Chapter Text
“Is this an office or a kitchen?”
James looked up from the task he was working on. He had perched himself on the stool in front of the kitchen bar and spread out. Small stacks of parchment and little notebooks sat neatly to his right while his diary sat on his left. Ever since Lily had introduced him to the world of Muggle stationary items, he’d fully embraced a level of obsessive-compulsively color-coded calendar to keep himself organized. Much to Sirius’ chagrin.
“I have a system,” James said haughtily. “I have to keep everything updated in order for the system to continue working.”
He set down the bag of takeaway he was holding on the opposite counter. “Sometimes I worry you let the system take up too much space in your brain.”
“Some of us,” James said, sharper than he intended. “Work on deadlines and would completely be out of a job if they didn’t stay on top of their systems.”
“I suppose...” Sirius countered. “But would they really suffer without the job?”
James narrowed his gaze. “No, but they would like not to have to rely on familial money for the rest of their life.”
“What are you talking about?” He’d shrugged out of his cloak, tossing it on the rack that stood just outside the kitchen then turned his attentions back to digging into the bag. “Your mother is dying to take care of you for the rest of her life.”
“That’s not true.”
“Tis.”
“Is not.”
“Tis,” Sirius said again, this time through a mouthful of chips.
“Is—Nando’s again?” He frowned.
“What can I say; the halloumi sticks have a hold on me.”
“You know,” James slid his diary closer, flipping to the monthly section. “You only go to Nando’s when you are going somewhere you can’t get Nando’s.”
“I do not.”
“Me and the three containers of leftovers sitting the the ice-box beg to differ.” James sat primly, hazel eyes gleaming. Pen poised to make notes.
“Fine.” Sirius groaned. “I leave for Italy on Thursday and then Crete—”
“Will you be back in time for the full moon?” James asked anxiously, eyes skimming along the dates.
“Yes, I will be back in time for the moon.” He rolled his eyes. “Then at the end of the month I go to Austria.”
“How long are you in Austria?”
“About a week, I think?” Sirius rounded the island in a few long strides, leaning over James’ shoulder to stare at the diary. “Why? Do you have a surprise planned?”
“No… my…” James turned his head, but Sirius could see the tips of his ears turn red. “My heat is that week.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.” He fiddles absently with his pen.
Sirius sets his chin down on James’ shoulder. “Well, perfect timing then. I don’t think Regulus is going to want me to stay with him again.”
James glances sidelong at Sirius. “What did you do?”
“Why do you assume that it’s something I did?” James stared flatly at him and Sirius sighed. “I may have, perhaps, walked in on him performing an intimate act with Barty.”
“Crouch?” Sirius nodded. “Senior or Junior?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He walked back around the island.
“Senior or Junior, Padfoot?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Sirius’ eyes darkened. “That’s enough out of you, Witch Weekly. Eat your pitta.” He shoved the dish in front of James.
He picked at the pitta, changing gears. “What are you going to Austria for?”
“ICW business.” Grey eyes met hazel ones.
“Oh?” James brightened, pen suddenly poised on his notepad. “What kind of ICW business?”
“The kind that’s none of your business.” Sirius quipped.
“Come on,” he groaned, slumping slightly. “What’s the advantage of living with a DMLE Curse-breaker if I can’t get the inside scoop on the big events.”
“Because it would be incredibly obvious to Robards and Urquhart who leaked the story.” Sirius said through a mouthful of chicken. “And as you said, some of us would like to keep our jobs.”
“Just a little, tiny, minuscule speck of information?” James pleaded. “Does this have to do with that new Pureblood extremist group?”
“No comment.”
“You’re going to Austria,” James whispered, flipping back through his notes. “Are you going to Nurmengard?”
Sirius stared pointedly at his dinner. “No comment.”
James brightened. “You are, aren’t you?”
“James,” Sirius groaned. “No comment.”
“Is the ICW questioning Grindelwald again? Do they think he’s involved in this new group? Is there a potential plot to break him out?” He asked rapidly.
“Prongs,” Sirius warned, a growl underlying his tone.
“Padfoot,” James countered. “I want to work on actual news stories. I can’t do that if I’m relegated to the Society pages.”
“Eat. Your. Pitta.”
He snapped the little notebook closed, pouting. “Fine…”
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“Mum, really,” James sighed, his shoulders straining under the weight of bulging grocery bags as he trailed after his mother up the narrow stairwell to his flat. The smell of stale takeout and dust greeted them as she nudged the door open with her hip. “This is so unnecessary.”
“I know that you’re busy, sona,” Euphemia chided softly, the endearment slipping from her lips like a blessing. She balanced a bag on her knee just long enough to press a kiss to his flushed cheek. “I want to make sure you’re eating proper meals. That you’re looking after yourself.”
“I am an adult,” James grumbled, nudging the door shut behind them with his foot. He dropped the bags onto the chipped kitchen counter with a soft thud. “I do know how to take care of myself.”
“Mhm.” She swept across the tiny kitchen, opening the refrigerator with a dramatic flourish—only to be met with a blast of cold air and the sad, lonely sight inside: a battered six-pack of beer, a carton of milk clinging to its last drops, and takeaway containers that looked like they might have grown legs overnight.
“Oh?” She turned, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched, the look that could still reduce him to a twelve-year-old boy caught sneaking sweets. “This is you taking care of yourself?”
He flushed slightly, ducking his head as his ears went pink. “I haven’t had a chance to do the shopping.”
“Clearly.”
“I’ve been on deadline, alright?” he protested, flicking open a cabinet that held exactly three questionably clean mugs. “And Sirius—Sirius has been away half the month with the ICW. He does help when he’s here, you know. He’s not just loafing about, swanning in and out like some alpha prince. He pulls his weight. I swear.”
“I see.”
“Mum—”
“I just worry, sona.” Her voice softened, though her eyes remained sharp as she lined up a stack of parathas on the counter. “I know you trust Sirius, but he’s still an alpha.”
“Mum, we’ve been over this. We—”
“Have a system,” she waved him off. “Yes, yes, I know. Not every system is foolproof. Though,” she paused, a devious look flitting over her features. “If something were to accidentally happen, at least it would be with someone your father and I already approve of.”
“Mum!”
“What?” Euphemia asked, feigning innocence as she pulled out a container of mango pickle. “I will not deny how I feel about that boy. I think the two of you would make a good match.”
“He’s my best friend, Mum.”
She huffed, utterly unimpressed, opening the ice-box once more to stack containers in it. “Your father and I were best friends before we bonded—good friends, great friends, even.” She paused to sniff the milk carton, made a face, then tossed it in the bin. “I’ve said it before, sona, you could do far worse than Sirius Black.”
“Mum, please—”
“I mean,” Euphemia plowed on. “He’s intelligent, gainfully employed, and very handsome. I would not be upset to have him as a son-in-law.”
“Who would you not be upset having as a son-in-law?”
Sirius poked his head around the doorjamb, still clad in his Cursebreaker uniform. He’d undone the top three buckles of his protective vest and popped open the top three buttons of the collared shirt beneath it. The creamy pale skin of his chest on full display. His newest tattoo poking out through the gap in his shirt.
“Ah-hah! Who do you think, Starlight?” His mother tugged Sirius into a tight hug. “Is this new?” She tapped the ink.
“New-ish.” Sirius murmured, eyes flicking over her shoulder to James, who was making frantic stop encouraging her gestures. He leaned to peek into one of the bags. “Now what’s this about me being your son-in-law?”
“Don’t encourage her.” James hissed, mortified.
“Oh, but she’s got a point.” Sirius shot him a wicked grin, draping an arm over Euphemia’s shoulders like an adored son. “I am intelligent, gainfully employed, and devilishly handsome. I think we’d make quite the pair, wouldn’t we?”
Euphemia patted Sirius’ cheek, expression solemn. “You really would.”
James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please stop.”
Sirius rounded the island with all the smooth grace of a big cat, hooking his fingers through one of James’s belt loops to tug him closer. “I mean, look at us. All this dark hair, bright eyes and excellent bone structure—”
“Let me go—”
“Seems almost criminal not to procreate.” Sirius bent down to bury his nose in James’s curls, voice muffled. “Think of all the beautiful grandchildren we could give her. Think of how angry we could make my mother—”
“Oh for Merlin’s sake—” James wriggled free, cheeks red enough to match the chilli powder Euphemia had just stacked in the cupboard.
“Alright, alright.” Sirius raised both hands in mock surrender, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll stop. I promise. Mia, looks like you’ll have to wait for your matchmaking dreams to come true.”
“I suppose…” Euphemia pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, feigning swoon with all the theatrical flair of a veteran auntie. “I shall have the aunties light extra candles at temple next week.”
“Mother—”
Sirius snagged a tub off the counter, popping the lid and inhaling the aromatic steam. “Please tell me there’s vindaloo in one of these.”
“Of course!” Euphemia smiled. “I would never forget my favorite boy’s dish.”
“I thought I was your favorite.” James pouted.
“You’re my favorite child.” Euphemia replied sagely.
James rolled his eyes. “I’m your only child.”
“And that’s why you’re my favorite child.” Euphemia said offhandedly as she maneuvered Sirius onto a stool. “Come, sit, eat. I’m sure you had a long day.”
“Oh Mia, you have no idea.” Sirius sighed.
She handed him a fork. “Tell your future mother-in-law all about it.”
“Godsdammit….”
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James pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing until stars danced behind his eyelids. He could feel the cold, pulsing ache blooming at the base of his skull, spreading its icy fingers down the back of his neck like frost creeping over a windowpane. It was bad enough that he’d woken up before dawn drenched in a clammy sheen of sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. The soft cotton sheets that usually soothed him in sleep had scraped against his feverish skin like coarse sandpaper, turning every shift and toss into an irritation. He’d known then, deep down, that he should have stayed home, barricaded behind the wards of his flat until the worst of it passed.
James was stubborn. He always was, especially when the haze crept in, like he could outrun the inevitable if he just kept moving. Being in this nebulous, shimmering state always made him reckless, a dangerous kind of boldness that whispered he still had time. More than enough time.
He had very deliberately avoided the curious, sharp-eyed glances from the alphas clustered on the press floor, slipping past them like a ghost with his gaze fixed on the ground. He’d shut himself inside his office, staring for far too long at the messy rows of dates scribbled across his battered calendar. One more day. He just needed to hold it together for one more day. All he had to do was finish the draft and get it onto Cuffe’s desk by the end of the day. Hell, if he could push it to Lucero, the hawk-eyed associate editor, before the final run, it could make the Sunday edition and buy him the slack he needed.
“James?”
He flinched at the voice, dragging his eyes up from the half-formed paragraph staring back at him. “I’m working on it, Luce,” he rasped, voice raw from disuse. “Just need another hour… maybe two.”
“I have every faith you’ll finish it,” Luce said, though his voice carried the bone-tired exasperation of someone who’d been herding stubborn reporters for decades. He dropped heavily into the chair across the desk with a wheeze of old leather. “But it’s time for you to pack it in and go home.”
“I’m on deadline,” James insisted, though the words tasted stale on his tongue.
Luce gave him a wry, pitying smile that made James’s chest tighten. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But—” James let out a strained sigh, pressing his palm to his forehead. “I don’t need Cuffe breathing down my neck again. If he thinks I’m flaking, I’ll be back on Society Sightings by Monday. You know how hard it was to claw my way out of that—I’m not— I can’t—”
“James.” Luce leaned forward, voice dropping low and solemn, his scent shifting with a note of gentle warning. “I’m going to say this with all the tact that twenty-two years in this hellhole has given me: you smell… fertile. Go home.”
The heat that flared in James’s cheeks was instant and mortifying. “No, I’m not—”
“I already had to shoo Hayden and Allister off before they got it into their heads to break your door down.” Luce’s eyes narrowed as he folded his arms across his chest, the air around him laced with protective disapproval. “Don’t be a hero. Skedaddle.”
James sagged, shoulders slumping under the weight of resignation. “Alright,” he mumbled.
“Good lad. Use the Floo in my office, would you? Last thing I need is you starting a brawl in the lobby because someone catches your scent on the elevator.” Luce stood with a grunt, rifling through the stacks of papers that perpetually threatened to avalanche from his desk.
“Yeah, yeah,” James muttered, dragging his bag up and over his shoulder, the strap catching on the corner of his chair. “Thanks, Luce.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Just get your stubborn arse home.” Luce’s voice softened as he glanced at him. “We gotta stick together, you and me.”
James managed a weary smile, pushing out into the hushed corridor. His footsteps echoed against the scuffed tile as he trudged toward Luce’s office. The Floo was his only option—Apparating was out of the question with his head pounding like this, and Muggle public transit… unthinkable. Too many people, too many scents. Too many eyes.
He flicked a handful of Floo powder into the flames, the soft pulse of magic thrumming under his fingertips. Stepping through to his flat, he collapsed onto the sofa, the cushions sagging under his weight like a sigh of relief. He shouldn’t stay here, he knew that. He needed to get up, get behind his wards in his room and lock the world out. But the exhaustion pinned him like lead. Everything felt hot, sticky, itchy. His skin crawled with restless energy, every brush of fabric sending sparks dancing across his nerves.
He tugged off his robes and let them puddle on the floor. The air felt too thick, heavy with the cloying sweetness that clung to him like a second skin. Luce had been right, he reeked of pre-heat, the scent curling into every corner of the room like smoke. He needed to get up. Move. Banish the evidence. But the sofa was so soft beneath him, the cushions a cradle he couldn’t pry himself out of.
As he shifted, his hand brushed against something soft. A flash of familiar grey and blue. One of Sirius’s old flannel shirts, half-buried in the cushions. He froze. Sirius’s scent; clean, sharp, threaded with something electric like ozone after a storm, drifted up, wrapping around him like an embrace. James squeezed his eyes shut, a traitorous, longing sound caught in his throat.
He should toss it away. Better yet, banish it before it did any more damage. But he couldn’t. Sirius would retaliate, and he knew exactly which drawer of carefully curated Muggle stationary would mysteriously disappear first.
So instead, James buried his face in the worn fabric, the soft flannel rough against his overheated cheek. He inhaled deeply, the scent grounding him, calming the frantic buzz that prickled just under his skin.
Just a short nap, he promised himself, tucking the shirt tighter around his shoulders. Just a few minutes to let the ache ease. He still had time.
Cradled in the echo of Sirius’s scent, James drifted off, the faint crackle of the fireplace a lullaby in the silence.