Chapter Text
James: Hey! You in town?
James Potter isn’t the sort of man to agonise over a text message - except…
His phone sits open on the passenger seat, Regulus’ text thread glaring up at him. (‘Text thread’ might be a strong term. It’s one text - from him - sent one hour and forty-five minutes ago from the dingy, frigid, bathroom of a petrol station).
Sitting at a stoplight, James drums his fingers against the steering wheel and nearly jumps out of his skin when the chime of an incoming text blares through the speakers. He scrambles to pick it up just as the light in front of him turns green, curses, and flicks eyes back and forth between his phone and this unfamiliar side street. In the end, road safety wins out (his mother would be so proud), and the phone is dropped unceremoniously between his legs. As the traffic pulls sluggishly forward, James thinks back through what might just be every single conversation he’s ever had with Regulus Black to come up with some excuse as to why he’s here, several hours out of his way, seeking him out, unannounced, a handful of days before Christmas.
He comes up empty-handed.
The sky is a looming sort of white-grey, made brighter by the big, fluffy snowflakes swirling in front of his windshield. An hour ago, during his last pitstop in town, people were still braving the sidewalks - parents pushing trolleys with children bundled up to their noses, their arms and legs stuck straight out to the sides in their snowsuits. There were couples in heavy jackets, kids squealing and shoving one another into quickly accumulating snow banks, and shoppers with their last-minute purchases strung over their elbows. Now, though, anyone with half a brain has taken refuge inside where there’s heating and shelter.
The rest of them are trudging through slippery streets on their way to God-knows-where.
James should be on his way home. At home his bed is warm and his mum is cooking a Christmas Eve-Eve dinner. Sirius and Remus are probably on their way already, loaded with presents and expecting James to show up in much the same fashion so they can get inappropriately drunk on mulled wine and eat their body weight in dessert.
But James isn’t on his way home - he’s…. Here. On the absurdly busy side street of a quiet, touristy little town, risking his life and the life of his brand new sedan in an out-of-the-blue snow storm to track down somebody who can’t even bother replying to a simple text message.
He chances another glance at his phone at the next traffic light.
Sirius: Running late! Need anything from the shop?
Mmm. Maybe he should have told them where he was off to. Really, it was meant to be a quick out-and-back, excusable with a good cover story. He was meant to be back by the time dinner hit the table. The weather, it seems, has other plans. Oh well.
His phone chimes again, and James’ stomach lurches uncomfortably.
Regulus: Why?
Well, at least he knows he’s alive.
James slows the car to a near crawl when he turns the corner, tires squeaking in the snow, and finally, finally, pulls up against the curb before plucking his phone up again.
His thumb hovers over Sirius’ name for a beat before he thinks better of a phone call.
James: Running late! See you later!
Fine. It’s all fine.
Well. Sort of.
He isn’t dressed for the weather. When he swings his legs out of the car and plants his feet on the ground his trainers fill up with snow almost immediately. He pulls a denim jacket on over his sweater (ill-planning, on his behalf - but hey, this was a spur-of-the-moment sort of decision), and finds a long-forgotten scarf in the back seat. (Remus’, probably).
He can see why Regulus likes it - this town. It reminds him a lot of the winding streets back home where he and Sirius would slip out the backdoor and take the long, quiet paths down through the sheep fields toward town. The main street, much like this one, has only a handful of shops in stout red-brick buildings which, in the winter, decorate in bright lights and colours for Christmas. It’s fairy tale-esque. It’s fitting.
There are twenty-six shops between James’ parked car and the bookshop, thirteen on each side of the street. James squints up at each one of their signs and stops in at two of them - a bakery and a coffee shop, where he buys a small assortment of pastries tucked neatly into a little brown box, carried in the crook of one elbow, and two piping hot cups of coffee which he hopes might keep his fingers from falling off before he can find his way to Regulus’.
Twenty-six shops. And if he loiters in front of each one, eyeing up trinkets, cheap, touristy sweaters, and Christmas baubles in all shapes and colours, it’s definitely not because he’s putting off the inevitable. And if he stands just to the left of the bookshop for a while - away from the big windows overlooking the street - well… he just needs a bit of a pep talk.
When he nudges the door open with his shoulder a bell chimes overhead and James is met with a flood of glorious warmth. He’s been trying not to think about the snow in his trainers, though now, as it melts, he’s having a hard time deciding which is worse: Ice, or soggy socks?
Still, he’s here, and he’s been strangely giddy since he left this morning, some soggy socks and frigid fingers aren’t going to ruin his mood - nor is Regulus, wherever he is.
The shop is small and tidy. There are rows upon rows of bookshelves, each one taller than him, and each one jammed absolutely full of books. He studies a shelf of non-fiction near the door, tucking one of his coffee cups in his elbow to draw his thumb over an ornate travel book called ‘A Table in Paris’. There’s incense burning somewhere, and the air smells like a rich mix of paper, book ink, and sage. Light spills in through the wide windows, he imagines it’s especially bright and cheerful in the summer; for now, it’s a warm, quiet reprieve from the weather. He can imagine locals rushing through this door and letting their worries melt away at the threshold, picking one of the armchairs wedged into the corners and curling up with a stack of books before deciding which ones to take home. Regulus, for all of his rough edges, always had a soft spot for places like these, and the escape they provided from a sometimes shitty day-to-day.
The boards underfoot creak with every step he takes. James sidesteps a wrinkle in one of the ornate rugs on the floor and winds his way through the shelves, stopping in his tracks at the end of an aisle. Because there he is - dressed in a cardigan with patches on the sleeves, one elbow on the counter in front of him, and his chin in his hand. There’s a mug of tea on his right and a stack of books on his left. One of them is open in front of him and he’s poring over it, hunched so James can’t see his expression. He’s grown his hair out - a little - and maybe he’s making it up, but James thinks he looks softer. Happier. A far cry from the Regulus he and Sirius had left behind when Sirius turned eighteen, bags and boxes shoved into the back of James’ parents’ car and Regulus watching them from the porch with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Oh,” Regulus jolts when James sets the coffee cups down on the counter.
“Are you ready to g-,” Regulus starts, and James can feel the slow drag of his eyes from the coffee cups up the length of his torso, he can feel the scowl when those eyes land on his face.
He smiles anyway.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing here?” Regulus stands up a little straighter, crossing his arms over his chest (ah, there he is - a more familiar version of the boy he used to know). His cheeks have turned a soft shade of pink, like he’s embarrassed, maybe, about being caught off guard. Or maybe like he’s irritated that James is here in the first place.
James isn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Years-old feelings, carefully locked behind purposefully-constructed walls, bleeding right through the cracks and filling up that cavern in his chest. Butterflies start up low in his gut and his heart thuds away so erratically that he’s half-sure Regulus can hear it from where he sits.
“What? Oh - right,” James holds up the coffee cup as if in explanation, “I was in the area, just thought I’d say hi.”
Regulus looks at him incredulously. He sets one of the cups down and nudges it across the counter toward him.
“ Hi,” he says emphatically, with a short laugh. And then he’s turning to peer at the shelves of books again. “This place is really you,” James says, nodding toward the high ceilings, the dark walls, the ornate light fixtures. Regulus follows him warily, like he’s afraid James is going to send these overstuffed shelves careening to the floor, or else set the whole place on fire.
“Of course it is, I bought it. And I sent you pictures - so you already knew that.”
James hums. “You sent Sirius pictures,” he corrects.
“Well, I assumed you’d see them.”
And isn’t that interesting?
“How’ve you been?” James asks, abandoning the box of pastries on an armchair wedged in a dim corner. Regulus eyes it suspiciously, hovering somewhere behind him while James examines yet another shelf of books.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
Regulus’ expression is still largely impassive, save the irritated little line between his eyebrows.
“Good.”
“Mm. Ok.”
Regulus makes an exasperated sound. James has a copy of some time travel novel he’s never heard of open in his hands, scanning the first page. Really, it’s something to do with his hands. Something to focus on that isn’t Regulus.
“ What are you doing here, James?” Regulus has his feet planted on the floor and his shoulder against a shelf.
“I told you-”
“No.” Regulus snorts. “No, you weren’t just in the area, and you didn’t want to just say hi. You want something. What is it?”
James sighs.
“I came,” he says slowly, “to invite you to Christmas.”
He thinks he sees Regulus’ eyes widen, just a little, and only for a second. Something complicated flicks over his face before he gives his head a firm shake.
“No,” he says, and then he laughs - and maybe it’s an unkind sort of laugh, but James clings to the sound of it anyway.
“I’m sorry,” Regulus carries on, “that you came all the way over here, that you wasted your time. But no. I’m fine right here.”
Regulus turns on his heel, then, and James is right there behind him, following him back through the winding shelves to the counter. Regulus takes his spot behind it, perched on a tall wooden stool with his book open in front of him. He stares at it for only a second before he busies himself instead with the money in the register, fussing with bills and counting out coins. His eyes flick briefly to the clock on the wall. James thinks it’s meant to be a hint - get out of here, your time’s up.
He’s never been all that afraid of overstaying a welcome.
“Awe come on. The sign on your door said you’re closed for the hols-”
“Right. Because I have plans.”
“Oh? Doing what?”
Regulus falters. His mouth drops open and then closes again.
“I’m not telling you.”
James snorts.
“Very mature, Reg. So you don’t have plans.”
“ Yes. I do. And I’m closing in,” he glances at the clock again, “five minutes, and,” he gestures this time at the big window out front, “if you don’t get out of here in the next twenty you’re never going to make it home.”
Outside the sky has dimmed significantly, the sun sinking lower on the horizon, and the air has taken on an ominous white hue, thick now with snowflakes that swirl in the wind. Regulus is probably right. James watches the snowflakes for a long few seconds, chewing on the inside of his cheek to the tune of coins clinking into the register. Regulus’ voice is what breaks him out of his thoughts.
“I’m not coming, James.” James’ eyebrows twitch down, and he keeps his eyes glued to the street.
“I don’t want to spend Christmas with you. I don’t need you to whisk me away from the life I’ve made, the life I like and I’m not going back there.”
Regulus Black is not a monster.
A particular man with reasonable boundaries? Yes - but not a monster. Which is why he finds himself standing at his living room window frowning at the flurry outside, holding his sweater tight around himself and eyeing the cars slowly trudging down the icy streets. He knows firsthand just how poorly this town handles the seasons - narrow streets and folks who would rather hole up by the fire when the weather turns than put plows on the road.
There’s a squeal of tires, or brakes maybe, and a disgruntled sound from the driver in the street, loud enough that Regulus can hear it through the window. James, who is still standing on the curb with his phone in his hand, is on the street in a second. He has his shoulder against the back of the car and his feet are slipping and sliding against the ice on the street. The driver sticks their head out the window and says something Regulus can’t make out, with big, sweeping gestures of their hands.
James hits his knees, feet sliding out from under him, and Regulus flinches. The driver hits his four-way flashers and someone else, holding onto their hat with one hand, throws his shoulder against the car too. Together they make it the few feet to the curb, and then they’re shaking hands and the strangers on the street are taking off on foot.
And James is alone again.
Fuck.
Regulus Black is a particular man with reasonable boundaries and he has to be a monster. He has to. Because somehow James Potter has always managed to… subvert those boundaries, make him act in ways that are wholly unacceptable - turn him into a blushing, flushing, stammering, stuttering, mess of a man, the type of person who stays up too late waiting for a phone call, who studies his texts before he sends them, who shows up, by chance, where he thinks James might be, who hangs around his older brother and his friends, hovering like a moth to flame. And he’d crushed it. He’d smashed that crush in his fist when he left home, and so what if he still glances through James’ socials every now and then? So what if he asks Sirius about him every so often at the close of their Sunday night phone calls? It doesn’t matter, because with distance he’s been able to forget all about James Potter, and these dumb little hold-over habits mean absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
Regulus pinches his nose between his fingers and then lets his forehead thud against the window, once, twice, and then a third time, squinting through the snow at the figures on the street below.
“Oh, what the fuck-…”
James is gone. Disappeared into the ether. And good. That’s good. He probably found a ride out of town or wrangled enough service he could call the inn down the road - maybe he made it back to his car and by some miracle was able to brave the roads. It’s fine, he’s out of his hair and he won’t have to worry about him until the next time Sirius tries to wrangle them into the same room together.
Regulus hovers at the window for another beat or two before setting his mug down with a dull clunk and snatching his jacket off the hook near the door. He’s only just shoved his arms into it and zipped it up to his chin when he makes it down the stairs and to the street. Outside, the air is frigid - snow clings to his eyelashes and makes it hard to see, his lips are cold, his eyeballs are cold, everything is cold and miserable and -
“Reg what are you doing out here?!” James’ voice is loud over the wind. White flecks have collected in his curls and his glasses are streaked, his cheeks are startlingly red and when he reaches out to fuss with Regulus’ jacket (Regulus abruptly sidestepping, but not before James’ hands make contact with the skin just above his collar), his fingers are ice cold.
“I thought you left-” Regulus sputters.
James, stupid, frustrating, obnoxious, James tilts his head back, eyeing up the windows facing the street. His smirk is slow to bloom.
“Nah Reg, I’m right here,” he gestures with his chin to a little snow-free alcove against the wall, underneath the awning of the flower shop.
Regulus is quiet. His jaw works around words but nothing comes out, not for a long few beats before he nods back toward the door he’s just come out of.
“Come on, then.”
The warm air of the apartment above the bookshop fogs James’ glasses. He stands in the doorway dripping on the mat and cleaning them on the front of his shirt while Regulus shucks his coat and shoes and tries not to look directly at him.
“Tea?” He asks from the kitchen, the kettle already in hand.
“Yeah. Please.”
He fills it at the tap and busies himself setting it on the hob, watching flames flick to life underneath it and studying the mugs in the cabinet. He can hear James moving around his space just behind him, setting his shoes on the corner of the mat, hesitating with his jacket in his hands, and eventually hanging it on the lone empty hook next to the door. Despite his natural inclination, Regulus has set up his home for visitors. An empty hook next to the door, extra space on the mat for another pair of shoes, four sets of dishes in the cupboard, and a guest room - always made up. When he left his parents' house and eventually found himself here, he’d had big plans to invite Sirius down for the summer, to make him a space to stay and say, maybe without words, ‘sorry for…. Well, everything’. But then March had turned to April, and April had turned to May, and then autumn came, and then winter, and then one Christmas, and another, and then it had felt like too much time had passed and maybe Sirius was fine with just a Sunday afternoon phone call.
He’d never been good at the whole olive branch thing.
“Nice place,” James says.
Regulus hums in acknowledgment. He chances a glance at James over his shoulder, expecting a wide, stupid smirk. What he gets instead is James with his hands behind his back, studying the trinkets on his mantle.
“Perfect spot for a stocking,” he muses, scanning the rest of the living space. “No tree?”
Regulus pours water over the teabags in the mugs.
“I don’t need one.”
James scoffs, “Everyone needs a Christmas tree.”
Regulus just resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Sorry I’m not celebrating Christmas to your standards,” he pauses with his hand over the sugar bowl, staring down at it with his mouth half-open. It strikes him, sudden and sad, that he hasn’t the faintest clue how James takes his tea. He knew once, when they were kids and he and Sirius both drank it with too much sugar. He drops two lumps in and stirs, topping it with milk and holding it out silently to James, still studying his shelves.
He takes a sip before it cools down, wincing and smacking his lips.
“Perfect. You’re amazing - has anyone told you that?”
Regulus does roll his eyes this time - he’s sure he’ll be much less thankful when he’s finally warmed up.
“Every so often,” Regulus mumbles, blowing on his own tea before he brings it to his lips, sipping slowly and watching James over the rim of the mug. “I have to work tonight,” he adds.
“Oh? I thought you had plans.”
“That was-,” Regulus cuts himself off, “I just have a few things to do. So I can’t sit around entertaining you.”
“I think I can manage to entertain myself. You know, if I really need to I can find a hotel…”
That would be the right thing to do. Send James to a hotel and forget all about him. Drawing his tongue over the fronts of his teeth, Regulus takes a long, slow, breath in.
“No - you can stay, just…” he pinches his eyes shut.
“Just what?”
“Nothing.”
The guest room bed is made up. Regulus fusses over it anyway, picking at the sheets and searching for dust, adjusting the pillows, and loitering at the side of the bed. He’d always imagined it would be Sirius staying over. Never in a thousand years had he thought it’d be James fucking Potter.
“God I might be stuck here all week,” James rounds the corner with his phone in his hand. Regulus’ fingers jump into fists at his sides. “Doesn’t look like it’s going to let up.”
“There should be a bus out of town,” he says primly, crossing to the window and peering out the blinds. He clears his throat and shoots a look back at James. “Your parents would kill you for missing Christmas - Sirius would kill you for missing Christmas.”
James shrugs.
“Ah well, there’ll be another Christmas.”
It’s absurd to him - that they all love it so much. Christmas at Grimmauld place was just another day - another occasion to wear ugly, itchy, fancy clothes and eat ornate meals with too-many-rules, half a table’s length away from his parents. Once, when he was fourteen, James had tried to tell him and Sirius both all about Christmas at the Potter’s. The warmth and the food, the mountains of presents, the long, boring stories from ancient aunts and uncles, the sorts of stories that got crazier year by year, until nobody was sure what was true and what wasn’t. He hadn’t wanted to hear it then - he doesn’t want to hear it now.
“We should make cookies, I bet I could remember mum’s recipe, or text her for it maybe - think we’d survive a trip to the shops?” James appears at his shoulder, close enough that Regulus can feel the warmth radiating off of him. He leans closer to look out the window and sucks in air through his teeth.
It goes black all at once. And Regulus is sure that the proximity sent all the blood in his body to his head and knocked him the fuck out. Until, that is, James’ too-loud laugh echoes off the guest room walls. James’ hand slaps over his mouth and he sucks air through his teeth again, this time in a sniggering sort of sound.
“Was that the power?” Regulus says weakly. James clearly hasn’t grasped the gravity of the situation, if his snorting laugh is any indication.
“Oh, Jesus - just what we needed… No cookies, then?”
“No James. No cookies.”
The thing about Regulus is that he’s good in a crisis when he’s on his own. He’s used to being alone - he likes being alone.
James being here in his space has him feeling like he can’t sort up from down or left from right. He knows there are candles in the closet by the door, but he’s on edge while he digs for them, with James hovering unhelpfully behind him, squinting through the dark.
“Here,” James’ hand on his back makes him jolt, elbow knocking painfully against the doorframe. James cringes, shifting to cup Regulus’ bruised elbow instead (decidedly unhelpful), while his other hand directs the flashlight of his phone into the closet.
“I’ve got it, James,” Regulus snaps, snatching a box off the back of a shelf and dropping it unceremoniously to the kitchen table. He busies himself setting candles out on the table, digging through the box for a lighter, a matchbook, anything.
He comes up empty.
James props himself up against the back of a dining table and clears his throat. Regulus’ eyes slip briefly closed.
“Yes?” Regulus snaps.
“I - well, do you want my lighter?”
He’d like to tell him that no, he really has no need for it, and maybe it’s just better if they sit in the dark. James fishes it out of his pocket anyway, holding it in his outstretched palm. Regulus takes it gingerly, ignoring the way his stomach flutters when their fingers brush.
The candles flick to life one by one, casting the living room in a low, warm glow. The only other light spills in through the window, coming from the moon reflecting off the snow outside. It’s quiet. No humming appliances, no cars outside, no television, no radio. James squirms, like he’d like to fill it with something.
Regulus beats him to it.
“Have you had dinner?”
“Err - no, it’s like,” James casts another glance down at his phone, “five-thirty.”
And so it is. The early set of the December sun also has Regulus out of sorts. But without a task to fuss over he isn’t entirely sure what to do with himself.
Is it a kindness, or is James actively making fun of him? Regulus jolts again when James’ hands land on his shoulders, turning him on the spot and giving him a little push toward the living room.
“Does that thing work?” He asks, gesturing toward the gas fireplace set into the wall. Regulus nods dumbly.
“Right, sit your arse down. You have work to do, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll scrounge up a snack and stay out of your hair, you work and try not to think about murdering me,” and he winks. It makes him want to throttle him - and has a flush rising to his cheeks.
It’s a gas fireplace and a gas stove. The fireplace flicks easily to life with a gentle heat that has Regulus sighing thankfully when he tucks himself onto his favourite corner of the couch. There’s a divot there in the shape of him, a reliable coaster on the end table, and a handful of things stacked on the floor next to his feet: Laptop, tablet, notebooks, and a smattering of pens. This is how he’d intended to spend his Christmas Eve-Eve (and his Christmas Eve, and his Christmas Day, if he’s honest): With the book he’s been working on spread open on his lap, maybe a glass of wine at his side. The unfortunate matter of the lights being out means the notebooks are less useful than the laptop, which feels less enjoyable. He opens it anyway and turns the brightness of the screen all the way down, angling himself away from the kitchen and away from James in case he gets the nosey urge to read over his shoulder. In the kitchen, he can hear the sounds of James clanging through his things, opening and closing cupboards, and eventually the stove sputtering to life.
Every so often his head appears around the doorway with a question and Regulus has to look up from his work with the flicker of a frown - they get fewer and farther between, though, the longer James spends holed away in the other room. Time passes strangely. On one hand, it feels oddly normal, he is in his routine and James has managed to stay mostly out of his hair; on the other, he blinks and there he is again, leaning against the back of the couch and handing a plate down to him.
It’s hardly a meal. It’s the entire contents of Regulus’ fridge divided up onto two plates, some bits cooked and some not. James is looking at him sternly.
“You’re shit at stocking your cupboards.”
Regulus gapes.
“And it’s cold as hell in here - I think we need a drink.”
“I have wine?” Regulus gestures vaguely to the rack in the kitchen, wondering, briefly, where James gets the nerve before untangling himself from the blanket he’s drawn over his lap to pick his way into the other room.
James scoffs and shakes his head.
“Wine won’t warm us up.”
Regulus thinks about telling him that no amount of liquor is going to warm them up if the heat really does stay out all night - but James is already stepping up next to him, in his space, and reaching over his head to open the uppermost kitchen cabinet.
“ Aha, I knew you were holding out on me.” he takes hold of a bottle of whiskey by its neck, swinging it down onto the counter with a celebratory grin. Regulus ignores the flush that threatens to creep up the back of his neck.
“ This will keep us warm.”
It’s infuriating, the way James acts as though he’s at home in his space already, moving around like it’s his - opening and closing cupboards until he finds glasses and clunking them down on the counter with a flourish. Whiskey splashes from the bottle (it seems like James is a measure-with-your-heart kind of guy), and then James swallows his in two quick gulps.
It’s warm and smooth on his tongue. Regulus means to sip - but one look at James, the way his shirt rides up when he stretches to continue digging through his cabinet, the way he tosses a grin at him over the shoulder - well - it’s going to be a long fucking night. Regulus snatches the bottle up himself this time, pouring two more generous glasses.