FIC: James the Greater, J/L, PG-13
Title: James the Greater
Author: good_conduct
Characters: James/Lily
Rating: PG-13 (implied sex and a perhaps a cuss or two)
Word Count: 968
Summary: New Years at Peter’s flat is a welcomed deception.
Note: The beginnings of a gift for prongsphile. Sadly, after my invitation to this wonderful community, I never got around to posting. I found myself deeply devoid of motivation and inspiration to write for a very long time. This story is quite unfinished, and the precursor to another, still unwritten part I had hoped to title James the Less. Here it is, in hopes it serves as a somewhat adequate goodbye to a community that gave me so much joy and fed my love of the written word. Cheers, and thank you all.
James watches the shadow of a few loose auburn strands, dark and offset by the orange glow of Lily’s complexion in the firelight, stilled upon her cheek. He thinks of warm summer breezes and dancing silhouettes when they were young, long sunlit hair picked up in the wind and catching in their sweet, coupled mouths, laughter and longing and the uncertain grunt of a new discovery, new love in the sticky grass. But it’s winter now, and they’re still young. He tucks the strands behind Lily’s ear, his fingers gently gripping the shell of it between his thumb and forefinger, four glowing eyes on little Harry suckling happily at her breast. James leans in close, seven o’clock stubble prickly like memories of grass against her cheek.
Wish that were me, he whispers, breath tickling her, making her giggle again as he presses a soft kiss just behind her earlobe.
Later, she murmurs to his silly grin. There’s a peck on the back of the baby’s head and a lingering hand on her shoulder before James floats into the kitchen to begin supper. Lily will be in soon to salvage it, after Harry’s had his fill and nodded off, fluffy sheep and yellow stars circling overhead of their own accord, the metal and fishing line once attached now tangled on the bureau next to some Muggle tools James had promised to learn to use.
In the kitchen, James stands at the stove scratching his messy head with the handle of the ladle.
Lily sighs. Her arms wrap slowly and snugly round his waist as he turns to her, the soup’s perspiration dotting his forehead. The olive sweater he’s wearing is woolly and warm, and its texture on her wrists and chin resting on his chest births tingles in the apples of her cheeks and the pads of her fingers. His glasses drop to the tip of his nose and the ladle to the floor.
Leave it, she says as he stoops to grab it. James knows that glint in her eye, and that ruddy flush in her freckled neck.
Is it later yet? he asks.
Late enough, she growls. It’s snowing outside, but inside Lily there’s all the warmth he needs.
Days are gone too quickly and then it’s Christmas, but somehow no time passes at all, nothing changes, every misplaced shadow an enemy, every noise a cry for help. We shouldn’t be living like this, she cries in the night, but James pulls her closer and hums a delicate carol in her ear, Harry’s faint snoring from his bassinet unneeded percussion. He’s had a cold all this week and Lily’s been a wreck.
New Years at Peter’s flat is a welcomed deception, festive and furtive because there’s no other way, filled to the brim. Peter sits in the corner, nervous lines ruining his smooth forehead, pockets of partygoers shielding him from Lily’s view as James buries his face in the crook of her neck, drunk on wine and perfume. “He’s rattled over Dorcas,” they’re muttering, and Peter traces the grain of the coffee table with the tip of his finger, blue eyes flicking from left to right. “They were getting quite close, you know.”
Poor Peter, Lily sighs and James nods sleepily.
“Oi!” is the only warning as Sirius bounds through the front door and plants a sloppy kiss at the corner of Remus’s tightening lips. He already smells of Firewhiskey, strong and sickly sweet, and Remus pushes him off laughing and cringing. It’s only half past eleven. Sober Remus has been fending them off all night, Marlene McKinnon, Sirius’s married cousin Andromeda, a few lipsticked tarts Lily thinks she remembers from Hogwarts, ones that James pretends to not remember. “How strange he is,” murmurs a room too afraid to show restraint, toasting every moment simply because there is a moment to toast. “Something never been right with that one.”
Lily catches Remus’s eye and his gaze falters. James tightens his grip round her wrist.
Sirius slithers up close, hanging onto them because he can’t stand still on his own. His breath reeks of cigarettes and cunt.
“How’s the happy couple, eh?” He barks his mad laugh and nuzzles the two before bouncing off to neck against the wall with some nameless girl in too much makeup. They’ve moved to the loveseat by the time midnight rolls by, nineteen eighty-one and all is not well but for this little flat. It’s all anyone can ask for. Ted Tonks raises his glass and kisses his wife and they all exuberantly copy him, but Remus pulls Lily aside and just holds her, digs his fingers into her back before disappearing into the early morning fog. She’s lost track of the moon’s cycle; it seems she’d forgotten a long time ago. She thinks he may have bruised her a little.
I want to go home, she whispers to James. Let’s get Harry and go home.
He feels her hands trembling.
James claps Peter on the back, a quick thank you and an even quicker hug with Lily uneasy and waiting by the door in her burgundy cloak. Sirius is just coherent enough to wish them a happy new something, and James leans down to give him a kiss on the forehead.
“No more for tonight, mate. Promise.”
“S’morning, Prongsie...”
“Promise.”
“Promise.” He hiccoughs and laughs at himself and waves to Lily, who smiles for only a moment.
James scans the room for Remus.
Remus is hurting, Lily whispers wrapped in her husband’s arms and their comforter close to three o’clock. Harry is sleeping soundly, back from the tidy home of Emmeline Vance.
We’re all hurting, James sighs. He turns to brush the tip of his nose over hers. He’s never lied to her, not since sixth year, and he won’t begin tonight.
Author: good_conduct
Characters: James/Lily
Rating: PG-13 (implied sex and a perhaps a cuss or two)
Word Count: 968
Summary: New Years at Peter’s flat is a welcomed deception.
Note: The beginnings of a gift for prongsphile. Sadly, after my invitation to this wonderful community, I never got around to posting. I found myself deeply devoid of motivation and inspiration to write for a very long time. This story is quite unfinished, and the precursor to another, still unwritten part I had hoped to title James the Less. Here it is, in hopes it serves as a somewhat adequate goodbye to a community that gave me so much joy and fed my love of the written word. Cheers, and thank you all.
James watches the shadow of a few loose auburn strands, dark and offset by the orange glow of Lily’s complexion in the firelight, stilled upon her cheek. He thinks of warm summer breezes and dancing silhouettes when they were young, long sunlit hair picked up in the wind and catching in their sweet, coupled mouths, laughter and longing and the uncertain grunt of a new discovery, new love in the sticky grass. But it’s winter now, and they’re still young. He tucks the strands behind Lily’s ear, his fingers gently gripping the shell of it between his thumb and forefinger, four glowing eyes on little Harry suckling happily at her breast. James leans in close, seven o’clock stubble prickly like memories of grass against her cheek.
Wish that were me, he whispers, breath tickling her, making her giggle again as he presses a soft kiss just behind her earlobe.
Later, she murmurs to his silly grin. There’s a peck on the back of the baby’s head and a lingering hand on her shoulder before James floats into the kitchen to begin supper. Lily will be in soon to salvage it, after Harry’s had his fill and nodded off, fluffy sheep and yellow stars circling overhead of their own accord, the metal and fishing line once attached now tangled on the bureau next to some Muggle tools James had promised to learn to use.
In the kitchen, James stands at the stove scratching his messy head with the handle of the ladle.
Lily sighs. Her arms wrap slowly and snugly round his waist as he turns to her, the soup’s perspiration dotting his forehead. The olive sweater he’s wearing is woolly and warm, and its texture on her wrists and chin resting on his chest births tingles in the apples of her cheeks and the pads of her fingers. His glasses drop to the tip of his nose and the ladle to the floor.
Leave it, she says as he stoops to grab it. James knows that glint in her eye, and that ruddy flush in her freckled neck.
Is it later yet? he asks.
Late enough, she growls. It’s snowing outside, but inside Lily there’s all the warmth he needs.
Days are gone too quickly and then it’s Christmas, but somehow no time passes at all, nothing changes, every misplaced shadow an enemy, every noise a cry for help. We shouldn’t be living like this, she cries in the night, but James pulls her closer and hums a delicate carol in her ear, Harry’s faint snoring from his bassinet unneeded percussion. He’s had a cold all this week and Lily’s been a wreck.
New Years at Peter’s flat is a welcomed deception, festive and furtive because there’s no other way, filled to the brim. Peter sits in the corner, nervous lines ruining his smooth forehead, pockets of partygoers shielding him from Lily’s view as James buries his face in the crook of her neck, drunk on wine and perfume. “He’s rattled over Dorcas,” they’re muttering, and Peter traces the grain of the coffee table with the tip of his finger, blue eyes flicking from left to right. “They were getting quite close, you know.”
Poor Peter, Lily sighs and James nods sleepily.
“Oi!” is the only warning as Sirius bounds through the front door and plants a sloppy kiss at the corner of Remus’s tightening lips. He already smells of Firewhiskey, strong and sickly sweet, and Remus pushes him off laughing and cringing. It’s only half past eleven. Sober Remus has been fending them off all night, Marlene McKinnon, Sirius’s married cousin Andromeda, a few lipsticked tarts Lily thinks she remembers from Hogwarts, ones that James pretends to not remember. “How strange he is,” murmurs a room too afraid to show restraint, toasting every moment simply because there is a moment to toast. “Something never been right with that one.”
Lily catches Remus’s eye and his gaze falters. James tightens his grip round her wrist.
Sirius slithers up close, hanging onto them because he can’t stand still on his own. His breath reeks of cigarettes and cunt.
“How’s the happy couple, eh?” He barks his mad laugh and nuzzles the two before bouncing off to neck against the wall with some nameless girl in too much makeup. They’ve moved to the loveseat by the time midnight rolls by, nineteen eighty-one and all is not well but for this little flat. It’s all anyone can ask for. Ted Tonks raises his glass and kisses his wife and they all exuberantly copy him, but Remus pulls Lily aside and just holds her, digs his fingers into her back before disappearing into the early morning fog. She’s lost track of the moon’s cycle; it seems she’d forgotten a long time ago. She thinks he may have bruised her a little.
I want to go home, she whispers to James. Let’s get Harry and go home.
He feels her hands trembling.
James claps Peter on the back, a quick thank you and an even quicker hug with Lily uneasy and waiting by the door in her burgundy cloak. Sirius is just coherent enough to wish them a happy new something, and James leans down to give him a kiss on the forehead.
“No more for tonight, mate. Promise.”
“S’morning, Prongsie...”
“Promise.”
“Promise.” He hiccoughs and laughs at himself and waves to Lily, who smiles for only a moment.
James scans the room for Remus.
Remus is hurting, Lily whispers wrapped in her husband’s arms and their comforter close to three o’clock. Harry is sleeping soundly, back from the tidy home of Emmeline Vance.
We’re all hurting, James sighs. He turns to brush the tip of his nose over hers. He’s never lied to her, not since sixth year, and he won’t begin tonight.