his knees next to the pile, uncaring of staining his white trousers, and grabs a handful of the earth, letting it fall onto his parents’ urns. He does it again and when he reaches for the earth for the third time, he realises his shoulders are shaking.

Mrs Jowles touches his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything to him, as is customary, but he understands all the same. He stands up and walks back to his previous position, watching as people form a line to pay their respects.

Something wet and cold hits his palm and he looks down, his hand automatically going for his wand once he sees the big black dog by his side.

It’s been over a year but James would recognise Padfoot, with his dark shaggy fur and sharp grey eyes, anywhere, anytime and probably blindfolded, too. He looks as bad as James feels, his tail hanging so low it touches the muddy ground, his fur wet and clear eyes unusually downtrodden. He looks like he isn’t here to pick a fight at all.

James drops his hand from his wand. If Lily were here, she’d probably hex Padfoot and then him, and Remus would kick him bloody—James, that is. But they’re not, both sick at home, Lily from pregnancy and Remus from the full moon the previous day, so James doesn’t think of it twice.

Padfoot whines, so low it’s barely audible, and buts his head against James’s thigh gently. He waits a moment, as if preparing for James to bat him away and then, when he doesn’t, he sits back on his haunches and presses himself against James’s leg.

James runs a hand over the dog’s fur and finds that, though it’s wet, it is as soft as ever. He traces a pattern on top of his head and tugs on one of his ears, then gently slides his hand to Padfoot’s neck and holds on to the fur there. It must hurt Padfoot, the strength with which he does it, but he doesn’t let out one sound. “You’re lucky I don’t hex you,” he mutters.

Padfoot lets out a sound that’s between a growl and a whine and they both know that James’s threat is empty. He’s gripping the fur of his neck too fiercely for it not to be.

So they stand, Padfoot and James—not Padfoot and Prongs, not James and Sirius, because those people don’t exist together, not anymore—side by side, as they haven’t for ages, watching as people lower themselves to their knees and grab handfuls of earth to cover their parents.

At the very end, Padfoot whines again and starts forward. James lets him go, his fingers numb for a completely different reason now, watching as Padfoot crawls across his belly towards the grave and pushes the last of the soil over the grave.

James watches, unable to look away as the big dog, his oldest friend, his most trusted companion, noses the dirt, the expression on his face so inherently human, so damnably crushed, that James wants to scream.

A blink; then Padfoot ambles back to James’s side, graceful even as a dog, no trace of that emotion in his eyes now, and together they walk away from the grave.

Usually, a wake would be held after such an event, but in times like these, one doesn’t want to dally anywhere, much less gather in big groups for an extended period of time.

James is quite content to have his wake consist of getting drunk on cheap whiskey with Peter, who is due to return from his Order mission this evening, while Lily and Remus watch on with sad eyes and then get them safely to bed.

He glances at the dog next to him, his hands clenching into fists. Quite content, yes.

He waits until they’re far enough, until he’s heard enough cracks of disapparition he can be sure most of the people have gone and will not see him arguing with a dog, as so many of his classmates have. Then he whirls on Padfoot. “Shift,” he orders.

Padfoot doesn’t listen, like he never has. Instead, he sits and stares at him with big eyes, charmingly innocent enough that James stops to consider if this is just a stray mutt who looks eerily like his best friend’s Animagus form. He dismisses the thought as soon as Padfoot cocks his head—there’s far too much defiance in his expression to be canine.

“I’m not going to talk to you while you’re a dog.”

Padfoot lies down, putting his head on his front paws and looking up at him in a way that seems to say, Well, you’ll have to.

James pinches the bridge of his nose. “Padfoot…”

There are so many things he’d like to say to Sirius Black and not Padfoot, because for all of their foolish youth’s nicknames there is a definite line between the two. What in the name of Merlin’s pants were you thinking, for one. Or, how could you be so bloody stupid. Why did you do it. Then they turn softer, these things that James doesn’t dare think of even in the dead of the night. I miss you. Tell me you don’t hate me. Tell me it’s all an act. Come home.

The words bubble up in his chest, swirling and mixing and burning, but they refuse to come out, content to simmer until they’re acid that will claw its way up his throat. Instead, all that comes out is, “I’m sorry about Regulus.”

Padfoot’s ears perk up and he lifts his head, grey eyes suddenly much less clear. He yips, this small acknowledgement of his baby brother that splits James’s soul right down the middle.

James heard about the death of the youngest scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black from Moody, who made it sound like the death was a cause for celebration, the first of many bull-headed purebloods to fall, rather than a tragic loss of a boy who was barely out of Hogwarts. They hadn’t even found a body to bury, he was informed in that sharp, no-nonsense way of Moody’s. It hadn’t hit him until then, not really, how divided Sirius must be in the war.

No matter which side Sirius chose, he would end up standing opposite one of his brothers.

“I know he meant a lot to you.” James bends down and scratches behind Padfoot’s ears, where he remembers he likes it best. His heart swells and then cracks at the seams when Padfoot leans into his palm.

He pushes back to his feet. “I should go,” he says, watching as Padfoot picks himself off the ground as well. “You’re not coming with me, are you?”

Very slowly, Padfoot shakes his head.

James knew, but it still hits a part of him he didn’t even know was still within him. It tastes bitter and harsh but familiar and sweet, a word James knows all too well and doesn’t want to say out loud. He’s forgiven Sirius for a lot of things over the years, stupid and messy and cruel as they were, and he hasn’t regretted one of them. It scares him to think that he might forgive him for this too.

If Sirius wants his forgiveness at all.

He doesn’t fool himself into thinking this past hour was anything more than a momentary truce, Sirius acknowledging that he’s hurting and that he’s not going to add onto that hurt for the sake of whatever they once were—though some days, he doubts that was real, too. Or perhaps it’s for the sake of his parents, who he adored and was adored by. The next time they meet on the battlefield, neither one will hold back, he’s sure of it.

He turns and starts walking away because it somehow doesn’t feel right to simply disappear from Padfoot’s view. They’ve always had a way of poking and prodding at each other with only their actions, though it’s only ever been for fun.

He’s just about to disappear on the spot, when he hears a voice call out, “Jamie.”

That nickname—the nickname that his mother used to call him and then stopped when she realised how much it hurt him after, after, after—feels like a punch to the stomach.

He turns and finds Sirius standing where Padfoot was only moments before, his hair wild around his hollow face. His robes, dark and elegant, seem to hang off his lean frame. James wonders if that’s what he looks like, too.

A moment later, he remembers he should probably pull out his wand and his hand dives into his pocket.

But Sirius doesn’t reach for his own, though James can clearly see it’s strapped to his forearm, right over the dark brand. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “When my time comes,” he says, “mourn me.”

He vanishes into thin air just as James’s fingers close around the handle of his wand.

III. February 1980

“And remember,” Marlene says, jabbing a finger into James’s chest, “don’t start fights you can’t finish.”

“But it’s a rescue mission,” says Cyrilla Hayes before James can ask why Marlene had to point him out, her dark eyes uncertain and reproachful as only new members’ are these days.

“Exactly,” Marlene says, turning her sharp eyes on the young witch, who seems to shrink under the attention of that piercing brown gaze. People say that war hones a person, gives them an edge that later takes years to dull, but James likes to think Marlene came screaming into the world with that edge and is finally alive now that she gets to cut with it. “We don’t need other people to get caught too. You’re no use to us then.” She gives the poor girl another scrutinising look and says, “You’re with James. Podmore, with Vance. Silas, you’re with me.”

James sees Jeremy Silas, another new addition, share a look with Cyrilla, half terror, half exasperation, before she turns towards James, offering him a shy smile.

James doesn’t consider himself a war veteran, not by a long shot, but it’s astounding how he can feel the ache in his stomach, the exhaustion in his bones, both razor-sharp and ditchwater-dull, as he meets the eyes of the young witch before him. He returns her smile, though it feels thin, even to him.

“Okay,” Marlene says loudly, “does everyone know where we’re going?”

They nod.

“Good. Let’s go.”

The six of them appear on a field somewhere in the south of England. There’s nothing around them for kilometres, but for a shabby-looking barn, with a blown-off roof and more missing planks than present. It hardly looks an appropriate place for a Death Eater rendezvous point but the intel from one of Voldemort’s sympathizers tells them otherwise.

“There are three entrances,” Marlene says, voice carrying even over the wind that whips her long blonde hair about her face, covering and uncovering the patch of dark bruises along the line of her jaw. She still refuses to tell anyone where she got them and rejects any offer to have them healed. “James, take the left one, Vance the front one, we’ll take the back one.”

James salutes her and just catches the edge of her smile before she casts a disillusionment charm on herself and then Silas. He copies her, rapping his wand against the top of Wilhelmina’s head, then on himself and watches as Sturgis and Emmeline do the same.

He starts towards the left side of the barn, making sure that Cyrilla is following him. “Stay close,” he murmurs to where he thinks she is, “and save your energy for spells you really need.”

He takes her lack of response as confirmation and sends out a few prodding spells that determine what kind of spells have been cast on the barn.

They all seem to match the information the young wizard told them—the usual number of protective enchantments, a few dark curses that chill James down to his bones and a couple of jinxes—but they are also all negated by the spell the aspiring Death Eater cast on them, making them able to pass through the enchantments as easily as Voldemort himself.

The door opens with a tap of James’s wand and he slips inside, the scuff of boots on the wood telling him that Cyrilla is right behind him.

The hallway in front of them is dark, lit with blaring spheres of light that cast long looming shadows on the splintered walls. There’s a set of dark, wide doors at the far end, with golden whorls and peeling paint, light shinning through the cracks around their hinges.

James starts forward, keeping his feet light and close to the walls to make as little noise as possible, and makes sure his wand doesn’t waver.

Just as they are a meter away from the doors, a scream pierces the air, making Cyrilla let out a squeak that has him pressing a hand to her mouth and against the wall.

It takes James a few seconds to will his heart into a normal rhythm again and only then does he realise that the voice, that high, pained voice is not only screaming but begging, too.

“I don’t know, please, I don’t know any—” It breaks on the last word, barely-there sobbing replacing it.

“Finish her, Rosier,” says another voice, completely at odds with the first one—level, deep, bored. “She doesn’t know anything.”

James doesn’t see Cyrilla’s eyes, but he can guess they’re wide open and panicked by the quickness of her breath against his palm. “Are you with me?” he asks lowly.

He feels her nod against his hand, though her breath is still shaky. He wishes, not for the first time, that Lily were with him.

“Good,” he says. “Follow my lead.”

There’s another, younger voice that says, “She must know something.” There’s a crack and the woman shrieks, short and sharp. A moment of silence, then, “Crucio!”

James bursts through the door just as the woman—Wilma Hughes, an important ministry official and a witch well-known for her muggleborn pride, he can see now—starts to scream. There is no time to take a look around the room but he does manage to register the three other bodies lying haphazardly against the far wall.

“Stupefy!” he shouts and Lucius Malfoy, the only Death Eater in the room wearing a mask but easily recognisable by his long, blonde hair, raises his wand to deflect it just late enough it knocks him back a few steps.

The young Death Eater that James now recognises as Evan Rosier, just a year younger than him, attacks first, twirling his wand as he shoots a dark spell at Cyrilla, his blonde curls pasted to his forehead as he ducks Cyrilla’s retaliating curse.

There’s a third Death Eater, but James doesn’t recognise him though his pointed teeth, bared in a vicious sneer, and a long, yellow nails present an idea that James would rather not entertain. “Finally, a good meal,” he growls and pounces toward James.

He is thrown to the side by a jet of white light, landing him on the cold floor, where he lets out a sound that seems to be something between a yip and a growl.

“Good aim, Silas!” says Marlene’s disembodied voice, promptly followed by a streak of red light toward Malfoy, who, this time, does manage to send the spell hurtling toward the wall, which shatters into splinters.

“Lestrange!” he roars.

James sends a wordless spell his way, but misses when he’s forced to duck away from the grey-haired man, dancing out of his reach as he pounces on him.

“Your left, James!” Marlene shouts.

He turns just in time to put up a shield charm for a red jet of light from Rosier. James growls and slashes with his wand.

Rosier goes down, dark eyes wide as a red line appears across his belly, but not before he manages to send a badly-aimed stinging hex that hits James’s shoulder.

The third door bursts open just in time with James’s hiss, revealing an unmasked, stocky man with a shock of dark hair, holding Emmeline Vance in front of him, his wand pressed to her bleeding neck.

The movement in the room stills. Even the supposed werewolf doesn’t move.

“Drop your wands,” says Rabastan Lestrange, “or I’ll kill her.”

“Don’t,” says Emmeline, short hair soaked with blood. Her voice is slow and barely discernible. “Rescue mission.”

The werewolf, just a couple paces away from James, sniffs the air and licks his lips. “Let me have her, I’ll convince them right away.”

“Back off, Greyback,” snaps Malfoy, eyes focused on Emmeline and Lestrange.

Greyback slinks back, lips curling up in an expression James can only describe as pure hate. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs.

James takes a step forward, hands raised up but his wand still in his fingers, and finds both Lucius’s wand and Greyback’s eyes following his movement. “Rab, old chap, why don’t we talk about this rationally?” he says, voice surprisingly calm considering the situation he’s in.

Rabastan presses his wand deeper into Emmeline’s neck, drawing out a yelp from her. “Nothing to talk about,” he growls, but James can see his eyes darting around uncertainly. He’s always been a tad brighter than his brother, Rabastan, clever and uncertain where Rodolphus is more brawn than brain, and he must be coming to a conclusion that standing three against four can’t come out all that well for him, in the end.

“Look, we’ll just take what we came here for,” James says, moving one more step forward.

“Potter,” Marlene warns just as Rabastan slinks one step back, dragging Emmeline with him.

He ignores her. “You give us the prisoners—they’re of no use to you, really—and we won’t drag you to Azkaban for it,” he says instead, to Rabastan.

“Certainly,” Lucius sneers, grey eyes narrowed as they slide from James to Rabastan. “Kill her, they’re obviously not interested in keeping her alive.”

“No!” shouts Sturgis as he enters the room, a dark-haired man shuffling in front of him. His wand is pressed just below the man’s jawline, another, darker one tucked behind his ear, while he holds the man’s hand behind him. “You kill her, I’ll kill him.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, Rab,” drawls the man and James would recognise him by voice alone, even if he didn’t raise his head and reveal a face he knows all too well. “Really, a simple ‘Hey, Sirius, intruders,’ would’ve done the trick. Wouldn’t have even had to use verbs.” He blows a stray strand of his hair, shorter again by now, out of his eyes and manages to look down on Rabastan even with his hands pulled back. “Tosser,” he mutters.

“You should’ve paid more attention,” Lucius says, unimpressed. “Shouldn’t have let your guard down.”

“You told me you had everything handled,” Sirius growls. His flashing eyes find Cyrilla’s, who seems to be torn between vomiting and fainting. “Hex him,” he says and James recognises the dryness of his voice, the thinly-veiled contempt behind the words.

Cyrilla looks to James, who shakes his head at her imperceptibly.

Not yet, he mouths.

“Kill him, if you want,” Lucius drawls, mouth curving up at the glare Sirius shoots his way. It’s not hard to see parts of his old friend in that defiant look. “I don’t care much for him.”

“The Dark Lord does,” Rabastan says, biting the inside of his cheek. James can see his wand slowly dropping from Emmeline’s neck. He must be redoing his calculations.

James looks at Marlene, her disillusionment charm, like all the others’, long gone by now, who mouths a spell at him. He’s accustomed to the silent communication by now, understands it as he understands so very few things these days, so he nods and nudges Cyrilla, whispering to her, “Follow my lead.”

“Let her go,” Podmore says, voice low, as his blue eyes stare at Rabastan.

Rabastan flexes his fingers in Emmeline’s hair, eyes on Lucius. “He will be displeased—”

“Now!” Marlene shouts, a blue light already flying from her wand, Silas, James and Cyrilla’s following only moments later.

It’s impossible to tell which spell is whose but they all manage to do damage of some kind. They blow up the floor in front of the unmoving bodies, the door just behind Rabastan and one of them even manages to hit Malfoy’s hair before he can dodge fully, singeing a good part of it off.

James sees Rabastan let go of Emmeline, who stumbles forward, only half conscious, but Podmore, pushing Sirius away forcefully enough he falls down, catches her just before she hits the ground.

Podmore’s eyes catch James’s, wide and panicked, and James shouts over the sound of shooting spells.

“Go, go!”

Podmore doesn’t need further encouragement. Shooting one last spell at Malfoy, he whirls on the spot, Emmeline in his arms, and disappears.

He’s not the only one to do so. Rabastan must have decided he prefers his head intact and is gone with a crack and a swirl of dark robes, followed by Malfoy, who at least manages to get in a couple of good curses before he disapparates.

“Son of a banshee.” Sirius is lying on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cowards,” he shouts toward the space where the other two Death Eaters previously were. “Bloody cowards!”

James raises his wand to stun him, but is forced to aim it at Greyback, when he launches himself at him. The spell hits, weak and poorly-aimed as it was, but Greyback seems to be affected only for a moment, then shakes it off and lands on James, knocking his glasses off his face.

They go tumbling back on the floor, Greyback snapping his teeth, sharper and longer than a human’s should be, as James tries to keep him at arm’s length. His yellow nails try to scrape at him, and James remembers how careful Remus has always been with them, taking care not to scratch—less often bite—them deep enough to draw blood for fear of infecting them with even a fraction of his curse.

“Petrificus Totalus!” he shouts and Greyback falls back, unmoving except for his sharp eyes trying to convey his hatred for James through sheer force of will.

James grapples for his glasses and shoves them back on just in time to see Silas disappear with two of the unconscious wizards, Marlene following just a few seconds later after she’s levitated Wilma Hughes and the third wizard close enough to be able to touch them both. Cyrilla is standing above Rosier, wand pointed at him as she starts murmuring an incantation. He can barely hear the start of the spell on her lips—

“No!” It’s Sirius who shouts, which stands to reason, since he’s the only one still able to, and careens right into Cyrilla a split second before she’s finished the spell. The thick ropes she conjured up fall just a few centimetres away from Rosier.

Sirius lands in front of Rosier, his knees making a sound impact on the creaking planks, and throws his hands out, hair a mess, eyes a storm as he looks up at Cyrilla. He’s wandless, his wand lying just in front of the door, where Podmore must have dropped it, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from saying in a low, dark voice, “You’ll have to go through me.”

“Stupefy!” James shouts, slashing his wand downward, but Sirius is just as fast.

“Protego!” he says, so forcefully James is knocked back by the mere throwback of his own spell.

James sees Cyrilla send another stunning spell towards Sirius but, just like James’s, it bounces off his shield and hits the wall next to the door James and Cyrilla came through.

He stands up and walks toward the two of them. He can see up close the blood trickling out the side of Sirius’s mouth and the ring of bruises on his collarbone, far too dark to have been dealt to him today. Then the thin scar right along his cheekbone, stark even against his fair skin, and James wonders if it was Walburga who dealt it to him, or someone else entirely.

Sirius keeps his eyes on Cyrilla’s wand, still pointed right at him, although he does glance at James when he stops beside her. The right sleeve of his robes is torn, revealing the long red gash down his forearm, his hair is a mess and he looks as pale as a sheet, but still, there’s nothing but defiance in his eyes when their gazes meet.

“Stand aside, Sirius,” James says, calmly levelling his wand at him.

Sirius is still a large wound on his heart, not quite open anymore, but festering still, full of anguish and rage and something James can’t put a name to, but it’s been long enough that he has dealt with it in the best way he could—which is to say, not at all—and is ready to do what it takes to not let this end the way all their other meetings in the past two years have ended.

“No.”

James gives him no further warning. This time, his spell is silent, only a quick slash of his wand through the air.

Still, Sirius is prepared. “Protego!” he shouts again and his shield reflects red as James’s spell hits it. Cyrilla’s follows only a second later, but it doesn’t do any damage either.

Sirius’s face pales by the second, mouth pressed tightly together, a crease between his brows as he concentrates on warding off the spells that they shoot at him. He deflects each one. It’s only been a minute when he says, “You’ll have to use an Unforgivable.”

James stills. Cyrilla, her face drained of colour, does too.

“You won’t get through this, not before Evan wakes up, or Greyback frees himself, or someone comes looking for us, with these amateur spells.” His eyes are dark, darker than James has ever seen them, malice written in the corners of his mouth when they turn up and James thinks, what happened to you, what happened, whathappened. “You’ll have to use an Unforgivable.”

James’s mouth is dry. His hand, the one holding his wand, lowers just a bit.

Sirius tilts his head. “Have you ever done that, James?” he asks, voice a low drawl, the one Peter used to call a part of his pureblood mask. Doesn’t seem like it was a mask, after all. “Used an Unforgivable on someone?” He chuckles, low in a way that sends shivers up James’s spine. “You have to really mean it, you know. To control, to torture,” he says, “to kill.”

“Shut up,” James says.

“James,” says Cyrilla.

James closes his eyes. He wishes Lily were here, he does, more than he has ever wished for anything. She’s the only one that can build back up what Sirius so carelessly tears down.

“Steady hand, James,” Sirius crows. “Make your parents proud.”

Bile rises in James’s throat, unbidden and bitter, clawing and tearing, and James hates him, he hates him with every bone in his body, with every beat of his heart, with every breath he takes, he hates him, he hates him, he hates him.

Except, he doesn’t. Not really.

But Sirius always has known how precisely to get to him.

“Shut up!” he roars, wand trembling as he points it back at him.

There was a time Sirius would flinch when people yelled at him all of a sudden. He would draw back and his eyes would shutter for a few seconds, dark and distant. Only minutes later, he would act as if nothing had happened. They learned with time to not yell, but to speak in even tones, even when they were furious with him. No one ever asked him why he flinched, but they could all guess. He never did manage to convince them entirely that his home life was only a few and far between arguments with his parents.

Sirius doesn’t flinch now, only looks at him. There is something in his eyes, something beyond the humour and offence that James recognises as a part of his dear friend, softer and perhaps almost human. “Go home, James,” he says and there is none of the previous mocking in his voice now. He sounds, above all, tired. “Your wife is waiting.”

“James, we can’t—”

Cyrilla is cut off when Sirius hits the floor with the flat of his palm and shouts, “Expulso!” which cracks the wooden planks and sends up splinters of them flying up in the air. Sirius shouts something else, sounding suspiciously close to a summoning charm, but James doesn’t have the time to dwell on it—the old barn seems to have taken one spell too many today, despite how weak the last one was, and it starts collapsing in on itself, the horrendous cracks along the wooden planks almost in sync with James’s frantic heartbeat.

He grabs Cyrilla’s hand and disappears on the spot just a second after he’s heard the crack of disapparition in front of him.

The sound of the roof hitting the ground follows him, echoing in his ears, even after his knees have landed on the carpeted floor of the Order Headquarters.

*********

I. March 1983

Dodging what James is sure is a horribly dark curse from who he is pretty sure is Mulciber, he is painfully aware that he’s losing the battle, not to mention the war has probably already been lost, too.

The spell hits the stone behind him, a large chunk of which explodes into dust, showering down on James and probably turning his hair a charming example of salt-and-pepper.

Well. At least it’s a lovely day to be meeting imminent death. The birds outside aren’t chirping—even they, he supposes, are not dumb enough to come near this, which, on the other hand, says a lot about him—but at least the sun is shinning and it’s unusually warm for this time of year, so, really, James has no complaints.

He wasn’t expecting to reach twenty-three, anyway.

He fires off a spell at Mulciber, who deflects it easily and retaliates quicker than James can even think of producing a shield charm. The curse that just grazes his neck, sending a sharp stab of pain up to his brain, is a stark reminder how out of practice he is. But people tend to get lazy when they’re forced into hiding for over two years.

“Bloody bastards,” Dorcas mutters beside him and really, it’s only thanks to her, Marlene, and Gideon that James still has not only all his limbs but also his head attached to his body. Her spell hits Amycus Carrow, his mask knocked off his face a few spells back, making blood gush out his nose in a torrent.

He presses his hand to staunch the bleeding but it’s only a matter of seconds before the blood seeps through his fingers.

James doesn’t have time to see what happens to him because Alecto Carrow jumps in her brother’s space, jumping not toward Dorcas but James and he’s forced to dodge once again when she sends a green light his way.

“Alecto!” Amycus growls, looking like something out of one of those horror films Lily so adores with the blood having surrounded his mouth and now running down his chin. “We’re not allowed to kill him! The Dark Lord wants him alive!”

“Shame,” Alecto says with a pout and sends a purple light James’s way.

Diverting it towards a particularly ugly tapestry on his right, he asks his companions, “Any ideas on how to get rid of these losers?”

Gideon inflicts a gash on Dolohov’s chest before he answers, “None. There’s too much of them.”

James copies his movement on Alecto, but she dodges, quick as a snake, snickering up until the point he shoots off a spell that has her stumbling several metres back. He wants to finish it off with a stunning spell but she dodges and here they go again.

Marlene’s wand is a blur as she swings it so quickly her opponent, Rodolphus Lestrange himself, is suspended mid-air and then forcibly thrown into the wall behind him. At least she is not out of practice, even if the blood gushing from her forehead down the side of her face tells a slightly different story.

“We need to distract them,” she says, pushing back her blood-matted hair while already taking on the once again able, if a bit unsteady on his own feet, Amycus Carrow.

How exactly that was to be executed remains a mystery to James because he feels, before he sees, the approach of cloaked and hooded figures drifting down the hallway, just a few centimetres off the ground. They turn towards them, as if beckoned, moving now quicker, quicker, quicker.

The cold that seeps into his bones, that sinks into his soul, is not an unfamiliar experience but it has been a long, long time since he last felt it. His lungs can’t take in air anymore, the breath in them frozen, and as he lifts his wand to say a spell, any spell, his arm seems to be made of lead, and all he can remember is his parents’ urns lowered into the ground, Sirius’s impassive face, the dark brand on his forearm, Peter’s screams as he begs and begs not to be taken, Lily’s tear-streaked cheeks as she sobs and heaves until there’s nothing left in her anymore.

He tries to push it away, to think of Lily walking down the aisle toward him, as radiant as the sun when she beams, red hair like a fiery crown.

“Expecto patronum,” he says. A wisp of silver-blue light streams out his wand, but it’s blown away before James can even take a breath. He’ll die, oh Merlin, he’ll die, or maybe something worse, and he’ll leave everyone he’s ever loved behind.

He failed. He failed Lily and Harry and—

Harry. Harry. He thinks of Harry, of his dark mess of hair, of his bright green eyes, everything he’s ever loved, cherished, adored. Harry, roaring with laughter as he zooms around on his broom, squishing the cat to his chest, shrieking with joy as he sits atop James’s shoulders. Harry, reaching up to him to be snuggled, grabbing up after puffs of smoke from James’s wand, curled tightly against Lily’s chest and dozing off.

“Expecto patronum.”

The light looks like something now, almost, almost, but someone laughs, low and cackling, and it’s gone, this thing that gave him reprieve, that reminded him he should fight.

Should he fight?

“Expecto patronum,” someone says—it might be Dorcas, or Marlene, although probably not Gideon—but their voice is just as weak as he feels and what might have been a bird disperses.

“Take them,” says a harsh voice.

The creature is in front of him, leaning his face up to its own, or to where it might have a face, and James’s fingers loosen around his wand. His mind is no longer trying to conjure up Lily or Harry or Remus. Instead, it’s Remus’s thin body with deep gouges down his back, his sides, his legs; it’s Lily’s motionless body, hair fanned out around her face as blood runs down her face; it’s Harry screaming and sobbing, green eyes full of tears; it’s all he has ever feared.

A bright form slams into the Dementor in front of him, sharp teeth digging into the creature’s neck and throwing it away from him with such force it knocks aside several of its companions.

James blinks, feeling the warmth it radiates even from so far away, and sees the Patronus clearly only for a moment before it bounces ahead and pulls the Dementors off Marlene, Dorcas, Gideon, throwing them aside as if they are nothing more than mist. It’s large and lean, four-legged, with a long snout and pricked ears, and a thick tail, and James thinks, Moony.

Marlene whoops, weak and barely-there, but it might be the best sound James has heard all day.

“What the—” starts Dolohov, but he’s blasted back against the wall right next to Lestrange, along with the Carrows and Mulciber. They’re levitating in the air, all five of them, only a moment later, and are viciously bounced up and down, from ceiling to floor—James thinks their impact on the stone is a sound he will not forget for a long, long time, because he can physically hear their bones fracturing—exactly three times before they land in a heap of limbs and groans right next to a griffin gargoyle.

“Dear me,” says a deep, muffled voice as a new figure strolls into the hallway, his wand raised in front of him. He’s dressed in dark robes, tailored to his tall, lean form exactly, his hood drawn up just enough to reveal a sliver of night-dark hair. The Patronus, having successfully driven away all dementors, bounds toward him, wrapping around his knees and revealing his teeth in a canine smile that James hasn’t seen in many, many years, however familiar it is. Its blue-silver light illuminates the newcomer’s face—or rather, his mask, but James recognises the constellations, the moon engraved into that mask, too. “I didn’t mean to be quite so gentle with them.” He flicks his wand and the gargoyle tumbles over the limp Death Eaters with a high-pitched whoop.

None of them so much as groan.

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” Sirius says and pulls off his mask, his grin a sharp glint of teeth. Padfoot at his feet disperses as he takes a step forward, depositing his wand back into his holster, and offers James a hand. “Come on, Jamie, up and at ‘em.”

James looks at the hand in front of him, palm up, long fingers slightly crooked, and thinks back to the last time Sirius offered him a hand. It’s been years, years since that fateful night James’s world came crashing down around him and a part of him thinks that he shouldn’t take it now either. Not just because Sirius helped them now, once. It could all be a trick.

But it hasn’t been the only time Sirius has helped them, has it?

So James meets Sirius’s eyes and takes his hand. He lets him pull him up and into his arms, his own coming up to fist in the back of Sirius’s robes, as dark and elegant as ever. He smells faintly of dust and smoke, but underneath it there’s menthol and wet dog and somehow, despite all the years, all the hate, despite everything, really, that still makes him feel like he’s finally, finally home.

“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” he says into Sirius’s shoulder.

Sirius’s snort of laughter is familiar and alien at once, sharp and bark-like, but more subdued, too, as if he isn’t quite used to it anymore; that’s alright. James can reintroduce him again. He’s done it before. Sirius's fingers on the nape of his neck tighten. “I sure hope you did.”

#harry potter #sirius black #james potter #post hogwarts #first war with voldemort #lily evans #remus lupin #death eater sirius black #not really #but technically #marlene mckinnon #dorcas meadowes #ocs #in a world three degrees north

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turtle-steverogers · 5 years

Text

Mothman Unsolved

hi guys im laughing really hard cuz its 3 am and i wrote a fucking mothman au and its weirdly angsty but every time i typed ‘mothman’ i chuckled anyway lol enjoy

warnings: death, uh some panicking, a bridge collapses (this is based off the true events of the incidents yah oops)

ship: ralbert, past relmer, past spalbert

word count: 5576 im crying im so sad

November 17, 1966

“Let’s do something,” Race peered into his lover’s eyes, which were carefully masked by the darkness in the room, “Let’s go somewhere, live for a bit…” he trailed off for a moment, “be kids.”

Elmer pulled him closer to his chest, running a hand through his tangled curls, “I dunno,” he considered, heaving a breath, “M’kinda tired and it’s pretty late.”

Race propped himself onto one elbow, leaning down to capture Elmer in a searing kiss, “C’mon,” he whispered, pulling away just far enough to speak, his breath still ghosting Elmer’s lips, “Just for a bit?”

“A snake, Higgins,” Elmer said, sounding vaguely breathless, “You are a fucking snake.”

“So’s that a yes?” Race murmured, trailing a line of kisses from behind Elmer’s ear to his neck.

Elmer growled, “Fucking fine. Okay, yes.”

Race sat up, grinning as he bounced off Elmer’s bed and slipped on his shoes, “Great, let’s go!”

The drive was pleasantly invigorating as they sped along Route 62, the long stretch of road expanding in front of them. There wasn’t much in around the area, but it was theirs. Point Pleasant, West Virginia wasn’t known to be any large attraction. Rather, it was a small town of no more than 5,000 people where everyone knew everyone.

Neighbors never changed, townspeople never strayed. Everything was routine. Cookie-cutter. Imperfectly perfect in every way.

Race liked routine. He enjoyed the vacancy of the area and cherished the fact that nothing ever differed. It was oddly comforting knowing that no matter how fast life seemed to accelerate, leaving him breathless and scared, he always had the same home and group of people to surround himself with.

They sped forward, the road curving slightly as they entered the McClintic Wildlife Sanctuary. Race’s hand remained entwined with Elmer’s as he propped his feet on the dash, eyes wandering out the window and to the stars above. It was strangely warm for a November night, clear skies making way for thousands of visible stars and temperatures pushing towards the 60s. The two boys had long since abandoned their sweaters, relaxing with the windows down to allow the breeze to travel through the car.

“Ain’t we near the TNT Area?” Race asked, breaking the silence as they passed one of the old storage bunkers that scattered the area, leftover from World War 2.

Elmer hummed, glancing to the side momentarily before nodding, “I think so, yeah.”

“This place always rubbed me wrong,” Race commented as they passed another bunker, dug into the side of a ditch, “It’s downright unnerving.”

“We can turn around if ya want,” Elmer suggested, “we don’t gotta-”

He cut himself off with a gasp, involuntarily jerking the steering wheel to the side as what looked like two enormous red, glowing eyes materialized down the road. Race let go of Elmer’s hand, hastily taking his feet off the dash and placing them securely on the ground as the car’s wheels screeched against the pavement.

They were spinning. Fast. But the red eyes never seemed to move from in front of the car.

“Elmer, stop the car!” Race shouted, heart hammering in his chest. He willed himself to look away from the eyes and turned to his boyfriend, who’s gaze was transfixed on whatever was staring them down. His mouth was hanging open, but no sound was coming out. It was as if the sound had been erased from his vocal chords, leaving him utterly helpless.

“Elmer, love, look at me,” Race pleaded, reaching out to grab the steering wheel as they continued to spin at increasing speed. His stomach was flipping violently and he willed himself to hold down his dinner.

Elmer shook his head slowly, lifting one hand and pointing out the window. Fear spiked in Race’s stomach as he looked forward again, only to find that he was looking at what appeared to be a very large bird-man.

The creature was abnormally tall, landing somewhere between 7 and 8 feet. Its legs seemed to sprout far to the ground, disproportionately slim compared to its torso, which was wide and covered in feather-like fur. A large pair of wings, more similar to those of a bat rather than a bird were neatly folded behind its back and Race swallowed, utterly captivated. His eyes returned to the creature’s own and he felt his voice leave his body, brain turning to mush as he tried to form words.

Then, its wings spread and it glided upwards, wings staying stationary. Race’s awareness returned to him with an overcompensating gasp and he turned back to Elmer, who’s eyes appeared to be rolling back into his head. Race watched in horror as Elmer’s arms curled into his body as he began to convulse.

Race only had a second to scream as the car flipped on its side, Elmer’s head smashing into the driver side window. The sound of glass cracking echoed through the car, then everything went black.

November 17, 1967

Race sighed, hands curled around the mug of coffee he was nursing as he looked out over his front lawn. It was an overcast morning, the grey sky casting a gloomy mood over the area. It was as if the town was tired, sad, completely worn out.

Or maybe that was just Race.

He removed a hand from the warm, comforting ceramic of his mug and allowed his fingers to travel to his chest, where the locket that Elmer had given him still hung. He considered taking it off and opening it, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He hadn’t looked at the picture inside since before the events of a year ago.

He swallowed. It didn’t feel real. He couldn’t fathom that an entire year had already gone by since, since-

He huffed a breath, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip of the scalding drink, allowing it to ground him as the hot liquid traveled down his throat and into his chest. He winced, blowing out a breath to cool his mouth, but a part of him enjoyed the sting. It almost seemed to fill the hole in his heart that Elmer once occupied. Almost.

He stared out towards the town in the distance, watching as a traffic light turned from green to red. He flinched, glimpses of the horrifying creature and its awful eyes flashing through his mind at lightning speed. He shut his eyes, willing for the memory to leave. But he knew deep down that it would never.

He wasn’t alone in his experience, he knew that. Other sightings of that...that thing had been reported frequently throughout the year.

More reports of a creature with terrifying, red eyes, a large wingspan, and frightening speeds had been told and retold by those living in the area. It was every bit disturbing to Race as it was comforting. At least he wasn’t alone in his insanity.

He considered taking a walk, his legs itching to get up and move away from his place of solitude on his front porch. Standing, he chugged the rest of his coffee, placing the mug on the wood railing of his porch before traipsing down the steps, tucking the locket underneath his shirt as he walked off his property.

It was colder than it had been a year ago and he felt his teeth chattering as he drew his shoulder up, hands finding their way to his pockets. He watched his shoes hit the pavement, too worn to look where he was going.

It had been like that a lot recently. Small tasks seemed impossible. Simply lifting his head was too much to bear. Life seemed pointless without Elmer- his partner in crime, his other half, his secret and forbidden lover. He missed the thrill of sneaking out and stealing kisses, blind to the eyes of the town. It was a game. Seeing how far they could push their luck and limits without exposing themselves to unaccepting onlookers. But they loved it. God, did they love it.

Race pursed his lips, sucking in a breath around the lump of emotions in his throat as fierce longing thrummed through his system. He missed him so fucking much.

He hadn’t realized he was at his car until he was subconsciously pulling out his keys. He froze, catching sight of himself in the window. For a split second, he swore he could hear the sound of Elmer’s head making contact with the glass, the crack indicating the loss of his life reverberating in his brain. He shook his head, blinking. God, he was tired and it showed. Even in the shitty reflection he could see the dark shadows on his face.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, reaching down to pull open the driver side door. He climbed inside, anxiety bubbling up through his stomach and into the back of his throat, drying out his mouth and souring the taste on his tongue. It felt inappropriate to be driving then- as if he were betraying Elmer in some way.

Nonetheless, he jammed the keys into the ignition and steered the car with trembling arms onto the street. He drove numbly, unsure as to where he intended to go. That was a lie. He knew exactly where he was going.

Twenty blurry minutes later, he pulled onto the McClintic Wildlife Management Area. As the road began to curve, he slowed to a stop, nausea rolling in his chest. He could feel small spasms in his legs as anxiety turned to panic. Why did he come here? He knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Abruptly, he lashed out, fist connecting with the hard leather of the steering wheel with a shout. He could feel tears painting his face, but he didn’t do anything to stop them. He needed this, goddamnit. Sobs ripped out of him- loud and agonising. He hunched forward, pulling at his hair as he tried to retain some semblance of control. But the grief was ruthless and all-consuming and he soon lost himself in it.

It was only when his sobs slowed to hiccups that he noticed the other car parked not far down the road. All breath left his body as he caught sight of the figure next to the car and he froze, eyes widening in fear. Not fucking again.

The figure turned and relief flooded Race’s mind as he recognized the shock of distinguishable red hair. It was a guy he’d seen around town. He was fairly certain he’d been in his homeroom the year previous.

The guy seemed to freeze momentarily as well when he caught sight of Race’s car, but he, too, relaxed when he realized that he was safe. They held eye contact through the windshield for an indiscernible amount of time. Bloodshot eyes peering into bloodshot eyes, a strange understanding emanating from one man to the other.

On a whim, Race turned off his car and climbed out. The guy kept his eyes trained on him, curiosity visible on his face. Race steeled himself, tentatively approaching him.

They stood, face to face, searching separately for what to say.

“It was here, right?” Race asked, voice low and sad, “You lost them here, didn’t you?”

The guy nodded, “Driving here at night. Almost a year ago. Saw that...that thing and then we swerved and the car flipped and...he was gone.” The guy’s eyes widened as he seemed to realize that he had just outed himself.

“It’s okay,” Race said, quickly, “I am too. Queer, that is.”

The guy’s tense shoulders seemed to deflate at Race’s words and he leaned back against his car, crossing his arms at his chest.

Race bit his lip, hovering awkwardly for a moment before leaning against the car as well, mirroring the guy’s position.

“What did you see first?” The guy asked, apprehension thinly veiled in his tone.

Race hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking to the spot where he’d first seen it.

“The eyes,” he muttered.

The guy nodded, “Big and red, right?”

“Mhm.”

Silence fell between them and Race forced himself to look away from the road where if he tried hard enough, he could still see the creature’s horrifying form. His stomach lurched as the whip-lash inducing, spinning motion of the car seemed to ghost over him. He shivered.

“Fuck that thing,” the guy said, malice biting at his words, “Fuck it for doing this to us.”

Race nodded, “honestly.”

More silence, then, “What’s your name?”

“Hm?” Race hummed, distracted, “Oh, uh, Antonio, but folks ‘round here call me Race.”

“Ah, you’re a Higgins, right?” The guy asked.

Race nodded, “Yup. What about you?”

“Albert,” the guy said, “Dasilva.”

“Right, right,” Race said, recognizing the last name, “Your dad owns the auto shop, right?”

“Yeah,” Albert said, “Gonna be mine soon.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah…”

Before he could help himself, Race asked, “Who was he?”

Albert looked at him, raising his eyebrows and Race stared back, guilt encompassing him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Race hastily exclaimed, “You don’t hafta-”

Albert smirked sadly, “It’s alright,” he interrupted, “It was, uh, Conlon. Sean Conlon, you know him?”

Race grimaced, “Went by Spot, right?”

“That’s the one,” Albert said.

“Yeah,” Race said, “was in my class for a few semesters in junior high.”

Albert set his jaw, “Yeah. Good guy. Kinda bruting, but sweet all the same,” he let himself look back towards the trees, deep in thought, “What about you?”

Race looked down at his sneakers, scuffing the ground with his toe, “Elmer, uh, Elmer Kasprzak?”

“Ah,” Albert sighed, “Yeah, his dad was a frequent customer. Also a good guy.”

“Definitely,” Race agreed, a heaviness hanging in the air between them.

“I miss him.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I’m gonna find that thing,” Albert said, his voice taking on a new sort of determination, “and kill it.”

November 20, 1967

“Dasilva!”

Race approached the auto shop, sandwich bag in hand. He could see Albert’s legs poking out from underneath a 1964 Pontiac GTO.

A loud bang, followed by a resound, ‘shit-fuck!’, sounded from underneath the car as Albert apparently tried to sit up. A moment later, he slid out on his back, face screwed up in pain as he rubbed his forehead, where presumably, he had hit it against the car.

His eyes lit up nearly imperceptibly when he noticed Race and he smiled, beckoning him over, “Hey, Higgins, what’s up?”

“Ah, nothing. But here,” Race crossed to him, reaching into the sandwich bag and pulling out a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, “I broughtcha some lunch.”

Albert took the sandwich, eyebrows furrowing as he looked up at Race, something akin to amusement dancing in his eyes, “Thanks, but why?”

Race shrugged, pulling out his own sandwich and unwrapping it, “Dunno, really, just thought it’d be nice.”

Albert faltered for a moment, sandwich halfway to his mouth, “Yeah?”

“Eat it before it gets cold,” Race said, pointedly.

Albert chuckled, taking a bite of his sandwich, “Alrighty, thank you.”

Race chewed thoughtfully as he looked around the shop, taking note of the organized clutter. Some cars were suspended from the ceiling, while others were propped on the ground, but every car was in a different condition. Some looked pristine and new, complete with a shining gloss exterior. Others were completely wrecked to the point of unrecognizable, but every single one held a story.

“Do you like working in here?” Race asked, crumpling up the aluminum foil that previously held his toastie.

“Love it,” Albert said, scanning his eyes fondly around the garage, “I dunno, it’s just...calming, you know? Fixing things.”

“Calming how?” Race pushed, a strange part of him yearning to learn more about Albert- to hear what he had to say.

Albert took a measured breath, sorting through his thoughts, “It’s just,” he shook his head, placing his mostly-finished sandwich into the bag, “I’ve always loved it, like, working with my hands and being able to blow off steam that way. But after what happened last year with Sean, I...I was so lost and I felt so broken, you know?” he took a deep breath, composing himself, “The first thing I did was take the wrecked car here,” he pointed to the farthest corner from them where an old 1959 Ford Fairlane was displayed. The sides were still dented in some places, but altogether, it looked pretty stable, “Fixed it up as best I could and, I don’t know, it calmed me down.”

Race studied the car, letting the words sink in, “Was the car his?”

“Yeah,” Albert sounded distant, lost, “He loved that thing more than life itself. I don’t even know why, but it was sweet,” he paused for a moment, “I love it, too. It just feels like the last bit of him that I still got.”

Race fiddled with his locket, relating all too well, “Yeah,” he breathed.

Albert looked towards him, fixating on the locket for a moment, “That your piece of him?” he asked, nodding to it.

Race pressed the cool metal to his cheek, “Yeah.”

“Does it have anything inside?”

“Picture of us,” Race said, “But I haven’t opened it since before...yeah.”

Albert watched him carefully, “Open it when you’re ready.”

Race looked at him, a lopsided smile plastered on his face, “I will.”

They held eye contact, swimming in empathy, warmth filling their chests. For the first time in months, the cavity that Elmer had left in Race’s heart seemed to mend the tiniest bit.

November 25, 1967

A loud knocking at his front door awoke Race from his nap. He kept his eyes shut, allowing for his senses to return and distantly willing for whoever it was to go away. But whoever it was was adamant and the knocking only grew stronger.

Groaning, Race pulled himself off the couch and scrubbed at his face, stumbling towards the door, “M’coming, m’coming.”

As soon as he opened the door, a newspaper was thrust in his face. Race’s eyes snapped open, his heart leaping into his chest momentarily at the sudden movement, but he calmed down when he saw Albert’s red hair peeking over the paper.

“Jesus,” he croaked, voice still dripping with sleep as he grasped the newspaper, moving it away from his face, “hello to you, too.”

“Just read it,” Albert demanded, stepping inside the house without prompting and pointing at the headline, “there was another encounter with the thing last night. Some lady saw it in her yard.”

Race raised his eyebrows, speed-reading the article, “Mothman?” He said, cocking his head as he read the new term for the creature.

“Yeah, that’s how she described it, but think about it,” Albert’s hands were waving wildly at this point, “I don’t know exactly what you saw, but a moth isn’t so far off.”

Race looked up at Albert, realization dawning on his face, “Holy shit, you’re right.”

Albert nodded, an apprehensive glint to his eyes, “I say we go try and find the goddamn thing-”

“What!?” Race yelped, “Are you fucking insane-”

Albert held up a hand, silencing him, “Lemme finish. I say we find the damn thing and kill it.”

Race ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him to kick Albert out of his house and demand he never return with such idiotic ideas, “How would we even find it?”

“Okay, okay, so,” Albert pushed past Race, plopping down on his couch, “This thing is supposed to be a moth, right?”

Race eyed him warily as he sat down in the armchair across from him, “Yeah?”

“And moths are attracted to light, yeah?”

Race nodded slowly, “yeah...where are you going with this?”

“Shh, listen,” Albert’s leg was bouncing rapidly at this point, “we were both driving at night when shit went down,-”

“Oh my god, it was drawn to our headlights,” Race concluded, adrenaline ripping through his veins as the puzzle seemed to complete itself.

Albert clapped, a cheeky grin spreading across his face, “Exactly.”

Race leaned forward, holding his head in his hands for a moment, “Okay, how do we kill it?”

Albert seemed to stop short, “I’m not...entirely sure, but my dad’s got a couple guns, so that’s worth a shot?”

Race mulled it over for a moment, “Okay, yeah, I’ll do it, but I’ll need a bit to think this through.”

“Course, yeah,” Albert said, easily, “Come and get me when you’re ready.”

December 1, 1967

Race buttoned his jacket with vibrating hands, trying his best to mentally prepare for that night. He’d agreed to meet with Albert at the auto shop at 8:00 pm to search for the mothman, but he didn’t think he’d ever truly be ready.

He tried to focus on the grounding weight of his locket against his skin as he drove to the auto shop, his recollection of travel growing fuzzy as he neared it. The anxiety that had been present throughout the day was in full swing by the time he pulled up and he was grateful that Albert had offered to drive them to the TNT Area. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle being behind the wheel.

The prospect of willingly searching for the mothman seemed stupid, as if they were putting themselves directly in its clutches- walking into the belly of the beast. But closure seemed appealing and as terrified as Race was, the slim chance that he’d get to kill the godforsaken monster left a giddy feeling inside him.

Albert was sitting on the hood of his car, head tilted towards the sky. He didn’t look at Race as he approached, but he did shift over slightly, leaving room for him on the blue metal. Race clambered up next to him, crossing his legs under him as he followed Albert’s gaze to the sky.

“Stars,” Albert muttered, his voice low.

Race felt overwhelmed as he drank in the view of thousands of blinking specks, “Yeah.”

“There were stars that night, too,” Albert said, “So many of them.”

“Same with my night,” Race said, “It was a beautiful night, warm-”

“-Clear-”

“-Free-”

“-Perfect.”

They looked at each other, eyes glistening and hearts hammering.

“I’m scared,” Race admitted, breath hitching.

Albert reached out and cupped Race’s jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. Race reached up and grabbed his wrist, holding on for dear life.

“I am, too,” Albert whispered, “Let’s do this for them.”

Race nodded, “For them.”

The drive was completely silent, save for the sound of both boy’s slightly too fast breathing. The nervous energy in the car was nearly suffocating, but Race willed himself to take a few exaggerated breaths as they neared the TNT Area.

The panic that had resided within him left a lump in his throat, threatening tears, and he gripped the center console, trying to calm down. Albert was chewing on his bottom lip, a breathless sigh leaving him every so often. It was clear that he was also barely keeping it together.

Somehow, Albert’s hand found Race’s and they grasped each other tightly, eyes never leaving the dark road ahead of them.

Then, they saw them. The glowing, red eyes, stark and shining in the bitter, black night. The world muted for a moment as Race’s stomach seized up, utter and absolute dread eating him from the inside out.

“Fuck,” He heard Albert breathe, “Shit, fuck.”

“I see it, too,” Race said, finding himself unable to look away from the enthralling eyes. It was as if the creature cast a spell on him, preventing him from wavering his stare.

All of a sudden, the creature took off, gliding flawlessly vertically. Albert cursed again, accelerating the car until it was pushing 95 mph. Race lost track of the red eyes, but soon, a creeping feeling tingled the back of his neck and he turned to the side.

Horror slammed him so hard he couldn��t even scream as he made eye contact with the creature, directly outside his window. Albert must have seen it, too, because a moment later, he shouted a curse and made a sharp turn, hoping to lose the mothman.

But it stayed on their tail, never losing speed as it ran beside their car.

“Albert, fucking speed up, fuck!” Race shouted, chest heaving as he tried not to throw up.

“I know, I’m trying!” Albert hissed, a panicked lilt to his tone. He sounded as terrified as Race felt.

Albert made a sudden U-turn, screaming as he tried to keep the car under control. They sped along for what could have been hours, but in reality was a few minutes, until the red eyes disappeared, no trace of the creature in sight.

Albert slammed the breaks, frantic cries escaping him. In the commotion, their hands had parted and Race reached a shaking hand over to Albert. Albert immediately clasped their hands together and lifted Race’s knuckles to his lips, trying to control his breathing.

“Hey,” Race murmured, trying to keep his own tears at bay, “Hey, look at me.”

Albert shook his head, breaths coming out short as he continued to cry.

Race reached his free hand up to brace the back of Albert’s neck, which was slick with sweat. He massaged it soothingly, taking a few deep breaths of his own.

“Shhh,” He cooed, squeezing Albert’s hand, “We’re safe, I promise.”

“We’re not, though,” Albert interjected, finally looking at Race. Their terrified gazes met each other’s, “We’re not as long as that thing is alive and we didn’t get a chance to fucking kill it.”

Race felt his adrenaline ebb away and he choked, “I know,” he said, “I-” he shook his head, “I don’t think we can kill it.”

Albert looked back towards the street, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

December 10, 1967

Race and Albert’s legs were tangled together under warm sheets, shadows dancing across the walls in Race’s bedroom. They had spent nearly every night since their latest encounter together, too paranoid to be without the other’s company.

Race stared at the ceiling, heart too heavy to drift off. Albert was resting across his chest, fast asleep and looking at peace, something Race was thankful to see. Neither of them had spoken about the incident, but the dark cloud of apprehension followed them relentlessly wherever they went.

Questions of their safety hung in the air, withering their sanity from the inside out, but they tried their best to move from day to day, carefully avoiding any news of further encounters.

The town was in chaos. Everyone had their stories and no one was safe. The mothman didn’t discriminate. Everyone was fair game for a sighting and it seemed that as the days crept along, nights passing quickly, more and more people fell prey to its peril.

A soft whimper from Albert brought Race back to the present. Concerned, he peered down at Albert, who’s face seemed to be screwed up in fear. He ran his fingers through his hair, hoping to calm whatever dream he was having, but his condition only worsened.

With a gasp, Albert awoke, his arms tightening around Race briefly before he scrambled to a sitting position. He looked wildly around the room, pupils blown wide in panic as he neared hyperventilation.

“Whoa, hey,” Race said, crawling forward and placing a hand on Albert’s knee, “He’s gone, he’s not here.”

Albert shook his head vigorously, gulping in air in an attempt to gain oxygen, “Water,” he rasped.

“You want water?” Race asked, gently.

“No,” Albert was clawing at his throat, “There was,” another gasp, “So much- fuck- water.”

“Where? Wait, you know what? Tell me in a second,” Race pulled Albert’s hand away from his throat, massaging his palm, “Gather yourself and then tell me what happened, yeah?”

Albert nodded, tucking his head between his knees as he tried to calm down. Race crouched next to him, diligently rubbing a hand down his back and continuously kneading his fingers until he was significantly calmer.

After a few minutes, Albert lifted his head, dazedly looking around before slumping into Race’s chest.

Race held him tightly, “What about water?”

“I was drowning,” Albert said, voice worn, but scared, “it was so cold...and...dark and there were...presents everywhere and...I don’t know. I couldn’t breathe.”

Race squeezed his bicep reassuringly, “It was only a dream, alright? You’re safe.”

“But what if I’m not?”

Race shifted so that he was looking into Albert’s eyes, “You are, I promise, okay?”

Albert glanced to the side, “okay.”

“Wanna try sleep again?”

Albert tucked his head into the crook of Race’s neck, “Please.”

Race guided them so that they were laying down and situated Albert back onto his chest, “I’ve got us.”

December 15, 1967

Race was running, feet hitting the ground hard as he willed himself to go faster. He needed to get to the Silver Bridge, he needed to get to Albert, he needed to find him before it was too late.

Stories of those who had dreamed of awful occurrences, which were soon followed by tragedy, had been frequenting the news lately and each and every one had a common thread: those who had these dreams had seen the mothman mere days before.

As Race neared the bridge, the sounds of cars honking reached his ears and he froze, awestruck as the clutter of cars that lined the bridge from end to end. The seemed to be stacked horizontally, bumper to bumper. The road wasn’t visible beneath the vehicles and Race’s gaze shifted through the crowds. Albert was somewhere in there, and he had to get to him before something bad happened.

He could feel it. The ominous lurking of catastrophe blowing in the frigid, Winter breeze. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going to happen, but it wasn’t anything good.

He stepped foot on the bridge, beginning to weave his way through the cars, but stopped dead when an awful creaking sound rang out directly above him. His head slowly turned up, mouth hanging open as he scanned the cluster of steel cables. They were taut, vibrating, working against every ounce of physics to stay put.

“Shit.” Race swore, head snapping back down. The goddamn bridge was going to collapse.

He began to run, pounding on the windows of pedestrians as he passed different cars, shouting for everyone to, “Run! Get out of your cars! Get off the bridge!”

Whether or not people listened, Race didn’t know. His mind seemed to tunnel on one target as he searched feverishly for Albert’s car, which was nowhere in sight.

The bridge gave a sickening groan and people screamed. Race willed himself not to stop running as he slid over hoods of cars and snaked between those who were running.

The sound of the bridge straining grew louder and Race could feel the panicked sobs rising in his throat. He couldn’t do this again, he couldn’t lose someone else.

He clamped his hands over his ears as a deafening crack echoed behind him. It was happening now. The bridge was going to fall.

He was distantly comforted by the fact that Albert clearly wasn’t in the center of the bridge, but he couldn’t help but look back as the middle crashed downwards, bringing cars down with it.

He gasped, unable to look away as the crevice seemed to grow, steel and metal barreling towards the water. It was nearing him, he was going to fall with it. He was going to-

A pair of strong arms wrapped around his torso as the bridge around him crashed down and he could hear a scream that matched his own echoing behind him as he plummeted towards the inky, black water.

The water was freezing and he could feel his lungs constrict as he was submerged. He kicked out, turning his body so that he was facing the person holding him.

Albert. Thank god.

Race held him back, both boys using conjoined efforts to kick to the surface, away from cars and bridge debris. Christmas presents floated around them, and suddenly, Albert’s dream became clear. It seemed to take hours, but eventually they made it to shore on the Point Pleasant side of the bridge.

They collapsed on the grounding, chests heaving and bodies shivering as adrenaline seeped away, leaving them cold and scared.

Then, they were hugging, holding on for dear life as they came down from the high of yet another near death experience.

“Jesus Christ,” Albert muttered into his ear, “Did that really just happen?”

They broke apart and Race held his face in both hands, numb fingers brushing over blue parted lips, “I don’t fucking know.”

Albert surged forward, capturing Race in a kiss. For a moment, Race felt warm, a spark in him igniting- a simple flame burning against the bitter cold. He kissed back, trying to convey every ounce of love and fear and sheer understanding into that singular action.

They were alive. They were safe.

January 1, 1968

Albert and Race trudged through the snow outside Race’s house, watching as their new adopted dog, Queso, bounded in front of them.

The events of the year previous still followed them like a shadow, but they were grounded. Since the collapse of the Silver Bridge, mothman encounters had ceased, no longer plaguing the people of Point Pleasant.

Things were far from okay, but as Albert and Race healed together, their love grew stronger.

They were okay.

anyway i guess thats what i get for watching too many mothman documentaries this weekend lolol

had to add queso in there somewhere

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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lupusxdei-a · 4 years

Text

self para: birds of a feather

It turned out that there was no easy way to do it. Nari could have rehearsed it all she wanted - she could have spent hours practicing in front of the mirror, imagining that the person in the reflection was not herself but the tall, strict figure of her father as he listened intently to what she had to say (as a matter of fact, she did try this at some point, but just picturing Minjoon in that mirror made her nervous), or she could have rolled over in her bed at night, going over all the appropriate and effective ways to speak with her dad, but none of it was going to prepare her for what she was supposed to tell him and what she wanted to ask him. Hi, pops, how are you doing, you see, recently I met this amazing man and he's a student, you know, and they're gonna be on a break soon so we wanted to make good of the holidays and I was thinking if we could borrow the keys to the mountain house, it's nice there and we could go ski? Make good - what was that supposed to mean? No, don't be a dumb ass, Kim Nari, that sounds...Well, it doesn't sound like something you want to say.

Hi, dad - I got some days off and I wanna take some friends up to the cabin...No. Minjoon would know she was lying, he read her like an open book. She had learned it from him, after all - the art of hoodwinking and how could a student ever fool their teacher? She needed to be honest and open about it - that was what she was supposed to do. That was what she always did with Minjoon, with Pride who loved her more than he would ever want to say out loud. And it wasn’t like she was running off to Las Vegas to elope with an angel or some other kind of nemesis of a demon. It wasn’t like she had got herself knocked up and was now seeking a blessing. It wasn’t like she was about to do something reckless, or ruin her life. She wanted to go away with a boy she loved and Nari couldn’t see why Minjoon would say no.

Hi dad. His name is Baylor Park. I know, I haven’t told you much about it yet, but honestly, I haven’t had the chance. I wanted to ask...you know that—

In the midst of her rushing thoughts, Minjoon opened the door of his condo and Nari found herself blurting out a “Hi, dad! I’m here,” before she could realize just how stupid that sounded. Of course she was there. She had called him that very morning and told him she was coming; and she had knocked the door at noon sharp, just when she said she would come; and she was standing right there in front of him, so of course she was “here”.

“I can see that,” Minjoon said with an amused tone of voice and let her in.

After taking a deep breath, Nari walked in and tried to act as normal as possible - she removed her shoes and hung her coat, she then proceeded right into the living room and, to her disappointment, found no sight of Taemin or Hoxmarch. If either of them had been there, she might have found some comfort, an anchor of a sort, or more courage to just get right the Hell to the point, but she was alone with Minjoon, and his oppressive presence had already started to take a toll on his fidgety younger daughter. Her dad was, she noticed, oddly quiet at first. He had disappeared off to the kitchen as soon as she made herself comfortable, and he came back several, abnormally long minutes later carrying two bottles of soju and some peanuts. He placed them on the table, pulled in his armchair and then sat right down, crossed his legs, and then popped the bottles open. “Well?” he asked while handing her one. “I didn’t expect to see you before the New Year.”

“Yeah, me either,” Nari said while taking the bottle. She had last seen her dad a day after her birthday - it had been three days ever since. The year was almost over, barely a couple of days separating the world from the next decade and while that seemed to fill everyone else with a healthy dose of anticipation and enthusiasm, Nari remained indifferent at the prospect of fireworks and sunrise-watching and welcoming the new rotation around the Sun. She looks at the soju bottle before taking a small sip, savoring the flavor. “I-uh guess I wanted to see how you’re doing? We didn’t catch up all that much the other day.”

Minjoon takes a slow sip from his own bottle, then lays it on the table and grabs some peanuts - about half a handful - and starts to clean them one by one. “I’m always doing the same, you know that. Questioning my damn existence with all the brothers - and sister - festering in my vicinity and seeking cheap, short thrills. Same old. same old.”

Nari snorted. “You haven’t come to the races lately, what’s up with that?” Already, she had started to relax. She could practically feel the knots in her muscles releasing, and her body becoming lighter as she grabbed for some peanuts as well.

“I’ll come when I come. They’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to work today?”

“No,” she shook her head and began to munch on the snack, avoiding eye contact still. “I took a few days off from the repair shop, but I may pick up some shifts at the bar, I’m kinda low there.”

“Kim Nari,” Minjoon suddenly says, shifting in his seat. As soon as he calls out to her, she looks up at him finally and when she does, he locked her in a stare-down, with no intentions of letting her gaze fall away from him. “You didn’t come here to shoot the breeze, so why not just get to it.”

“I.”

“Does it have anything to do with Whatshisname?”

Ever so slowly, Nari felt at least a part of her color fade from her face. She stopped chewing and swallowed thickly, watching Minjoon’s face intently. He was definitely talking about Baylor, though she had no idea how. Had Hoxmarch spilled the beans finally? No, probably not. Right? Was her dad upset, indifferent or pleased? She had no idea, could have been all, neither or any one of those. “Baylor. His name is Baylor. How did you...?”

“When I came to your place, I saw a lovely pair of a man’s gloves in the hallway and I’m sure you don’t own those. Plus, that whole place smelled like what might be a human, though I’m not willing to bet my life on it. It also smelled like cologne, slightly.”

“Kyungsoo was there on my birthday, you know, it could have easily been him.”

“Are you being a smart-ass right now?” Minjoon asked, his voice devoid of any tone or emotion, and frankly, this startled Nari more than it would ever scare her had he went off on a shouting rant. Minjoon rarely, if ever, shouted though - as a matter of fact, Nari had never once heard him raise his voice at her, yet there was always something eerie about how flat and icy his intonation could get, how bereft of any emotion or tangibility it could become that she would have preferred him getting aggressive or loud over that at any time.

“I’m...I’m not being a smart-ass.” She lets out a sigh and finally moves a bit on her seat. Before then, she was frozen, unsure what to do with her own body. She swallows the rest of the peanuts in her mouth, and washes them down with more of the alcohol, downing a handsome amount of it before she can bring herself to speak again. “I was going to tell you but calling you and saying Hi dad I have a boyfriend now sounds kind of weird, don’t you think?”

“You called me when you beat the crap out of that girl back in middle school, saying Hey, dad, uh, I broke someone’s nose. Do you really think news about someone you’re seeing is worse than that?”

“No, I,” touche. She really did do that. So, why had she hesitated to tell him about Baylor? She was confident that he would like Baylor - and possibly vice versa. Hell, even Changseon liked Baylor, which was, admittedly, a thought she needed to keep to herself. Minjoon couldn’t know, not yet, what actually happened three weeks ago. “Look. He’s a really great guy. His name is Baylor Park. He’s a med student. He’s American, actually, but he lives here right now. Long story. But, he’s really...great.” She was becoming nervous again, as evidenced by the way her hands began to slowly fidget. “You’ll really like him.”

“Maybe I will. I mean this is the first time you’re actually...dating, isn’t it? So, not like I have a banana for scale, anyone to compare him with,” Pride’s voice softened by now and he was back to shoving peanuts in his mouth and nibbling them.

“Now you’re being a smart-ass. Or just an ass.”

“I’m often told that.”

“Well, um...School holidays are coming soon and we wanted to do something with it, you know? Before he’s drowning in his studies and I have to continue working as hard as I usually do.”

“Is he human?”

“And- What? No, he’s not.”

“What is he?”

“He’s a...mutant.”

Minjoon raises an eyebrow. “So, he’s mortal?” A mutant? What was that supposed to mean? Was he born a human and then mutated into something else or was he born into it? Or was he...created...Minjoon felt like someone splashed him with a bucket of cold water when he thought of the word “created”. Could this boy have come from that strange and unknown mutation the immortals had caught wind off some decades ago? Could it be the same gene that Lust himself had hooked his claws in two decades ago? The mutation that had...No, impossible. It was a coincidence, it had to be. Where was that brat of Lust’s anyway? Whatever was born out of that union, whoever ran around the world with Lust’s gene in them, remained off radar God knew how and Lust was unwilling to tell a soul where the half-blood was.

“He is. I guess. That’s beside the point right now. What I’m trying to ask you is-”

“Does he know you’re not quite mortal yourself?” Minjoon’s questions came one after the other, without much break or predictability, and Nari was increasingly frustrated with it, her thoughts getting sent off the rails constantly.

“No. Yes, I don’t know!” she lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dad, will you listen to me for a moment?” It was a sensitive subject, one that Nari wasn’t ready to even think about more deeply. Her being...mortal or immortal, no one knew, and Baylor having a potentially normal lifespan was a topic, and issue, for a whole other chapter and she was far too scatter-minded and evasive of the topic to even approach it with Minjoon.

“I’m listening. He has holidays soon and you two want to make good of it.”

Make good of it. Nari gave Minjoon a deadpanned look. She really should have just used the word herself, clearly. “Yeah,” she hears herself say. “It’s holidays, so I was wondering...Do you have plans to go to the uh...mountain house?”

“No. Taemin and I are going to Oahu next week.”

“Lovely! Do you think you could, uh...borrow...me...the...keys?” There’s a timid, embarrassed even, smile on her lips as she asks him, and the moment the words leave her mouth her cheeks and ears start to become burning red.

There’s a heavy moment of silence between father and daughter. Nari thought that if she tried hard enough, she would be able to hear Minjoon’s heart beat, or the next-door neighbour breathing from how deafeningly quiet the condo had become, but the spell is broken quickly when Minjoon’s mouth curls into a mischievous smirk and he un-crosses his legs and lets out a little cackle. “Sure. Nari, as much as I hate to admit it, you’re an adult. You can do whatever you want, with whoever you want, but honestly, I’d much prefer if I know where you are while you’re doing it. At least in this case.” Baylor Park, American, mutant, the words are still going through his head. There were no such things as coincidences in this world, he thought, yet...he was willing to entertain this one if the universe would allow him. “You are planning to introduce us, aren’t you?”

Nari’s body becomes lighter than before as she heard his approval and she is able to laugh a little as she nods, in excitement. “Of course I am. As soon as....Well, I don’t know, how long you staying in Hawaii? Maybe after the winter break, I’ll bring him over to Lady Xian for a dinner, how does that sound?” And as long as Hoxy doesn’t tell him that he has already met Baylor, this should work real fucking swell.

“Frankly, I’m a bit offended Kyungsoo got to meet your beau before me but I guess I can let it slide this time,” Minjoon says leaning back against his seat. “I trust you know what you’re doing.”

The redness in her head increased, along with the heat, and Nari coughed a little. She reached for her drink and took a big sip before nodding. “I do, yeah.”

“I meant...what you’re doing, regarding him. And you.”

Oh. She looks up at Minjoon, her eyes filled with a kind of melancholy. “I think that I do. It’s too early to talk about some things. I’m just twenty-two, he’s just twenty. We’ve got a life ahead of us.”

“I suppose you do,” he shrugs. “Hey, I didn’t know you were into younger men.”

“Dad!” Nari reaches for a small, decorative pillow and throws it right at his face, though Minjoon catches it before it ruins his perfect hairstyle.

“What?” he asks through another chuckle. “My vessel is also...was also younger than your mom, so I see where that comes from.”

“You’re fucking gross.”

“Yeah...” He offers his daughter an adoring smile. “I’m told often.”

#strangexevolutions #( — self para: nari x minjoon. )#( — nari x development. )

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thenixkat · 5 years

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Animorphs notes: 23

Book 23

Narrated by Tobias

No you damn furry, you are a human wearing a bird body

Reasons why choosing to like as a wild animal is a terrible idea

And choosing to not do shit about the situation either way

Am I really supposed to give a damn if he doesn’t?

Tobias you are still a damn wimp

That’s assuming that no other forms of morphing tech exist anywhere else in the whole ass universe

Tobias, you decided that you wanna live as a wild ass animal. No one’s making you do this.

Tobias killed by rabbit inflicted injuries

Tobias is starving

Too proud for roadkill, other than now

Is this dumb motherfucker really gonna eat it on the damn road and not pull it somewhere safer?

Rachel asks if the random hawk eating roadkill is Tobias

Tobias is supremely embarrassed and stops eating. Not that starving i guess

Rachel has news for Tobias

Rachel interrupts Tobias b4 he can get into the pity fest

Tobias thinks Rachel being genuinely angry or upset is funny.

Why did Rachel phrase it like that? Are you not friends with Melissa anymore Rachel?

I just wanna get to the hork-bajir not stand around listening to Tobias bitch about shit he chose to do

Human brains are the best around, ugh

This is why parrots are better than hawks

You could call child protective services

You could be held in a secure, airtight metal box

You should still call child protective services

Tobias is followed

Tobias decides not to follow up with the rest for reasons

This is book 23. Tobias has only been to the valley twice?!

What? All escaped horks are supposed to just know where this place is? Who am I kidding the writers don’t give a damn about the hork-bajir or their agency

The valley has watchkeepers who definitely watch the skies

Shut the fuck up Tobias

Why do they need the help pf the Animorphs?

Bek is missing

So Tobias only goes and hangs with the horks to make himself feel better and otherwise just ignored their existance. All the while insulting them in his head

Tobias curses

There’s no way in hell that these people never heard cursing in English before

Bold of Tobias to assume that he’s smarter than any of the hork-bajir

So yeah, canon. The hork-bajir free the fucking hork-bajir.

Tobias ain’t make yall free, you made yall free.

So there’s a yeerk facility in the next town over

I wouldn’t tell the Animorphs about my covert operations either. I know how they operate

Confirmation that horks can track scents

Tobias, if you fucking wanted to you could morph human and have human contact. You’ve once again chosen not to

Wouldn’t the first thing someone would assume a hork-bajir is would be a person in costume? A monster? A cryptid? A new species of reptile?

The fuck is so ugly and deformed about a hork-bajir? Just cause yall squeemish petty fucks doesn’t mean everyone else is.

Have I mentioned that Tobias creeps me out when he talks about Rachel sometimes? He comes off like a stalker

Flight is learned not instinct

Man, wouldn’t it have been cool if Loren disappeared b/c she went off the grid to fight the yeerks?

Too bad none of yall have flying morphs with the stamina to fly long distances in straight lines

That’s incredibly suspiscious and abnormal bird behavior

Yeah, I’m not surprised Cassie would be the kinda dumb jackass that would release the animals from a roadside zoo without any fucking step 2 as to where the animals are going to go

I’m pretty sure 3 ft tall isn’t a damn new born. Young certainly, but up and about on his own definitely not a baby.

Bek was captured and put in a roadside zoo

The animorphs actually do their homework

Ax is distressed by what’s in the science text book

I’m not surprised that this is only the second time Tobias actually uses a useful morph like hork-bajir in the 10 fucking books since he last used it

Rachel decides to wreak the place more than necessary b/c like Cassie she is shit at thinking ahead. These kids don’t give a damn about the actual lives of these animals

Like I’m going to listen to the scientific opinions of someone we know didn’t pay attention in his xenobiology class

That means that atleast those 3 yeerks hears Rachel shouting about dumbo-zilla in thoughspeak

Also, idk man, yer wearing Ket Halpak’s face. She could have an entire reputation you don’t know about

Boo! Let Ket have a reputation as more than just a renagade rebel.

I am reminded of teh fact that if these hosts were anything other than human the animorphs woulda torn them into rags. Fucking hypocrits

Bek is capable of thought speak. While I know this is a fuck up, its more fun to imagine that he’s just a random psychic mutant hork-bajir

Also lying to Bek

Really Tobias? Gonna endanger a kid like that?

Visser 3 recognises Ket. But is not surprised that she’s alive.

All right, how the hell does Tobias know how to speak English with a hork-bajir’s mouth and whatever the hell else is involved with them speaking? I know his ass ain’t practice that shit

Let me guess? Another false surrender? Joke’s on you Tobias, Aximili already forfetted yer side’s ability to surrender

Visser 3 actually accepts this surrender, too bad Tobias doesn’t give a singular shit about Bek or himself continuing to live

In which Tobias is indecisive and suffers and bitches about things instead of finding solutions

And I don’t care about Tobias’ suffering b/c he’s an ass

Ax attempts a joke

Ax gets Tonias to spy on Tob’s supposed cousin again

Ax suspects that Aria is a yeerk who’s doing a lot to act like they aren’t

Rachel and Tobias have a fight and I’m on Rachel’s side

Of course the Animorphs would intentionally manipulate the free horks and fuck up their own effort to free their people. The animorphs don’t give a damn

The fact that Tobias is still alive is a fucking miricle

Toby is willing to work with the animorphs to smash up and destroy the whole facility. Even if Bek dies b/c of it. She has decided to interpret ‘Free or Dead’ as “Rather dead than a slave”

10 horks go with the animorphs to fight

Fal Tagut talks to Tobias. Fal Tagut is going to fight some yeerks

I feel like these writers don’t know the difference b/w violence against and oppressor and violence from an oppressor? Like there’s a difference. A big difference. As someone else has already said “even kindergarteners can tell ‘I don’t care who started it’ is bullshit”

Tobias the territory sistuation can’t possibly compare for so many reasons. The first of which being you DON’T HAVE TO LIVE AS A WILD ASS ANIMAL YOU DENSE MOTHERFUCKER

Fal Tagut never tried to kill you you fucking nit, the yeerk did

The facility is hidden by a holigram of the forest

Horks canonicly just fucking tie up hosts and Tobias needs to shut the fuck up

Putting hork’s head in a hole/dirt keeps them unconcious longer

The yeerks are building a ground mounted dracon cannon

So a hork raiding team is about 3-4 people

Bek wants a hug. Jara Hamee delivers

Ya know that the yeerk is not their host? That means a yeerk saw a strange bird in a place it doesn’t belong and whent ‘This is not my problem’

Ok but this means that Visser 3 was pretending to be a human woman for who knows how long on the off chance that the andalite bandits knew something and would try to spy on them

And Visser 3 was actually kinda right

Tobias goes into a fucking angst coma in the middle of a fucking fight

Toby why just leave him there

The writer forgets that ‘they’ exists and is less clunky than he/she

Surprise! Elfangor is Tobias’ father

Visser 3 is too much of a coward to take in their nemesis’ son

Visser 3 speaks well of Elfangor

Also there’s something of an implication that Visser 3 can properly morph clothes

All of this b/c the Ellimist wants to use Tobias as a pawn

Tobias learns to deal with the psychic powers

Rachel and Tobias celebrate his birthday

#nix reads animorphs #animorphs #hork-bajir #stuff that is useful for my fics #i don't care for tobias at all

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maxattack-powell · 5 years

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The Freshman 2-11b

The Freshman Book 2 - 11b Chapter 11b: A Hard Day’s Night

***Labeled as 2-11b in my masterlist - new chapters added to include more***

Masterlist - go here for other chapters and related original fics

Disclaimer: The following are fics (adaptations from actual game chapters AND original works) to Choices: The Freshman series. It is a fictional adaptation. I do not work for Pixelberry Studios, the game developer or own the rights to the characters Chris Powell, Nicole or any other IN GAME character. All of the ORIGINAL characters, storylines and events were developed, by me, for this adaptation of The Freshman story.

Comments: I enjoyed playing Choices: The Freshman… But it needed more. I’ve included certain things that aren’t really full fic size in order to add more substance to the story. I ALSO have quite a few full size fics throughout. I wanted to see MC and Chris through their college years, and more… with additional angst, fluff, sweetness, real life and overall detail - so here you go.

Word Count: 10,232

NSFW moments in some chapters - Mature Readers Only Please

Paring: MC x Chris

POV: ~MC~ or ~Chris~

~MC~

The tall freshman begins to stir, something telling her that it was time to get up. She uncurls from her standard sleeping position and blinks slowly a few times. She’s cold, which by the looks of her surroundings, she shouldn't be. MC was still in Chris’s room, which means he should be wrapped around her, like he typically is when they sleep in the same bed. Her brow furrows as she begins to sit up, thinking that he must have left without waking her to go to the gym.

The sudden movement behind her startles MC and she spins quickly at the hip, eyes wide as she finds the quarterback in question still in bed behind her. She frowns when she looks at him though, instantly feeling that something was off. Chris’s body language was unusual for his normal behaviors, laying fat with one arm bent and laying across his eyes. That wasn't the strange part though, or the fact that he was completely without covers seeing as he is a walking furnace. It’s the flushed tint to his cheeks, the light sheen of sweet across his now bare chest that was worrying her. Chris went to bed wearing a t-shirt and had been under the covers with her when they finally passed out the night before.

Something was wrong.

MC moves gently, shifting her legs around until she's kneeling on the bed next to her boyfriend. She shimmies closer, leaning forward enough to grasp his forearm and pull it down from his face. When she does he takes a deep breath and shifts, but it sounds a thick and his eyes don't open. They just slide back and forth under his lids as if he’s in a dream. It’s usually not hard to wake Christopher Powell, something MC has learned the hard way over the last few months.

This was not a good sign.

She lays the underside of her wrist on his forehead and waits. It doesn't feel abnormally hot, but his skin feels warmer and a little clammy. MC sits back on her heels and chews her lower lip as she assesses his behavior. He doesn't seem to have a fever, at least not a high one. His skin still looks normal, minus the mild sticky feeling at the touch.

“Maybe he just had a bad night’s sleep?” She mumbles to herself.

Her spoken words change everything, turning him to her like a beacon of light in the night for a lost ship. Chris’s eyes flutter open, searching the space around him slowly before his gaze falls on hers. “Hey baby.”

Her brow furrows and he seems to notice, his own expression beginning to mirror her look of concern. “What’s wrong beautiful?”

She continues to chew on her bottom lip, occasionally shifting to gnaw on the inside of her cheek as she lays her hand on his arm. “Do you feel okay Chris?”

He frowns deeper as he sits up, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ayuh… why?” He reaches to hold her hand, wrapping his warm one around hers as he clears his throat. “What is it?”

MC pulls her hand from his, reaching out to place one flat on his chest, the other on his forehead again. “I woke up cold and thought I was alone… when I turned to find you in bed, you…” Her nose scrunches up. “Well you looked like you might be sick, I swear you were kinda hot and even sweating.”

Chris gives her a small smile. “MC, I don’t get sick… not like colds or anything. I’m alright.”

She shakes her head. “I donno. I think something’s wrong.” Her eyebrow arches as she continues to speak. “I mean seriously, you skipped going to the gym...”

He chuckles while gently wrapping his hands around hers before bringing them to his lips. He kisses both sets of knuckles lightly before resting their joined hands in her lap. “Okay, I skipped the gym. After yesterday I wanted to be here when you woke up... and I didn’t feel like fighting you to go with me this morning.”

MC snorts. “Liar.”

He shrugs. “I really am okay. My throat is a little sore but I was running around like crazy yesterday, I probably just need a day off.”

Her eyes narrow and he laughs again. “Come on Doc… let’s go get some breakfast and head to class.”

The pair manages to get ready for the day with just enough time to stop by the campus cafe and grab a few items. MC gives him a curious look when he orders twice his normal coffee order and barely eats his breakfast croissant.

As they walk towards their first classes, Chris catches her eyeing him suspiciously as he takes a long drag from his cup. “What woman?”

His smile was wide, but not as bright as she’s used to seeing. “Feeling tired? Not super hungry?”

Chris shrugs and switches his cup to the other hand before using the now free one to pull her close. When he doesn't say anything, her eyes narrow and she studies him even harder than before.

~Chris~

Feeling the hole being burned into the side of his face, the tall freshman turns and immediately begins to laugh. “Oh my god, whaaaaat…”

She stops and crosses her arms, forcing him to stop with her so he doesn’t drag her forward. “You're not a big coffee guy… remember? And not eating all of your food? Who are you…”

Chris takes a deep breath and shakes his head. He wants her to let this go. He doesn't get sick, not like this. Sure he had the flu once as a kid, but it’s rare for him to get sick. He wasn't sick. He can’t be getting sick. He doesn't have the time for something like this right now.

When his gaze moves back to hers he shifts uncomfortably. “I told you MC, I’m fine.” When her frown deepens he sighs and pulls her into his chest. “Really.”

She burrows her nose into his chest and he swears he can feel the cold tip through his sweater. “Can we go to class now? If we’re late, the professor is going to kill us.”

MC begrudgingly agrees and they make double time, making it into the room just in time to see the professor walking in. The day continues like normal, the two meeting when possible between classes, getting a bite together for lunch and eventually heading to their last class for the day.

~MC~

MC waits for Chris in the hallway outside of his history class and searches on her phone. She’s noticed his behaviors changing more throughout the day. He had become more sluggish, barely eating half of his lunch, drinking from his water bottle more than usual, let out the occasional cough. Things like that.

Being someone who had seasonal change reactions, typical sore throats and mild coughs thanks to her sinuses, MC was no stranger to his current predicament. If he would just let her help, she could possibly cut his inevitable suffering time in half. Maybe even lower, but he had been so stubborn with her all day.

The door to his classroom opens and she looks up from her position against the wall, her gaze gliding across student after student until they finally land on his broad back. When Chris steps out into the hall and he looks absolutely drained. She watches as he takes a deep breath, reaching up to drag his hand through his hair.

Compared to the cute, controlled loose curls it had when they left the suite this morning, it was now fluffy and generally messy. She can tell he has been running his hand through it a lot throughout the day. Just another sign that something isn't right. Chris typically only plays with or pulls on his hair when he’s anxious, unsettled, angry or upset in some way.

“Or sick.” She says softly to herself, adding it to the list as she begins to approach him.

Chris meanders through the halls, angling his wide frame between other students and faculty as he goes. MC watches his movements as she gains on him, shaking her head briefly as he continues to prove her theory correct. She sighs and reaches out, sliding her hand through his arm and hooking on his elbow.

~Chris~

He spins at the contact, his eyes down on the hand around his arm before he turns his gaze to its owner. His eyes look up and MC gives him a soft smile, watching his concerned expression from someone touching him so intimately. The moment he sees its her everything changes, his face becoming soft and loving.

“Hey babe… I was going outside to look for you.” He gives her a sluggish smile, doing his best to hide the fact that he’s actually starting to feel a little rough after the long day.

“We got out early so I waited for you.” She kisses his jacketed shoulder as he pulls her closer. “Come on, let's go back to the suite.”

They walk for a while in silence, almost making it to the parking lot of their building before Chris decides to say something. “You don’t have to do this yanno.”

MC glances over at him, her expression overly innocent. “Walk with you to the suite?”

He hasn’t forgotten her words of concern from earlier in the day. They are still quite clear on her face even though she hasn't verbally brought it up again. He takes a deep breath, doing a quick assessment of how he feels, deciding that it could be worse, deciding it's just some sinus irritation that will go away by tomorrow. There was no way he was going to tell her she might be right. He just needs to go to bed earlier tonight. Just needs to get more rest. He will be good in the morning. He has to be. Sebastian wasn't going to rest, so he couldn't either.

Chris takes a deep breath and shakes his head as he tightens his grip around her shoulders. “No Miss Cherry. Play nurse. I told you I was fine. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“I didn't say anything.” She mumbles as she turns her focus forward.

“You didn't have to. I’ve seen the look on your face all day…” He leans over and kisses her temple. “I just need to chill out, take a break. I’ve been working too hard on this campaign stuff.”

“Uh huh.” She grumbles as they reach their building.

~MC~

They make their way inside and end up working on more homework for a while. Zack and Tyler are at the table too, working through their shared math class as Chris and MC work through various assignments.

After a while, Chris mentions needing another book and disappears into the dark hallway, heading for his room. When he’s gone for an unreasonable amount of time, MC stands and leaves the kitchen table to check on him.

The guys both look up and Zack frowns. “He’s getting worse isn't he…”

MC glances at him and nods with a frown. “Yes, and he's so damn stubborn about it.”

Tyler laughs and puffs his chest out, doing his best impression of his friend. “But Mainers don't get sick.”

Zack swats at him and he instantly deflates. “What… it's true. Cold and flu infection numbers are actually quite low in Maine compared to the rest of the United States.”

Their curly haired friend comically face palms as Tyler shrugs and throws his arms up in defense. “I mean...”

MC shakes her head and turns back to the hall, ignoring the two behind her as she approaches the quarterback's cracked door. She hears something further down the hall though and pauses, looking up to find Kaitlyn standing halfway out of her doorway, clearly frozen when she sees MC.

The tall blonde opens her mouth to say something, but she never gets the chance, seeing how quickly Kaitlyn turns back into her room and shuts her door with a little too much force. MC sighs loudly, not realizing as Abbie walks out of her room a second later, glancing at Kaitlyn’s door with an arched brow.

She turns to look at MC as she heads towards the living space and pats her on the shoulder. “Just give her time… I’m sure she will figure it all out.”

“Yeah.” MC says in a hushed breath as she glances briefly at the shut door before turning to face Abbie and jutting her thumb behind her. “You might want to get out there. Zack looked like he might choke Tyler soon.”

Abbie laughs softly and shakes her head. “Maybe I should go back to my room instead.”

They both chuckle before Abbie gives MC a warm smile and moves towards the shared suite space once more. When she turns and faces Chris’s door she hesitates before she knocks. A small smile appears when she hears a soft snore spill through from the other side though the crack. Pushing the door open just enough to peek inside, she finds Chris sprawled out on his bed, one leg hanging off while a book lays split open on his chest.

She pulls her bottom lip in as she takes a few more steps inside and bends over him. Her wrist finds the same spot on his forehead from earlier in the day and after only a few seconds she jerks it back. His skin was hot, and upon further assessment, she found his cheeks were more flushed than when he ran a two miles’ sprint. Chris had his fair share of rosy cheeks on occasion, but this was more than anything she had seen outside of some serious cardio.

“Shit.” She hisses out, quickly covering her mouth as she stands back up and watches for his response.

There was none, except for a unusually loud and thick sounding snore. He really was getting worse.

“Okay. That’s it Powell.” He doesn't budge and she leaves his room, pulling the door closed before cutting into her room and digging through her nightstand.

She finds what she's looking for fairly quickly, grabbing an over the counter cold medication combo that has helped her okay before. She leaves and goes back to the shared space, snatching his water bottle from the table before heading into the kitchen to refill it with cool water, knowing most people need something to help get the medication down and he needed to stay hydrated.

As she moves around the group at the table, Zack looks up and frowns when they lock eyes. “That bad?”

MC doesn't say a word, her lips pressed tightly together speaking volumes and Zack nods. “What can I do MC?”

She sighs as she fills up her boyfriend’s bottle, twisting the top on tightly and wiping off the excess drips with one of the dishtowels. “He really hasn't eaten much all day. I’m about to give him some of these to help what may be a mild fever. Hopefully it will make him feel better too, but he really needs to eat more.”

Zack stands, patting Tyler on the back and getting an affirming nod from Abbie. “We’ve got you. Just tell us what to get.”

MC looks up and sees them all stand, her heart swelling with love for her friends. “Really?” When they flash her concerned smiles she lets out a held breath. “You guys are the best. I was going to go out but--”

Tyler and Abbie head towards the door to grab their jackets as Zack pulls his off the back of his chair. Tyler gives her a warm smile once more. “You stay here, get him to take that stuff and drink a lot of water. Text us what you need us to pick up.”

Abbie fixes Tyler’s jacket hood before turning to MC. “That includes something for you to eat too you know.”

MC laughs at Abbie’s motherly tone as Zack gives her a quick hug as the trio heads out. She pulls out her phone and quickly sends them a group text with some of Chris’s favorite foods from different areas close by, telling them to get whatever was most convenient for them, doubling whatever they order to keep it simple.

She also asks if they can grab a few more medications from the pharmacy near campus since her stash is a little low. She brought what she had from home when she started this year, and hasn't needed to use them until now, but she knew it wouldn't hurt to get a few items.

MC wants options just in case she can’t slow it down quick enough and it tries to spread into his lungs or something. She knows chances are good Chris will fight her on taking the medications tonight, but she believes she has a better chance of getting him to take them herself, then she has getting him to see the nurse first thing in the morning.

She grumbles incoherently to herself as she snatches the water bottle from the counter and heads back to his room, checking her pocket for the little bubble packet as she closes his door once more. He hasn't moved. She can’t help but smile at him, thinking that he looks kinda adorable when he’s sick. Not that she enjoys that he’s in this crappy situation, but the way he's laying right now reminds her of a soft little boy. He looks so young, so innocent at this moment.

Approaching his bed, she moves the book from his chest and sits on the edge, resting her hand where the book just was as she speaks. “Chris.”

Nothing. No response as he continues to drag in ragged breaths.

“Christopher Powell.” She says with a little more force, this time getting a reaction out of the long legged quarterback.

~Chris~

“Wha… MC?” He turns his head towards her, his movements and words groggy as he places his hand on hers. “Oh, hell. I sat down to check something and I must have fallen asleep. Sorry babe.”

She shakes her head and gives him a reassuring smile. “Here… take these.”

Chris sits up and gives her a curious expression as he holds his hand out and two identical white pills fall into his palm. He looks up and finds her giving him a serious look. That’s when he knows it’s over. He can’t fight her on it now, especially when how he really feels starts to seep in.

He takes a deep breath and closes his hands around the medication, reaching for the offered water bottle with his free hand. Without a word he tosses them in and swallows with a few gulps of water.

MC shakes her head. “Drink more please. You’ll need it.”

“This will be more than enough to shake it… you'll see MC.” He gives her a small smile, feeling his sore throat pull from the gesture. He does his best to hide his grimace but she sees it and his shoulders fall slightly. “Not falling for it, huh?”

For the first time all day he sees a genuine smile crosses her lips. “Nope.”

He chuckles and then groans. “Ugh, I shouldn't have done that.”

MC stands and gestures towards his person. “Come on, strip.”

His left eyebrow arches sharply as he looks up at her. “Um, what?”

She laughs. “I mean get out of those jeans and stuff. Get comfortable. You’re not going anywhere.”

He opens his mouth to argue but the daring glare she sends his way makes him snap it shut instantly. Without a word he stands and removes his jeans and button up, replacing them with long sleep pants and a soft Hartfeld hoodie. The more he moves the more he realizes how cold he is, how heavy his head feels. ‘Shit.’

“Cold?” She asks quietly as he sits back down on the bed and nods. “I think you’re working up a fever, but that medication should help soon.” She pulls his covers back as she hears the front door open and close. “Here, get in. I’ll be right back.”

Chris takes another big drink of water and props his pillows up so he can lean back against the headboard. He looks over towards his nightstand and realizes that he didn't bring his phone or anything back with him. Almost as if she knew what he was thinking, MC re-enters his room with a stack of his books against her chest with one arm, the other clutching a few plastic bags.

“Don’t you dare.” She threatens, making him smile as he watches her lay the stack on his desk and pull out his phone from her back pocket before tossing it to him.

He easily catches it without looking, his eyes glued to the bags in her hands as she approaches his bed once more. MC silently begins to pull item after item out of the noisy plastic and sets them down on his nightstand. His nose has begun to become useless, the congestion now bad enough to hinder his smelling ability, but a few distinct ones still make it through.

“What did you do?” He smiles wide when she looks into his eyes, giving him one in return.

“Our friends offered to pick something up while I checked on you, and they kinda got one of everything instead I suggested… so you have to eat it now. At least half.” She gives him a ‘try me’ look and he laughs.

“Half?” His eyes widen as he looks at all the items on the flat surface next to him.

“Yes sir. Zack said he would come in here if he had to.” She tilts her head and points at him with a little attitude, the curl at the end of her lips giving her seriousness away. “Don’t make me feed you Chris.”

His smile grows even bigger. “What if that’s exactly what I want…”

She scoffs at him, the smirk only growing. “You would, wouldn’t you.” It wasn't a question and they both laugh.

He does as she asks, eating more than half of the items their suite-mates brought back. It was easy for him when he started assessing his options, quickly realizing that every single item was a favorite of his. He watched MC eat as he finished the beefy burrito in his hands, his chest tight from thinking how awesome it was that she knew him so well already.

After they finish eating, and MC threatens him to not leave the bed for anything other than going to the bathroom, she cleans up and leaves to change into something more comfortable too. Chris plays on his phone as he waits for her to return, scrolling through his social media accounts to check on his friends Ryan and Ethan.

MC slips back into his room and shuts the door softly before sitting on the edge of his bed, facing him as she shuffles through the handful of items they collected at the pharmacy. He inconspicuously takes a picture of her from his point of view as she tucks some of her hair behind her ear. He pulls up his Instagram and ads a short caption before tagging them both and posting it.

dontcallmerogers08: i dont think i mind being sick if i get all my favorite foods and a personal nurse.

It only took a few seconds before they were both making comments below.

ryan_thehawk22: are you serious? tell her i have a cough and need assistance.

clark25superman: @sw33tcherrypie don’t tell me he’s tricked you into thinking he’s sick? Cherryfield men don’t get sick.

Chris laughs when he sees their responses, making MC look up at him with the craziest look as her eyes narrow at him suspiciously. “What’s so funny…”

“Where’s your phone…” He tapers off as he looks around, finding it on his nightstand and handing it to her with the notifications blaring on the screen.

He watches her face as she opens the app and finds the post notifications. The smile that slides across her lips makes him feel better than anything the medication has done for him so far. She begins to type away on the screen and he waits for his phone to react, knowing it will light up in seconds. When it does, he pulls it up and grins with anticipation.

@sw33tcherrypie: He’s not faking boys. The Captain is down. Find Tony and Bruce. We need backup.

Chris looks up at her with a blank expression, finding her wearing a shit eating grin as she shrugs. “What… Bruce is a doctor. And Tony is resourceful.”

Chris sighs as his phone buzzes again, knowing what type of comments he might see next.

clark25superman: I was going to say something to that effect, but @sw33tcherrypie said it way better than I could have. Told you she was a keeper Rogers.

He looks up and finds her blushing, clearly avoiding his gaze, making him let out a huff of air through his grin. “I swear. I have the worst wingmen, ever.”

ryan_thehawk22: they could never make CAPTAIN ROGERS behave. avengers civil war taught us that. its all up to you @sw33tcherrypie dont let us down.

MC starts to laugh and he looks up once more. “You okay there, big guy?”

Chris snorts with mild irritation. “Wrong. Avenger.”

She busts out laughing then and he tries his best to hold his ugly expression before losing the battle and joining in, knowing damn well that she mixed them on purpose to get a reaction out of him. After a few seconds of vigorous laughter, he starts coughing a little, his chest crackling more than he expected it to, but he plays it off and takes a drink of water as he avoids her gaze.

~MC~

Her ears don't miss the sound and she frowns as she watches him. “Will you see the nurse in the morning… please? I’m worried it’s getting worse.”

Chris waves her off and leans back, sliding further under his covers. “It’s not that bad MC. Seriously. I just need sleep. Okay?”

The irritated tone in his response stings a little and she nods once before tilting her head down, focusing on the small boxes in her hands as she remains quiet. Chris starts to fidget as the air in the room becomes a little tense while MC shuffles through a few items. She stops and opens one to pull some more medication out before laying them on his nightstand. She stands and lifts his water bottle, finding it half empty. She decides to refill it and returns it to its spot next to his bed before turning to face him.

MC clears her throat and gives him a small smile as she stands next to the bed. “I left you a few more to help you through the night… if, um… if you need it.” Her eyes flick to the table and stay there, doing her best to not to let his words bother her more than they already have. “Wait until after midnight to take them though… so they are spaced out enough.”

She turns without another word and walks towards the door, pausing when Chris speaks behind her. “Hey… wait.”

MC doesn’t quite stop as she opens the door and spins, backing out slowly when their eyes meet. “I still have some homework to do, so… so I’m going to go to my room, that way… that way you can rest. I’ll be across the hall if you need anything.”

Chris raises his hand, halfway reaching towards her as he opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off quickly. “Goodnight Chris. Sleep well... okay?”

~Chris~

She doesn't wait for a response as the door closes between them. The freshman quarterback sighs, his hand dropping to his side on the dark comforter with a muffled thud.

“Smooth Powell.”

He contemplates getting up and knocking on her door, knowing he would be interrupting her studying, but he feels he should apologize for being so hard headed about everything all day. He knew he was irritated though. Not at MC, but the fact that he didn't have time for this right now.

Ethan was right, they never got sick at home. So why now - why when he has so much class and campaign work to do? He groans as he accepts that he might actually be getting sick sick and not having some seasonal reaction like he had hoped.

Clenching his jaw, Chris reaches for his bedding, ready to flip it open and rush across the hall to his girlfriend as he envisions groveling at her feet. However, before he can get a handful of comforter, his phone lights up and he hesitates. All movements stop except for his hand as it snatches the phone, his eyes finding a text notification from Ryan.

‘tell me youre going to get a sponge bath’

Chris rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he types a quick response. ‘stfu hawkins.’

‘did you at least ask?! im pretty sure MC would do anything for you. especially if youre sick. dont waste this opportunity Chris’

His jaw clenches as he types a response. ‘too late. already blew it.’

‘how?! five minutes ago you were basically posting heart eyes’

‘hi, my name is chris powell and i dont get sick.’

‘touché’

Chris begins to type another response when a text from Ethan pops up on his screen.

‘Steph and I only have a few things to do before next week and were thinking about visiting you guys for the weekend if it was cool with you two, but if you're sick…’

His eyes light up at the message, knowing MC would be happy to see them both so soon. Chris had a feeling he might need some help digging himself out of the hole he just put himself in too. He quickly comes up with a plan, already deciding that he would go to the campus clinic as soon as it opens in the morning. He wanted to reassure MC that he would be okay, before asking if she would like to see them. Knowing he wouldn't be up for a lot of activity during their visit, and she would definitely bring it up, he starts thinking of relaxing things they could do around campus with their friends.

‘im going to see the nurse first thing in the morning just to be safe. i’ll let you know by noon’

‘Wow. Your mom can’t even get you to see the doctor. I’m impressed.’

‘dont be. it’s not my idea.’

‘You don’t think I know that?’

‘ha. touché.’

Chris snorts humorously at the odd circular conversation between his two friends before looking at his door again with a sigh. He stands and walks over, opening it enough to peek across the hall and see that her door was shut and there was no light showing underneath. Deciding that she either was or would soon to be asleep, Chris decides not to disturb her and turns back to his room with fallen shoulders.

He crawls back into bed and makes sure he verifies where the medication is that MC left him before he turns off the light and sets his alarm. She will be gone for class before the clinic opens so he sets it with enough time to get ready in time to make it across campus and be first in line.

-------

Instead of sleeping peacefully through the night, Chris wakes up more than once with mild hot and cold chills. Turning on the nightstand light, he groggily fumbles around until his hands find the little bubble packet and he sighs with relief. It was 2 a.m. and he had been struggling to stay asleep for at least an hour now.

He shakes his head, making a mental note to thank MC when he sees her in the morning for her foresight. After swallowing the two white pills with a large gulp of water, Chris drinks down about half of his bottle and curls back up into bed.

“Would have been better to let her take care of you, moron.” He mumbles.

The medication kicks in and he finally finds some peace, sleeping solidly for the next few hours until his alarm goes off. When he reaches over to hit snooze, he rolls flat onto his back and groans.

Yep. He was feeling worse.

Getting dressed as quickly as a sluggishly sick man can, Chris finally opens his door and looks across the hall. MC’s door is pulled to, but not fully closed. He knows she’s not inside though, feeling as if something was missing from himself like every time she was gone. He pulls out his phone to check the time, verifying that she would be in class already before noticing a text.

‘Hope you're feeling better. I’ll bring back some noms.”

Chris can't help but smile. Even when he had been an unwavering ass the day before, she still wanted to help him. He grabs a few of his books just in case by some miracle he feels normal in the next hour and makes his way to the kitchen, stuffing them into his bag as he leaves the suite.

It hadn't been very cold this week, but Chris continues to get mild chills, his coughing increasing as he makes his way to the campus clinic. He shakes his head as he reaches for the door and enters the waiting area. To his disappointment, he wasn't the first student to enter the same door this morning.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, he signs in and gets comfortable in one of the chairs, accepting things probably won't move as fast as he had hoped. He really wanted to get back to the suite before MC, to surprise her with a note or something from the nurse, to hopefully make her feel better after last night. He doesn't really know if the clinic gives out notes, but he’s going to ask for one anyway.

The nurse finally calls his name and holds the door as he enters the small exam room. She asks him many questions about his symptoms while taking his temperature and blood pressure. She continues asking him how long he’s felt this way, what he’s done to help, and other similar questions.

He laughs. “Me? Nothing… my girlfriend on the other hand…” He continues to tell her what MC has done, how she's cared for him and what she gave him in as much detail possible.

The nurse smiles. “Sounds like you're in good hands. Let me listen to your heart and lungs. I want to make sure she has nothing to worry about.”

Chris shakes his head but smiles as he takes deep breaths when instructed. She removes her stethoscope and writes down a few notes on his chart before turning to face him.

The look on her face makes Chris frown. “Not good?”

“Well, it’s not that bad. Yet. But from the sound of your lungs, it might try to settle in. How are your sinuses? Is there pressure and pain?”

Chris thinks for a moment and looks back at the nurse. “Some. But only since this morning…”

“Keep an eye on that. The swelling could get worse and you might have some serious headaches. You mentioned some decongestant and expectorant medications that she had?” Chris nods. “Those will help keep you clear, but continue to drink a lot of water. They will do their best to dry you up.”

He nods and smiles, thinking about MC and how she tried to tell him all of this last night. He was just too hell-bent to listen. “My home nurse has been all over it.”

She laughs and grabs his chart as they walk to the door. “Glad to hear it. If you continue to manage the symptoms you have, things shouldn't get too much worse, but come back immediately if they do.”

Chris starts to walk out of the door but suddenly stops, spinning to face her with wide eyes. “Oh, uh… can I get a note?”

She gives him a curious look. “For class?”

He laughs and feels his face warm slightly as he glances at the now full waiting area behind him. “Um, not exactly… for MC. So she knows I came in this morning.”

The nurse smiles wide and laughs, instantly reminding Chris of his Grandma Louise. He makes a mental note to call her soon. She’s always happy to hear what he’s been up to and how MC is doing. She also asks him, without fail, when she will get to meet his ‘lovely’ girlfriend. It makes him grin every time, even though she can't see it on the other side of the phone call.

He focuses back on the present when the nurse hands him a small slip of paper. He reads it quickly and thanks her, heading into the hall and pausing to check the time. MC’s first class was going to end in about fifteen minutes which gives him enough time to get to her building before it lets out.

He walks as briskly as he can, stretching his legs to the limit, but his energy is lower than usual and the cooler air makes him cough a few times. He doesn't slow down though, wanting to surprise his girlfriend with his clinic visit.

Finally making it to her building, he slips inside and finds a water fountain near her room, silently cursing himself for leaving his water bottle back at the suite. He groans a little and tries not to cough when a tickle in his throat teases him. The repetitive action was giving him a growing pressure headache. He hates headaches.

Chris checks the time again and before he can look up, the doors open in a flurry of activity down the long hallway. His eyes shift over and focus on the one closest to him, immediately searching for MC.

When the line of students slows and he doesn't find her in it, he frowns, mumbling to himself. “She never skips class…”

“Chris?” He startles at his name being called and spins in place, finding his beautiful target behind him.

He gives MC a small smile. “Hey baby.”

~MC~

She closes the distance between them, her brows furrowed as she studies his face. He looks about the same, except for the more frequent coughing, and that makes her frown. “What are you doing… I thought you were sleeping in.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small square of paper, unfolding it before he hands it over. Her brow stays drawn as she reads the note scrawled across official Hartfeld Clinic stationary. Twice to make sure she read it correctly.

MC ---

Please continue with your current course of action in

treating Mr. Powell. I believe his present state will begin

to improve as long as you maintain your existing care

plan for him. If anything changes, please don't hesitate

to send him into the clinic.

She looks up from the small paper in her hand and bites her lower lip as she tries not to laugh. “You asked for a note.”

“Ayuh. I wanted you to know that I appreciate what you did… or tried to do... last night.” He smiles but she notices it doesn't exactly reach his tired eyes.

“Oh, um… you’re welcome Chris, but I didn't really do anything.” She stumbles over the words, feeling her cheeks heat up a little as she looks around the hall to see if anyone is listening, folding the note up and putting it in her pocket.

“That’s not true. You knew something was wrong before I did… and even when I was being a hard headed ass--” She reaches up and covers his mouth, making him pull her hand away in time to laugh once before it turns into a small series of coughs before he collects himself.

“Even though I was being a complete mule...” He tilts his head as she arches a brow in approval of his edit. “You still tried to take care of me. So thank you… and I’m sorry.”

Her chest swells from his words, her entire body warm from the look in his eyes as he holds her gaze with his.

“S’okay…” She whispers as she cups his face with both of her hands, pulling his slightly taller form down so she could kiss his forehead. When he stands back up straight she snickers at his worried expression.

“You thought I was going to try and kiss you?” Her nose wrinkles. “No thanks. You have cooties Mister.”

He pulls her into his chest and squeezes her tight, chuckling softly as not to start coughing again. “I’ll remember that MC… My cooties are your cooties woman. In fact... “ He leans in close, whispering into her ear. “They are already inside of you… this very second.”

She pulls back and gasps before swatting his chest. “Chris!”

He laughs hard and ends up coughing worse than before, making MC frown deeply with regret. “Okay Captain, we’re going home.”

Chris catches his breath and clears his throat the best he can before standing straight once more. “Yes ma'am. Lead the way beautiful.”

~Chris~

As they head out into the quad he turns to her, the curiosity getting the best of him. He clears his throat and tries to squash the uneasy feeling when he silently asks himself if he really wants to know.

“Hey, MC?” He nods back towards the building as they continue to walk. “Why weren't you in class?”

She blinks a few times before realizing what he means. “Oh! I was, I just left a few minutes early to find Dr. Yates before his office hours were up.”

Chris makes a cute confused face, his features scrunching up almost comically as he tries to understand. “My history professor?”

She nods and he continues, still confused. “Why..?”

“I told him you were sick and asked to pick up any assignments or information in case you weren’t going to make it in for the next class.” She chews on her bottom lip, waiting for his reaction.

He stops, automatically tugging her to stop with him since he had his arm around her waist. “You did?”

MC studies his face and adjusts her bag strap across her chest. “I was actually on my way to meet with a few other of your professors when you stopped me in the hall.”

He just stands there, staring into her big hazel eyes for a moment as he thinks about what she said. MC’s eyes flick back and forth, searching his face for something as he processes her actions.

“What… is that bad?” She sighs and grimaces. “Does that make me the clingy helicopter girlfriend?”

His lips slowly curl at the ends. “No.”

She shifts to where she's standing in front of him and he wraps both arms around her waist, doing his best to calm his heart, now fluttering happily in his chest. “Then what’s wrong…”

“Nothing. I just… well, the only person that’s managed to take care of me like that is my Mah. And honestly, I fight her on it whenever she tries. I always tell her to worry about Kyle and AJ… that I’ll be fine.”

“Sounds familiar.” MC snorts with a smirk.

“Ayuh. But that’s just it… you bulldogged your way in, kinda like she did.” The text from Ethan pops into his head. “Possibly better than she did.” His eyes grow wide. “Hell. Don't ever tell her I said that...”

MC laughs and snuggles into his chest as he wraps his arms tighter around her. Chris smiles too and buries his nose into her hair, swallowing a cough as a cool breeze cuts through them. Nothing was going to stop him from enjoying this moment. He was starting to feel miserable, but this was also one of the best days of his life. After Nicole, Chris doubted ever experiencing feelings this strong for another person again. He honestly wasn't sure it was actually possible, until he ran into MC that first day. Everything started changing from that moment forward.

He stands up straight and shakes his head, starting to feel a little overwhelmed by his thoughts and needing a change of subject. “Hey uh, you said something about lunch?”

She leans back and arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, no. We're going home, and then I will go get some cold friendly food while you rest.”

Chris grumbles in agreement, not wanting to argue with his personal nurse any more than he has to. He knows she will win no matter what. He decided last night that she would. They make it back to the suite and he takes a hot shower to loosen his sinuses and relax his aching muscles as much as possible before drying his hair and changing into a warm set of clothes to climb into bed with. Nurse Cherry’s orders. He wasn't going to go against them.

~MC~

She moves quick, wanting to see if she can find a few more of his professors on her way to pick up lunch. It was a good sign he was hungry, and MC knows that when Chris is, he will find something to satisfy that hunger. The sooner she gets back, the better chance she has to keep him quiet inside the suite. After grabbing a few more assignments from a couple professors, MC heads towards a specific eatery on the edge of campus.

Cutting through the athletic buildings would be her shortest route from her current location near Williams Hall. With her collected information secure in her bag, MC starts to jog briskly through the winding paths. She cuts corners when she can, running under trees and zooming past buildings as she checks the time on her Fitbit. She thankfully hears a sound that is clearly too close, making her gaze pop up just in time to stop herself from running straight into a wide, Hartfeld University logoed chest.

“Oh..!” She gasps out as she raises her hands to avoid slamming her face into the black and red athletic jacket.

A pair of large hands steady her, holding her upper arms firmly as she adjusts and stands straight once more. Her eyes look up and grow wide as they see the slightly taller man, realizing who it is instantly. “Coach Cohen!”

He gives her a small smile and head nod. “In a hurry?”

Her face heats up as she takes a step back with embarrassment. His hands release her and he crosses them in front of his chest as she nods.

“Yes, actually… Chris is sick so I’m on my way to get him some of the spicy chicken soup from Lucky Bamboo.”

Coach Cohen’s lips turn down in a small frown. “Powell is sick?”

She nods again and looks past him once before turning her gaze to him again, not wanting to be rude but also feeling like she should get moving. “Yes, the nurse thinks it’s a cold but he started coughing more today so I’m trying to keep it from getting worse.”

He gives her a genuine smile. “Hmm... I actually have some remedies and tricks that work for me that I usually send to my players when they are under the weather. I can send to his email, but would you mind checking to see that he reads it for me? I know how the guys can get about things like this sometimes.”

MC smiles. “Yes, of course. That would be great.”

“Thank you. I know he’s been busy with the student council campaign but he’s still one of my players and I want to make sure he gets healthy as soon as possible. He’s been very busy from what I’ve heard from some of the others guys. I was a little concerned that he might overdo it.”

“You and me both Coach.” She sighs and her eyes flick to her Fitbit to check the time.

He notices and smiles. “Alright I will let you go. Thank you for letting me know… and for taking such good care of my quarterback. I’m going to need him.”

She laughs. “You’re welcome.”

He moves aside and gestures for her to continue on and holds up his hand to wave once before he turns and disappears around the corner of the nearby building. MC runs faster than before, trying to make up some time so she can get back to said quarterback as soon as possible.

~Chris~

MC makes it back in record time with a large container of the best spicy soup in Hartfeld along with a few of his favorite comfort foods. He learns that she also managed to track down a few of his other professors on her way out, gathering a handful of assignments so he doesn't fall too far behind if things do get worse over the weekend.

Working for Vasquez did provide a few perks for MC, a big one being developing relationships many of the faculty while running errands for him. Usually her work for Vasquez annoyed Chris, since he clearly took advantage of her situation on many occasions, but right now it was benefiting him and he had to begrudgingly appreciate it.

She brought some vitamins from her room along with a few other items, the most important one in his opinion being a diluted eucalyptus oil that he gladly let her rub into his chest when she told him what it was. It’s supposed to help with his congestion, but he just wants to enjoy the soothing feeling of her hand gliding across his aching muscles. In the middle of her aromatherapy massage, Chris remembers he wanted to ask her something.

“MC?” When she looks up from his chest he feels his heart skip. There’s something about them, he really enjoys looking into those eyes. “Ethan told me last night that he and Steph are probably free this weekend.” He mumbles as his eyes slip closed, thoroughly enjoying her touch.

When her movements stop, he opens his eyes and find her still looking at him but this time with a concerned expression. “But you’re sick… you need to rest.”

He gives her a reassuring smile and reaches up to lay his hands on hers, holding it firmly against his chest. “I will… he knows we can’t do anything crazy. It would be a good distraction… just FYI, if you try to make me stay in bed all weekend I promise you I will lose my mind.”

She laughs. “Okay, then tell them we’d love to hang out. Oh! Maybe we can go see the latest Justice League at the Hartfeld theater? My friend Sarah could get us a few tickets for free.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Chris smiles and pats the bed next to him, slipping his arm around her and pulling her close as he sends Ethan a confirmation text.

Another hour passes and he tries to hide it, but his cough gets worse. MC grabs a bottle of cough suppressant from the nightstand and turns to him.

“This will really help…” He nods but hears the pause. “...but it might also knock you out for a while.”

Chris lets out a sigh and looks at the time, seeing that Ethan and Steph won't leave Boston for another two or three hours at least. “How long?”

He smiles as she makes a cute face, scrunching her lips together and to the side as she twists the bottle in her hands as she thinks. “Maybe a few hours… at least it can for the average person. With you... “ Her eyes move up and down his wide frame, “...probably less.”

His eyes narrow as she gives him a snarky smirk. “What are you trying to say MC?” He reaches out, swallowing his own laugh as she rolls her eyes playfully. “Just give it to me.”

MC pours the required amount into the small cup that came with the medication and he grimaces as he swallows. “Ugh, gross.”

He begins to panic as the thick substance doesn't quite miss his tongue, reaching for his water as she intercepts the cup. “Water.”

She frowns and holds the cup closer to her chest and leans away from him. “Wait… you have to give it a second to coat your throat, or you'll just wash it all off.”

His mouth falls open as he shoots her an angry look. “You didn't say I couldn't drink water after that… that… I can't even think of the right words.” He makes a small gagging sound.

“You can… just after a minute or… two.” She gives him an apologetic smile.

“Minutes?!” He gasps. “Okay no. It’s totally been long enough MC.” He extends his long arm and makes a grabbing motion with his wide hand.

She shakes her head, trying to lean back as she attempts to hold onto the cup. “I’m going to regret this, aren't I?”

He leans forward and snatches the cup from her, chugging down the entire thing in only a few gulps, still grimacing as his eyes water from the foul taste of the medication.

“Nasty.”

She frowns. “I know… but it will help you feel better soon.”

He takes a deep breath and shoots her an apologetic look, knowing she’s right. “Sorry. Thanks for putting up with me.”

MC gets up and kisses the top of his head before leaving with the empty cup and small medication cup. When she returns she not only has refilled the cup, but also his water bottle, placing it all back down on his nightstand before she turns to leave.

“Whatcha doin’?”

She turns in the open doorway. “I was going to grab one of my books so I could hang out with you in here?”

Chris shoots her a small smile as he gets comfortable against the pillows. “Okay, I’ll allow it.”

With another laugh she leaves but returns in just a few short minutes. He looks up from his phone when the door opens, quickly noticing that one of her favorite books is tucked under her arm, but more importantly she is wearing his favorite long pajama pants and his red Henley. The same pajama pants that accentuate her long toned legs and the same red Henley he will always remember her wearing in their building’s laundry room that one night.

“I've been wondering where that thing went.”

She gives him a cheeky smile and shrugs. “Uh, you kinda gave it to me.”

His eyebrows raise in unison. “Oh, did I?”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and grins as she puts her book down on the nightstand and crawls onto the bed next to him. “Yup.”

He just shakes his head and smiles, scooting over to give her more room. Once she gets situated he slides further down the bed and wraps himself around her, laying his head in her lap as he starts playing music just loud enough for him to hear on his phone.

At least that’s what he thought. As Scary Love by The Neighbourhood starts playing on his phone, Chris rolls his head to look up and into her eyes. He sees her swallow as she listens to the lyrics and a small smile crosses his lips. He was starting to feel a little sleepy, but was sure the feeling would pass before too long.

He was wrong.

All it took was for MC to reach down with one hand, running her fingers through his hair while she held her book with the other and he completely forgot about his phone, about Ethan coming to visit, the campaign, everything as he drifted off to sleep.

~MC~

She knew he was out when his body weight melted into hers and his breaths became slightly erratic. It’s really the soft snores that seal the deal. MC swallows her laughter and instead smiles so hard her cheeks hurt as she bends over slightly to look at his peaceful face.

The blonde runs her hand through his hair a few more times, pushing it up and away from his eyes as she studies his features. His hair was starting to get a little long, falling towards his beautiful blues more and more with every day. She knew he would probably get it cut soon, so she wanted to enjoy this slightly shaggy look while she could.

He adjusts against her, his lips parting slightly as he continues to sleep in her lap. MC turns his music off and goes back to her book, reading chapter after chapter for the next hour or so before he stirs again. When he shifts in her lap she lifts her book and looks down, finding him looking up at her through small slits as a lopsided grin slowly crosses his lips.

“You’re pretty.”

She shakes her head and snort laughs. “Uh huh… and you look like you're floating.”

Chris lets out a sleepy laugh and makes a few sounds in what she thinks is an attempt to mimic a jet engine before making a ding and speaking in an authoritative voice. “We are experiencing a little turbulence. Please sit down and buckle your seat-belts.”

MC’s mouth falls open as she closes her eyes. “Oh no.”

“What.” He says and blinks a few times, trying his best to focus on her face.

“You really don’t take medications or anything much…” She was starting to realize that the cough syrup was affecting Chris more than she thought it would.

“Newp.” He says and laughs, making him cough once. “Cut that out.”

She puts her book down on the nightstand and tries not to laugh as he talks to himself, his words a little garbled. “Go back to sleep Rogers.”

MC nods. “That might be a good idea. Sleep it off.”

Chris nods exaggeratedly. “I agree baby… beautiful…” He grins wide suddenly. “My girl… my MC.”

Her entire body warms under his loving gaze. Chris’s eyes just about close as he peers through the small slits once more. He gives her a sleepy smile as he attempts to lift his hand to cup her face. She smiles back, her eyes crinkling at the corner as she helps him by holding his hand to her cheek.

“...love my girl…” He mumbles as his eyes finally close and his arm turns heavy in her hands.

MC blinks a few times and her mind flashes back to their trip to Boston, thinking about that one night when she thought he said something like ‘love you’ before falling asleep. Her eyes fall back to his peaceful face and she shakes her head, reminding herself that he currently wasn't exactly awake and clearly a little altered thanks to the medication. She also reminds herself that he didn't say ‘I love you’ exactly, and that he was probably just talking about how she was taking care of him.

“But what if he wasn't…” She whispers to herself in the quiet room. They have not been an official couple for very long, and they only met at the beginning of the school year. Could it even be possible? She starts to think about how she feels about him in turn, startling herself with the realization that it was, in fact, very possible. MC swallows as she compares how she’s felt over the many months, how things have changed and how clear her feelings are for Chris now.

She jumps when he starts singing, very roughly, with a wide grin out of nowhere. “It's been a haaaaaard day's night, and I been wooooooorking like a dog.”

Her eyes shoot down and she sees that his are still closed, making her wonder if he was awake or if it was some type of sleep...singing?

“It's been a haaaaard daaaaay's niiiight, I should be sleeeeeeeeping like a log. But when I get home to you I'll find the things that you do, will make me feel aaaaaaalright.”

She quickly covers her mouth so she won't interrupt or worse, wake him up. MC recognizes the song, it’s name being the first thing out of Chris’s mouth. Her dad loved The Beatles so she had grown up hearing just about every song they ever made on the weekends. Chris continues to mumble sing, his eyes opening slightly as he looks up into hers, letting her know he was in fact now awake. At least on some level. Coherent was another story.

“When I'm hooooome everything seems to be riiiiiight. When I'm hooooooooome feeling you holding me tiiiiiiiiight, tight!” She grins as he skips some of the lyrics, clearly not fully focused but doing his best in his medicated state.

He chuckles softly and closes his eyes. “My beautiful girl… working hard to take care of me.”

“Holding you tight?” She can’t help herself.

Chris grins hard, showing his perfect teeth as his eyes stay closed. “Ayuh.”

He shifts and nuzzles into her thighs, letting out a content sigh as he wraps his arm around her legs and pulls her as close as possible. Within seconds his breathing pattern changes and she can tell he’s once again asleep.

Not quite ready to dissect her thoughts about what she thinks she may have heard before his random song interruption, MC reaches over and grabs her book and flips to her bookmark. She needs to distract herself from the scary but simultaneously exciting thoughts that are trying to take over.

Now wasn't the time.

Chris is sick.

He’s been rambling.

He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

That’s clear. Right?

Part of her feels disappointed for a moment but she shakes it off. She knows he cares for her, that's obvious, and right now he needs her to care for him. MC continues to read her book, just about finishing it when she sees his phone screen light up next to her. Glancing over she sees that it’s a text from Ethan.

‘We’re about to leave. Everything still good?’

She smiles and picks it up, sliding the notification open to respond. ‘Chris is asleep right now but we will be mobile when you guys arrive.’

‘You sure MC?’

‘Very, you need to see this kinda behavior in person lol.’ She takes a quick picture of him passed out, laying across her like a giant six-year-old.

‘Haha. Okay that alone will be worth the drive. Take lots of pictures. They will come in handy at some point I’m sure. See you guys soon.’

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