Chapter Text
He always thought he would die with blood in his mouth. His own, or someone else’s—either way, when he imagined it, the tang of iron was always there. Strange, now, to taste nothing but dust on his tongue.
He gave the last bullet to the horse. How long ago—yesterday? Longer? Stupid, maybe. Sentimental. But he couldn’t bear to watch it, the sweat-soaked heaving, the bloodied flank. The animal eyes, black with pupil and fear. He pressed the Colt to its forehead, and he pulled the trigger.
BLAM!
Stupid.
Sirius would say it was stupid.
But Sirius isn’t here. Regulus is alone, beneath a sky so big and so dark that he half-wonders if he’s already dead. He thought he was walking, but he’s not—he’s on his knees, and when did that happen? Surely, if his legs gave out, he would have noticed it.
He’s so tired.
You run, Reggie.
You run, and you keep on running.
His hands are in the dirt. The grass. Down on all fours, like an animal. Like a horse. All pupil.
Sirius, he thinks, as the ground sways up to meet him, Sirius, I don’t think I can run anymore.
Regulus rolls, flat-backed in the grass, panting. Tongue a desert, dirt in his teeth. He searches the sky for a pinprick, for a light, for anything. The air smells like a storm, and he can’t tell the night from the clouds. There’s no moon. The stars are hiding.
Sirius, he tries to say, Sirius, I don’t think…
His eyes slide shut. The dark is just the same. Regulus drifts, and he doesn’t feel it when the sky splits like rotten fruit, when the rain comes down to wash the earth clean.
He doesn’t feel anything.
* * *
He gasps himself awake, lungs aching, adrenaline already kicking his heart into his throat. Regulus scrambles, jerking reflexively—but there are no restraints, and his arms go flying, tangled in blankets and smacking hard into the wall. And the wall, it’s—it’s wood, rough-hewn, none of the sterile tile, and he’s not—he doesn’t know where—
“Woah, woah, hey there,”
The voice is as rough as the walls, deep and rounded and warm at the corners. Regulus jerks upright, head snapping around, eyes darting like a cornered animal as he tries to get his bearings.
He’s in—a house. A house he’s never seen before. Small, stove-heated, wood walls and wood floors, simple and entirely unfamiliar. There’s a table in one corner, a chair, a chest. The bed that Regulus is sitting on appears to be the largest piece of furniture occupying the space, with innocuously delicate carvings on the bedposts, tiny bears and eagles and pine trees decorating the wood. The mattress is lumpy, uncomfortable, but the blanket he’s tangled in is a well-loved quilt, soft and colorful and heavy, smelling of woodsmoke.
There’s another chair, beside the bed. A man. Pine-sap skin, earth-turned eyes. The unruliest hair that Regulus has ever seen, wild, frizzy curls that jump from his scalp and brush at the stubble on his jaw. He has his hands raised, palms flat, the way you’d approach a startled horse.
The horse.
The bullet.
BLAM!
“Hey now,” the man says, low and steady, “You’re alright. You’re safe.”
It’s a trick, Regulus thinks, immediately, it’s a trick, it’s a—
He fumbles at his waist, but his belt is gone—his shirt is gone—where’s his—he needs—
“Looking for this?” asks the man. He leans down slow, lifts the Colt from the floor, the familiar scratched handle flat in his palm.
Regulus doesn’t think—just moves, lunging out of the bed before the man can point the gun at him, knocking him out of his chair and slamming him into the floor, pressing one arm to the man’s throat and using the other to pin his wrist, to go for the gun—
There’s a horrible, ear-splitting snarl, inches from Regulus’s face. When he looks up, a massive black dog has risen from where it must have been lying at the foot of the bed, hackles raised as it growls.
“Down, Padfoot,” the man chokes out, struggling beneath him to get Regulus’s arm off his throat, “Down, boy—it’s alright—”
The dog continues growling, but it doesn’t move. The man manages to get his hands on Regulus’s shoulders, calluses rough and warm against bare skin, pushing him back—but it’s less of a struggle and more of a hold, firm strength that Regulus knows he can’t overpower with his body still trembling on the brink of exhaustion, adrenaline the only thing keeping him upright. He clutches the gun in his hand, and the man doesn’t try to take it from him.
“No need for all that,” he grunts, not sounding upset so much as gently chastising, “I was going to give it back.”
“Who are you?!” Regulus hisses, heart pounding, “Where am I?!”
The man beneath him huffs, eyes creasing at the corners as he—smiles?
“Name’s James,” he says, “And you’re in my house. You can thank Padfoot for that—he’s the one that found you, out there in the storm. I’d shake your hand, but…”
“No, where—I mean—” Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, briefly, still clutching the gun. He can feel a headache coming on, the familiar pounding between his temples. “What state?”
When he opens his eyes again, the man—James—is watching him, brows pulled together in a question.
“Montana,” he says, after a moment, “’Bout a day’s ride from Butte, give or take.”
“Montana,” Regulus mumbles, half to himself. James continues to stare up at him, watching his face.
“I take it you’re not from around here?”
“I—no, I—”
James squeezes his shoulder, lightly, and Regulus realizes that they’re still touching—that he’s practically straddling the man, half-pinning him to the ground, and the dog is still watching them suspiciously, though it’s no longer growling. He flinches away, scrambling back, grabbing one of the bedposts for support when he’s hit with a wave of dizziness as he tries to stand. His fingers slide over the carved animals, tracing the tiny grooves.
“Woah there,” James pushes himself to his feet, still moving slowly, palms up like he’s dealing with a skittish animal, “It’s alright—why don’t you just take a seat, yeah? Let me get you some water…”
“I—I’m sorry, I…” Regulus squeezes his eyes shut again, trying to think past the pounding in his skull. “You said you…found me…something about a storm?”
There’s a canteen pressed into his hand, dented tin. Regulus flinches at the cold metal, but then quickly accepts, drinking so fast that some of the water spills over his chin, down his neck.
“Like I said,” James replies, a note of amusement in his voice, “Padfoot’s the one that found you. Barking his head off out there in the rain, weren’t you boy?”
When Regulus opens his eyes, the dog has come to sit beside James, tongue lolling as the man scratches behind his ears. James smiles down at the mutt, warm and fond, and then turns back to Regulus.
“You were in bad shape,” he says, raising a brow, “Lucky Pads found you when he did. We brought you in, dried you off as best I could…” James eyes him, up and down, and Regulus is suddenly very aware of his bare chest, his uncovered arms—he tucks his forearm tight to his side, still holding the gun.
“Seems like you’ve come a long way,” James finishes, still scratching absentmindedly at the dog’s ears. Its tail thumps against the floor. James smiles down at it, then lifts his gaze back to Regulus. “Anywhere in particular you were headed?”
Regulus swallows. He can still taste the dust in his throat. He can still feel the full-body ache of riding, endless riding, days of running and running and running until the horse gave out and Regulus had no choice but to put a bullet in its head.
BLAM!
“Hey—no need to look like that,” James lifts his hands, amicable, “Didn’t mean to be nosy. Folks ‘round these parts know a thing or two about minding their business. I was just askin’ in case there was somewhere I could help you get. Like I said, we’re about a day’s ride from Butte, if you’re lookin’ to go that way.”
“No,” Regulus breathes. You stay out of the cities—d’you hear me, Reg? You stay away, and you run—
“Alright then.” James smiles at him. He has a broad mouth. Soft. “Well…sun’ll be up soon. Tell you what—why don’t you get some rest? I’ve got things to tend to out at the barn, but you’re welcome to stay here, s’long as you need. Get some rest, and come find me once you’re up, and I’ll rustle us up something to eat. Sound alright?”
Regulus nods, mutely. He’s still holding the empty gun in one hand, the half-empty canteen in the other. James nods, still with that soft smile, and heads towards the door. Padfoot follows him, glancing back at Regulus once with a huff.
James is halfway out the door before Regulus comes back to himself enough to open his mouth, blurting out,
“Wait!”
James turns. The sun is just beginning to rise outside, sky turning a muted shade of grey.
“I…” Regulus swallows, looks down at his hands. “Thank you.”
When he looks back up, James is smiling.
“Get some rest,” he says.
* * *
When Regulus wakes, there’s a needle in his arm. It was a trick—he knew it was a trick—and he can smell the tile, and Sirius is there, pressing down on the plunger, and it doesn’t make sense because Sirius wouldn’t—he would never—
“It’s okay, Reggie,” he says, in his big-brother voice, “This won’t hurt. It’s okay.”
Regulus tries to scream, but they’ve shoved the leather bit between his teeth, strapped him down so tight he can’t even turn his head. Sirius smiles, and Regulus watches his own veins darken as the syringe empties under his skin.
“It’s okay, Reggie. It’s okay. We’re God’s chosen.”
Regulus wakes up.
He’s not in the lab. He’s in an unfamiliar house—wood walls, wood floors. Carved bedposts. The quilt.
James, he thinks, deliriously, as it all comes crashing back.
The sun is up now, early autumn sunshine pouring through the windows. Regulus looks out the nearest one and sees a sky so blue it hurts his eyes, endless and unyielding.
He takes a breath.
He brings his legs up to his chest, curling inwards, presses his forehead to his knees. He squeezes his eyes shut, and he takes another breath, and another, and another, until he no longer feels like his chest is about to cave in.
He’s safe.
He needs to believe that he’s safe.
Regulus shoves the dream to the back of his mind. The canteen is still beside the bed, so he reaches out for it, trying not to look at his forearm. He pours the water down his throat in an attempt to assuage the painful clench of his empty stomach. Once the canteen is empty, he drags himself out of bed, wincing at the constant twinge of sore muscles. James has left his shirt hanging over the back of a chair to dry, along with his belt and holster. Regulus dresses quickly, replacing the Colt in its rightful spot and then staring down at his empty hands. He allows himself to realize, for the first time, just how little he left with—nothing but the clothes on his back and the gun on his hip. He has no money, no bullets, nowhere to go. He doesn’t…well. If he’s honest with himself, he never really thought he’d make it this far.
Montana. Now that he’s here, he has no idea what to do.
His stomach growls.
Regulus steps outside, squinting against the onslaught of sunshine. From the outside, the house looks small, modest and neat. The kind of place that his mother would sniff at and call quaint. The barn isn’t difficult to spot; it’s the only other building on the property, save what seems to be a small outhouse, and the only building in sight at all for miles. If this James fellow has any neighbors, Regulus certainly can’t see them—there’s nothing to the east but rolling, grassy hills and nothing to the west but scattered woods that grow gradually thicker, condensing beneath a craggy mountain peak.
It doesn’t feel real. Regulus can’t stop pressing his fingers to his forearm, glancing around obsessively like he could wake up at any moment back in that chair.
He hears James before he sees him. There’s a slow, steady thwack coming from around the back of the barn, and when Regulus follows the noise he finds James with his sleeves rolled up, shirt sweat-soaked, hands wrapped around an axe. He brings the blade down a few more times before he notices Regulus, not looking up until the log he’s chopping has split.
“Oh!”
James loosens his grip on the axe, letting it hang in one hand as he uses the other to shove his spectacles up from where they’ve slid down his nose, “Sirius, you’re awake!”
Regulus freezes, alarm bells going off in his head.
“What did you just call me?”
James squints, still breathing hard from exertion. “Er…Sirius?”
The name lands like a gut-punch. Regulus’s voice is low when he responds, cold. Venomous.
“How the hell do you know that name?”
“Hey,” James frowns, raising his free hand as though in surrender, “There’s no need to take that tone. Saw it carved on your gun,” he nods towards the holster on Regulus’s hip, “Just put two and two together.”
Regulus releases a breath, heart settling back into a normal rhythm. Right. The gun.
“It’s an unusual name,” James continues, voice falling back into its usual amicable tone now that Regulus is no longer glaring at him, “The dog star, right?”
Regulus swallows.
“It’s not my name.”
“Oh.” James blinks, looking thrown for a moment. His eyes fall to the gun again, and there’s a question there—but he doesn’t ask it, just shakes his head and smiles. “My apologies, then. I jumped to conclusions. Lily always used to scold me for that.”
Regulus doesn’t ask who Lily is. He’s still shaken, trying not to get stuck on the cheerful way James had said, Sirius, you’re awake! He doesn’t realize that the silence has stretched itself thin until James shifts a bit, clearing his throat.
“Right. Well, uh…you got a name? Something I can call you?”
Regulus blinks.
“Reg.”
“Reg,” James repeats, drawing out the single syllable like he’s letting his mouth get used to it. “That short for something?”
“Does it matter?”
Regulus winces at his harsh tone immediately, cursing himself for snapping—acting so goddamn defensive is just going to raise suspicion. But to his surprise, it doesn’t seem to bother James; the other man just laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, shooting Regulus a bemused grin.
“S’pose it doesn’t,” he concedes, wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Well, Reg. I’m James Potter. Nice to meet you.”
“We’ve already met,” Regulus says, stupidly. He moves his eyes away from the sweat-dampened curls that are sticking to James Potter’s neck.
James laughs again, as if he finds Regulus’s blunt tone and complete inability to hold a normal conversation endearing rather than off-putting. Regulus supposes, with a grim sort of self-deprecation, that if the man lives out here with only a dog for company, anyone who can string a few words together probably seems like the world’s most eloquent conversationalist.
“Well, nice to meet you again, then,” James declares, still grinning. He props the axe against the stump that he was using to chop wood, wiping his hands perfunctorily on his jeans. “Say, are you hungry? I was just about to start in on lunch.”
Regulus’s stomach answers for him, growling so loudly that it can be heard even with the space between them. His face heats with embarrassment, but James just laughs.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Come on—let’s get you some food.”
Food is eggs and potatoes, cooked in an iron skillet, unseasoned and smashed all together. Regulus inhales it, eating so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. But James just seems pleased that the food is appreciated.
“Lily used to say I couldn’t cook worth shit,” he shares, smiling as he takes a bite of his own eggs. It’s that name again—Lily. Regulus still doesn’t ask who she is; an ex-lover, an old flame—it really doesn’t make a difference. He has no desire to learn anything more about this man’s life than he has to.
Instead, he swallows, pausing only long enough to mutter,
“She was right,”
Before shoving the next bite of food into his mouth. It’s a bad habit, making snippy little comments under his breath, and one that Regulus used to get into trouble for. But James only laughs, startling him, and Regulus wonders again how starved for human company this man must be. He could probably spit on James’s boots, and he’d still act like he found it charming.
It’s disconcerting. Regulus has never been charming—that was always Sirius, with his easy smiles and his bright laugh and his saccharine voice. Regulus only ever learned how to copy, trying desperately to imitate the nonchalant façade with which his brother faced the world, and even then he constantly had to remind himself to smile, or nod, or laugh at the appropriate times. He certainly hasn’t had the energy to keep up such an act since he woke up in fucking Montana, and yet James is responding for all the world like Regulus’s natural abrasiveness is the epitome of amicability. No one’s ever just been…nice to him before, without requiring something in return.
Regulus doesn’t think he can trust it.
He also doesn’t think he has much of a choice.
“So,” James clears his throat, snapping Regulus out of his thoughts. He shifts a bit in his chair, resting his elbows on the table—bad manners! hisses a voice in the back of Regulus’s mind, automatic. He tries not to flinch.
“I don’t mean to pry,” James says, slowly, “But…well, can I ask how long you mean to stay?”
Regulus feels his heart start to kick in his chest, cold sweat prickling on the back of his neck. Right. Of course. He’s still—there’s still this, he’s still here, and he can’t just expect to stay in this cabin forever and pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
“If there’s somewhere you’re trying to go, it’d be my pleasure to help out. I’ve got a horse in the barn…”
Keep running.
You run, and you keep on running.
But where? Where does he go? Sirius didn’t tell him this part—didn’t tell him what to do once he got out. Regulus wonders, with a feeling like a twisting knife in his gut, if maybe that’s because Sirius never expected him to get out, either. If they both secretly, silently, thought he’d stay stuck there forever.
Where am I supposed to go, Sirius? Regulus thinks, desperately, angrily, I can’t keep running forever. I can’t.
“Hey.”
Touch shocks Regulus back into his body—a warm palm, heavy and rough and callused. James is leaning forward, arm stretched across the table, using his hand to cover Regulus’s own.
“Listen,” James says, after a moment of tense silence, “I…I hope I’m not overstepping, but…well, it’s just that I’ve seen folks in trouble before.”
“I’m not in trouble,” Regulus says, automatically, yanking his hand away. He curls into himself, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched. James blows out a breath, sighing as he leans back in his own chair, studying Regulus with a tiny furrow between his brows. After a moment, he removes his spectacles, rubbing a hand over his eyes and down his face before he replaces them.
“Alright,” he says, nodding, “No trouble. Got it.”
Regulus remains silent, staring down at the table in front of him. He doesn’t like the way James is looking at him—like he’s something to be solved, a math problem or a jigsaw puzzle.
When Regulus doesn’t speak, James sighs again, which makes Padfoot—who’s lying on the floor by his feet—prick his ears and huff, as though imitating the sound.
“Look,” James says, voice soft, “It’s just me out here on the farm. Padfoot’s good company, but he’s not much help—and with winter coming, I could use an extra pair of hands.”
Regulus looks up, slowly. James is watching him, face open and friendly.
“I couldn’t pay you,” he says, “But there’s a loft in the barn, got a cot and a couple extra blankets. And my cooking might be shit, but I’d keep you fed. If you’re willing to work for a bed and three square meals, I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t stick around. Least ‘til you figure out where it is you’re going, and how it is you’re gettin’ there.”
Regulus swallows. Keep running, Sirius said, don’t stop.
But he’s so tired.
He’s so, so tired.
“I’ve never worked on a farm before,” Regulus says, haltingly. James grins.
“First time for everything, right?”
Regulus knows this is pity. He knows it. Part of him recoils at the thought, wanting to insist that he doesn’t need any fucking charity. That he’s fine on his own.
Instead, he forces himself to uncross his arms, to unlock his jaw.
“Right.”
* * *
It’s just temporary. That’s what Regulus tells himself. He’ll stay here until he gets his bearings, until he figures out where to go—and then he’ll be gone; he’ll keep running, just like Sirius said. He’ll probably have to steal the horse to do it—a gentle palomino named Minnie who nickers softly and sniffs at his hand when James introduces them—and Regulus does feel an uncomfortable twist of guilt when he imagines stealing from James, who’s already done so much for him. But he can’t let himself feel indebted, no matter the kindness he’s shown—at the end of the day, Regulus can only look out for one person, and that’s himself. That’s the only way he’ll make it, if he wants to survive.
“Sorry for the dust,” James coughs a bit, making his way up the wooden ladder. The loft is small, with just enough room for another wooden chest and the promised cot. There are bits of hay scattered on the floor, and a fine layer of dust over everything. James smiles apologetically.
“Been a bit since I’ve come up here. Blankets in the chest should be clean, though—why don’t you pull a few out.” He moves over to the cot, grabbing the dusty blanket that’s already laying atop it and folding it up in his arms.
“Thanks,” Regulus murmurs, kneeling down to open the chest. James continues to talk behind him, an ongoing stream of chatter.
“Looks like Crookshanks has been sleeping up here—you might have to share with him. Big old cat, you can’t miss him; he likes to come around and antagonize Padfoot, but he’s a sweetheart once you get to know him…”
Regulus doesn’t say anything, letting James prattle on about the apparent rivalry between his dog and his cat as he opens the chest. It creaks a bit, hinges slightly rusty with disuse, but James was right—the blankets inside appear clean and devoid of the dust layering everything else. Regulus grabs the one on top, expecting it to be a full-sized quilt—but the cloth pulls up much too quickly, falling open in his hands, and it becomes clear that isn’t the case.
This blanket is small, hardly longer than Regulus’s torso. It stretches between his hands, clean and only slightly worn, with just the very beginnings of fraying at the edges. It was obviously made with care, painstakingly stitched and patched with colorful bits of red and yellow cloth, bright and cheerful, reminding Regulus of summer sunshine on ripe cherries.
It is, so clearly, a child’s blanket.
A baby blanket.
James has gone silent. Regulus turns, and finds the other man staring at the blanket in his hands, eyes glassy and faraway.
“Um,” Regulus blinks, feeling horribly uncomfortable—like he’s intruding on something he’s not meant to see. “I—sorry, it was…”
James seems to snap out of whatever trance he’s in, shaking his head quickly, plastering a smile back on his face.
“No—no need to apologize! I, ah…forgot that was in there.” He laughs, a rough, strained sound. “Why don’t you, um, put that one back? I mean, obviously that’s not going to be big enough for…um, yeah, just—stick it at the bottom, there should be others in there you can use…”
“Right—yeah, okay.”
Regulus folds up the blanket quickly, using one arm to pull out the next quilt in the pile and placing the baby blanket gently back into the chest. When he turns around, James is still standing there, frozen, horrible smile painted awkwardly across his face. Regulus clears his throat.
“Oh—er, sorry,” James shakes his head again, finally looking away. “I…well, I suppose I’ll leave you to get settled in. Just—if you need me, just give a shout. Odds are I’ll hear it.”
He starts back down the ladder, filthy blanket tucked under one arm, and Regulus clears his throat.
“Did you…need help with anything? Today?”
James furrows his brow for a moment, looking confused—then he smiles, a genuine one this time, and shakes his head.
“Oh—nah, don’t worry about that. Just get some rest for now. I’ll wake you up bright and early tomorrow, show you the ropes then.”
“Okay,” Regulus mumbles, not sure what else to say. James nods, once, and then disappears down the ladder. Regulus stands still, waiting until he hears the creak of the barn door opening and closing before he finally releases a breath.
The cot is uncomfortable, lumpy and hard. But the blanket is soft, and Regulus sighs as he spreads it out, reaching down to pull off his boots before he lies down. He stares up at the sloped ceiling of the barn, trying to get used to the smell—animal and hay and earth and dust and wood. It isn’t silent; the horse is stabled, and there’s a cow, and a few chickens pecking around on the floor. They provide a constant backdrop of noise, clucking and rustling and snuffling and chewing.
It's good. It’s different. A far cry from the sharp antiseptic smell of the lab, the clean tile. Regulus lifts and lowers his arms, repeatedly, just to feel the movement, unrestrained. He turns his head from side to side; he wiggles his feet. He reminds himself that he’s safe—or at least, as safe as he’s going to get. For now, at least, he can breathe. He can relax. He can rest, or try to.
There’s a sudden creak of the floorboards, and Regulus sits up abruptly, heart pounding. He finds himself staring down at a horrible, squashed face, beady yellow eyes, and tangled orange fur. The cat freezes, glaring at him suspiciously. After a moment, it lets out a low hiss.
“Sorry,” Regulus mutters, watching it warily, “S’pose I stole your bed.”
The cat meows, a scratchy sound, and takes a step closer, sniffing at the cot. Regulus sighs, scooting over.
“Come on,” he pats the blanket beside his hip, “I don’t mind sharing.”
The cat—what did James call it? Crookshanks. Crookshanks meows again, jumping imperiously up onto the cot. It’s heavy enough that Regulus can feel the weight of its landing, cot sagging slightly where the cat sits.
“Jesus, you’re an ugly bastard, aren’t you?” Regulus muses, sticking out a hand for the cat to sniff. It hisses again, and Regulus rolls his eyes.
“Oh, shut up,” he mutters, “You’re not intimidating me. I’ve had to deal with worse than a cat scratch, I can tell you that much.” He raises a brow, hand still extended, and after a moment the cat leans forward to sniff. It meows again, nipping at his fingers, and Regulus just sighs.
“Well, you’ll just have to get used to me,” he says, leaning back on the cot and folding his arms behind his head, “Because I’m not moving.”
The cat stares down at him with its beady yellow eyes, looking supremely offended that its favorite napping spot has been stolen. Regulus just yawns and shuts his eyes, listening to the quiet sounds of the barn. After a moment, he feels a point of weight on his stomach—when he opens his eyes, Crookshanks is digging a paw into his side, slowly clambering on top of him.
Regulus can’t help it—he wheezes out a laugh as the cat settles on top of him. It’s heavy—must weigh at least fifteen pounds—but there’s something grounding about the weight, the heat and soft fur. The cat glares at him as it makes itself comfortable, kneading at his shirt and then curling up on top of his stomach as though daring Regulus to try and move.
“Alright,” Regulus sighs, closing his eyes again, “Suit yourself.”
By the time he falls asleep, the cat has started to purr.
* * *
Working on a farm, it turns out, is hard work. Regulus supposes he should have expected this; still, it’s hard to believe, the way there always seems to be something that needs to be done—some animal that needs to be tended, some vegetable that needs to be picked or watered or pruned, some door hinge or fence post that needs fixing. For the first week, Regulus is almost completely useless, needing James to follow him like a shadow and talk him through each task step by step. It makes him feel childish, and stupid, and helpless.
So he learns. He learns quickly. He doesn’t complain, no matter how exhausted he gets, until James admonishes him to sit down and drink water and take a goddamn break once in a while, Reg, jesus! James laughs when the chickens terrorize Regulus, and smiles when he manages to milk the cow on his own for the first time, and complains when Crookshanks favors him, insisting that Regulus must have cast some sort of dark magic to get that cat to like him. Regulus sniffs and scratches between Crookshanks’ ears, the way he likes, and says that a magician never reveals his secrets—and James laughs, and…
And there’s this.
There’s James.
They don’t talk. Not really—not about anything that matters. James doesn’t ask Regulus about his past, and Regulus returns the favor. The baby blanket stays tucked in the chest, and the mark on Regulus’s forearm stays covered, and neither of them brings up the fact that Regulus still hasn’t said where he’s going, or when he’s leaving.
But each morning, James throws open the barn door, shouting,
“Rise and shine!”
And Regulus groans as he drags himself down the ladder, grumbling and complaining, and James laughs and reaches out and ruffles his bed-head, mussing up his hair even more, and Regulus lets him. Regulus milks the cow and listens to James whistling as he feeds the chickens, addressing each of them by name—because somehow, inexplicably, he can tell each and every one of them apart. They spend their days working, side by side, James smiling that heart-aching smile and chattering on and on about nothing and everything, laughing at each and every one of Regulus’s snide comments, golden and bright and cooking the most horrible meals that Regulus has ever eaten, until Regulus banishes him permanently from his own stove—or tries to, but that just leads to James sitting at the little table in the evenings while Regulus cooks, whittling or mending or feeding Padfoot scraps, goading Regulus into bickering with him and crowing triumphantly every time he manages to drag a smile out of Regulus’s perpetual frown.
It’s dangerous. Regulus knows that. The heat blooming under his skin when James smiles at him, or brushes sweat-dampened curls out of his eyes, or rubs his hand across the stubble perpetually shadowing his jaw. The guilt always follows afterwards, a sticky curl behind the heat that has Regulus shrinking into himself, forcing his eyes away, wincing at the horrible shriek of his mother’s voice in his skull.
Filth! Sin! Abomination!
How would James look at him, if he knew? Would that bright smile curl into disgust, into horror? Would he recoil, knowing that he invited Regulus into his home like a cancer, a rot that boils with want, with the desire to spread and consume?
But Regulus has nowhere to go, can do nothing but swallow his shame and draw back. It doesn’t matter—James will never know this piece of him. James will never know any of the pieces of him, except for the tiny sliver Regulus has deemed safe enough to show. He’s determined to keep the other man at arm’s length, determined not to grow too attached—after all, there’s only one way this can end.
Keep running.
Don’t stop running.
And yet, weeks pass. Regulus regains his strength, and tells himself every night that this will be the night he leaves—Minnie trusts him just as much as James now, and Regulus would only need to guide her out of the stable, a thief in the night, and disappear.
But he doesn’t.
He stays.
He just—he can’t help it. He feels safe. Safe, for the first time since he can remember. Instead of looking over his shoulder, always watching the horizon for signs of riders—intruders—pursuers, coming to return him to his rightful place—he finds himself watching James. For those smiles, yes, but also for the negative space between; the times that those brown eyes will flicker, or go glassy, or get stuck on some distant spot where Regulus’s eyes can’t follow. The more time Regulus spends with him, the more James’s infallible cheer seems less like naivety and more like strength. Regulus doesn’t have to know what James has suffered to recognize the signs of suffering—to see the marks left behind, the fading bruises of life’s battering. But like a bottle broken and cast into the sea, he hasn’t allowed the grit to sharpen him. Instead, he’s become something softened and solid, seaglass in the sand, bright and beautiful.
It would be easier, Regulus thinks, if he wasn’t so beautiful.
Time passes. Regulus crawls up the ladder at night, and tells himself that he’s going to leave. In the morning, he wakes to James’s voice, and an orange cat yawning on the bed beside him.
It’s not until winter is looming, threatening cold like Regulus hasn’t known in years, that he finds the graves.
* * *
Soon, it will be too cold for Regulus to stay in the barn. They haven’t talked about it, but there’s no wood-heated stove in the loft—and even the thick pile of quilts that he’s begun to sleep under won’t be enough to keep the chill out as winter tightens its grip.
Regulus is trying not to think about it. The dropping temperature feels like a deadline, a reminder that eventually—soon—he’ll have to leave. To keep running; to find somewhere new to hide.
Despite his best efforts, he finds himself thinking about it as he rides Minnie out to the edge of the property. On horseback, it’s easier to imagine it: kicking his heels in and spurring her on, galloping into the distance without a goodbye.
He doesn’t, of course. Not now. Right now, he has a fence to fix.
They’ve been working on it, slowly, over these past weeks. James’s property is bigger than Regulus initially thought, spanning upwards of twenty acres. He doesn’t use most of it, keeping fairly contained to the land immediately surrounding the house and the barn. But he lets the animals out to graze, and because of that, he’s been working on reinforcing the fence surrounding the property. It’s a simple construction, homemade and wooden, and parts of it have fallen into disrepair over the years. But with so much else to do, fixing it has always seemed to fall by the wayside.
Since Regulus began helping out, James has taken advantage of the extra pair of hands to get more work done on the fence. Sometimes, he’ll leave Regulus to tend to things on the farm, riding out to the edges of the property with Minnie. Other times, he’ll ask Regulus to go—of course, he first had to ride out with Regulus and spend an afternoon showing him exactly how one goes about repairing a fence. Regulus still flushes when he remembers that afternoon, thighs pressed together in the saddle, chest to back, the sweat that dripped from James’s forehead down his neck…
He tries not to remember it too often.
(That’s a lie.)
Today, James is hanging back at the barn, but he asked Regulus to ride out to the northeast section of the property to check on the fence there. In the saddlebags, Regulus has all the tools he’ll need—hammer, nails, twine. There’s the axe that James uses for chopping wood; since he’ll be out at the edge of the woods, they both figured it would make more sense to gather what he needs himself, rather than trying to haul out an armful of logs—though one of the saddlebags is loaded with a few smaller pieces of wood, just in case. James doesn’t think he’ll need to replace any of the fence, but if he’s wrong and it’s rotted through completely Regulus will just fix what he can and tell James upon his return that they need to spend time chopping fresh wood to bring out.
Regulus is nearly at the northeast corner of the fence when his eye snags on something in the grass. He tugs on Minnie’s reins, slowing her trot, turning her around. They walk back a few paces, and Regulus stares down at the thing that’s caught his eye.
It’s a grave. Two of them, by the looks of it. They’re old enough to be grown over with grass, but the stones marking them are unmistakably headstones—though homemade, from what Regulus can tell, flat rocks gathered from the surrounding land, words roughly carved by hand.
LILY EVANS POTTER
HARRY POTTER
That’s it. There are no dates, no epitaphs—nothing but the names. That name—Lily.
The baby blanket.
Beneath him, Minnie nickers softly. Regulus swallows, and nudges her with his heels, and goes to fix the fence.
That night, James builds a campfire. Regulus grumbles, and complains, and insists that it’s too cold outside for James’s nonsense—but the other man just laughs, tossing him a quilt and patting the grass beside him and insisting that Regulus keep him company.
“I want to show you something,” he says, and Regulus glares at him as he sits down.
“What?”
“Not yet,” James says, lightly, “It’s too early.”
“Too early?”
Regulus levels him with an incredulous gaze. It’s well into the night—the sun set hours ago, and Regulus was yawning his way up the ladder to his loft when James burst into the barn and pulled him back out. But his disbelief doesn’t seem to have any impact—James only smiles cryptically and settles back on his elbows, looking perfectly comfortable despite the chill in the air. Regulus sighs and wraps the quilt tighter around his shoulders, trying not to let his eyes get caught in the firelight dancing on James Potter’s face.
“How was the fence?” James asks, after a few minutes of nothing but crackling firewood to punctuate the silence between them. Regulus stirs.
“What?” he blinks, eyes getting stuck for a moment on the way the orange glow of the flames sinks into James’s skin, “Oh. Fine. No major damage. Just needed a little reinforcement.”
James hums, a rumbling sound deep in his chest, smiling that soft, sleepy smile that Regulus has come to associate with mornings—hair mussed up from sleep, yawning as he rubs at his eyes…
Regulus looks back at the fire, watching the flames eat through the logs.
“I saw the graves,” he says.
He doesn’t know why he says it.
“Oh,” James breathes, like he’s just been punched in the stomach.
Stop looking at me like that, Regulus thinks, wildly, You shouldn’t be looking at me like that.
“Right. Um…guess I should’ve warned you about that.”
James shifts in the grass beside him, but Regulus doesn’t look away from the fire. He breathes in, out.
“Sorry,” James says. Regulus hugs his knees a little tighter to his chest.
“No—it’s.” He swallows, not sure how to salvage this. He didn’t mean for James to…apologize. Fuck’s sake.
“It’s fine.”
They’re quiet again. One of the logs in the fire snaps, eaten through the middle by the flames, sending up a flurry of glowing orange sparks that dance in the air.
“You can ask about them, you know.”
When Regulus turns, James is watching him, eyes steady and flame-lit and dark. They’re sitting so close, only a hand’s width between them.
Why are they sitting so close?
“Who are they?” Regulus croaks, clearing his throat as he turns away. Again. James blows out a breath, leaning back.
“My wife,” he says, “And my son.”
Regulus knew that—he already knew that. Or figured it, at least. He doesn’t know why he asked. He doesn’t know why he needed to hear James say it.
“You don’t wear a ring.”
James hums, sounding more thoughtful than anything.
“No, well. I s’pose we were never really married, in the traditional sense. Hard to find a church that would take us, considering…who we were. Not that it mattered—not to us. Didn’t make it any less real.”
Considering. Regulus doesn’t think he needs to ask James what that means. He thought things were supposed to be better up north, for people who look like James, but…well. He supposes that was a naïve thing to think, in the first place. If there’s one thing Regulus learned growing up, it’s that things might look different in different places, but the ugliness under the surface is often just the same.
“Lily was a force of nature,” James continues, voice thick with love and pride, “Never met a woman so hard-headed in my life…think I just about fell for her the moment I laid eyes on her. Of course, she told me it’d never work between us, but…” he grins, smile stretching wide across his face, and casts a mischievous look at Regulus, “I can be stubborn, too.”
Regulus swallows, not sure why there’s a lump in his throat.
“And Harry?” he whispers.
The smile on James’s face fades, turning to something more bittersweet.
“Harry…” he murmurs, the single word cradled so carefully on his tongue that it’s all Regulus needs to know how much James loved his son.
“He was a miracle,” James sighs, tilting his head back to look at the stars. “Our miracle. Lily—she didn’t think she could get pregnant. Doctor told her a while back that it wasn’t possible. So when she did…” James shakes his head, blowing out a breath. “I was terrified. We both knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she was determined—told me she was having that baby, come hell or high water. And she did. She was so—strong.” His voice cracks, just the tiniest bit, and he falls silent for a moment. Regulus doesn’t push, giving James time to collect himself before he continues.
“Our son…he had her eyes. Green; so green you can hardly imagine it. Best-behaved baby I ever met; hardly ever cried, and he was always smiling…I remember his laugh. Like bottling sunshine. Lily used to sing to him at night, and he’d fall right asleep…”
James’s voice trails off, lost somewhere in the past. Regulus waits, but he doesn’t come back, eyes glassy and distant as he stares up at the stars. There’s a fist inside Regulus’s chest, squeezing tight around his heart. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen this much love in one person.
“What happened to them?” he asks.
James blinks, and comes back down to earth.
“Fever,” he says, “Got ‘em two years ago.”
Regulus feels sick.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, not trusting himself to say anything else. James turns to face him, and Regulus has to fight the urge to retreat—to turn away.
“I was angry,” James tells him, “For a long time. A long time. But I’m not so angry anymore.”
Regulus swallows.
“Why not?”
James shrugs, and smiles—a sad smile, but a smile, nonetheless.
“It’s the risk we take, isn’t it? With love. You love something that much, you have to be ready to lose it one day. Life’s not permanent—but love is. It’s all we get to keep, when the time comes.”
Regulus thinks about grey eyes, shaking hands cupping his face.
You run, Reggie.
You keep running.
“Oh!”
James sits up, suddenly, looking east. Regulus turns, following his gaze.
“There—do you see it?”
James leans closer, so close that Regulus can feel warm breath tickling his ear. Their shoulders touch as James lifts a hand, pointing towards the horizon.
“Right there…it’s rising now.”
“What is?” Regulus asks, breathless, far too aware of the heat emanating from the man pressed against him.
“Canis major,” James murmurs, voice low, still pointing towards the distance. “And….right there. D’you see it?”
Regulus sees it. A bright spot on the horizon; the brightest star in the sky.
Sirius.
He swallows, convulsively. He lifts a hand, rubbing at his eyes, trying to make his voice sound less choked as he asks,
“Why are you showing me this?”
When he opens his eyes, James is watching him, eyes as dark as the sky above them.
“Your gun,” he says, voice still pitched for the space between them, quiet and intimate, “I—I don’t know what it means to you, but I thought…”
Regulus shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to say—the words thank you get caught in his throat, stuck behind the lump he’s trying desperately to swallow. So instead, he reaches out—impulsively, maybe, and foolishly, definitely—but still. He reaches out, and James doesn’t move when Regulus takes his hand, callused palm warm where he wraps his fingers around it.
They sit together, and they watch Sirius rise in the sky.