He thinks he could’ve walked it in a day at his best, but maybe he’s being generous with himself. In his current shape, after all of what he’d call short breaks (and what anyone else would call fainting), it takes him three.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​

That’s three days he’s missing. Three days in which you must think he’s dead.

What was left of him on the battlefield? His broken wand, the chunk of his shoulder he left behind when he apparated, maybe a bloody footprint. A black layer of soot would’ve settled over all of it from the blast that nearly killed him, had he stuck around.

He did not run, by the way. He’s not a deserter or anything of the sort. He didn’t receive the command to retreat, but he’s sure it was coming, or that he had simply missed it. It was clear as day that they had lost that battle long before James made his exit.

Technically, he was supposed to retreat to a designated safe house, not his own backyard (overshot by fifty kilometers), but his mind wasn’t exactly clear, and all he could think was that the safest place in the world was you. You and the little cottage in the highlands that had become a safe house for the Order, and something of a home for you and James.

Maybe you don’t believe he’s dead, despite the evidence being pretty damning. He likes to think that you’d have more faith in him. He likes to hope that this hasn’t crushed yours.

It’s late in the evening, the autumn air dropping several degrees below what’s comfortable, when he starts to recognize his surroundings.

Fueled by a renewed burst of energy, he makes it home before the sun sets. Pink and orange hues cast over his and your home when he emerges from the trees. It’s like out of a painting, almost too beautiful. He would think he’s hallucinating if it weren’t for the old splintered fence that he can feel under his palms. He pushes through the gate, which squeaks at the hinges the way it always does.

James doesn’t feel like he’s walking to the house, more like floating. It’s all very hazy and dreamlike, and Merlin he really hopes he’s not hallucinating.

The back door is locked, but he knows where to find the spare key—under the pot of pink flowers. Never mind, it was the purple ones, but they all look the same to him, even when he isn’t drunk from his injuries.

The house is dark when he enters, just barely illuminated by the last bits of sunlight through the windows. The first thing he sees is a pitcher of water on the kitchen table, and he can’t resist scooping it into his good arm and taking a large gulp straight from it. Only one, because the pointed tip of a wand jabs into his back, and he slowly puts it down.

“It’s me,” James coughs. His voice is so raspy it’s nearly unrecognizable. He turns his head slowly to show you his face. To see yours.

Your eyes widen like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe you think you are. You shake your head once, like you don’t believe your eyes at all. Or like you don’t believe him.

“Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?” James asks, running his sandpaper tongue over his cracked lips. “It was second year. I was in the library with Sirius, being a shit. You shushed us, so I walked over just to be a bother, and you said, ‘For someone who talks so loud, you think you’d hear how stupid you sound,’” he says with a smile, as if he were recalling the sweetest compliment. “And then I-”

“You pulled on one of my pigtails,” you finally speak, your voice just above a whisper. “And you called me a bug.”

“I meant bookworm, but I couldn’t think of the word,” James laughs, turning around completely now that he’s sure he’s proven himself. “I couldn’t think of it ‘cos I was too flustered when you looked at me with those eyes. I was just twelve, but even then, knew I was a goner.”

You lower your wand. Without taking your eyes off James, you place it on the table. It rolls to the floor with a clatter, but neither of you even flinches. Slowly, you reach out to touch him, like the verbal verification wasn’t enough for you to trust that he’s real. Your fingers brush his cheek, and his head involuntarily tilts into your touch.

“It’s me, love,” he murmurs, his eyes falling shut. His limbs suddenly feel very heavy. Finally, in the safety of your touch, his body is ready to give out.

A sharp sob captures all your breath, and it’s the most heartbreaking, beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“I thought you- What happened? Are you-?” You have a frantic look in your eyes as you scan him for injuries, which you find many of. You push his cloak out of the way and find the bloody makeshift bandages, made from his shirt, stained a dark crimson color, almost brown.

“Oh, James,” you practically whimper. You usher him into a chair, lip caught between your teeth in worry. “You need to sit. Where in Merlin’s name have you been? What- what happened?”

“Shh, just let me look at you for a minute, won’t you?” James murmurs, catching you by your hand as you lift his cloak again to inspect the suspiciously hollow area of his shoulder wrapped in what used to be his sleeve.

You stand above James, him slumped in his chair, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even with your puffy, bloodshot eyes and messy hair. But you just won’t keep still, so he can admire you. It’s incredibly frustrating.

“No, I need to get the dittany. You’re hurt, James, you- you’re more than hurt, you’re-”

“‘M fine,” he insists. If he could just have you in his arms for a moment, he’s sure he’ll be healed.

“No, you’re not!” you say shrilly. “You’re half dead. I thought- I thought you were-”

James thinks, privately, that he almost was. There were times he thought he couldn’t possibly keep going, he couldn’t possibly muster the strength, but just as things were beginning to go dark, images of you would flash in his mind, and he’d get back up again.

He doesn’t voice those thoughts. He can’t have you know how close he came. Instead, he brings his hand to your cheek and asks, “You think I’d die on you?”

“One day you might not have much of a choice.” Your lower lip wobbles, chest aching because you thought you lost him. Because in times like these, you so easily still could.

He shakes his head once, brow set in the same determination that got him here. “Not even the deepest grave could keep me from coming home to you.”

He swipes at your tears, which haven’t stopped falling since the moment you thought you lost him. You place your hand over his, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

“Let me heal you, so we don’t have to confirm that theory.”

“Okay, m’love,” James mumbles, eyelids drooping.

Things get really fuzzy after that, but he feels your hands and the warmth of your magic, bringing him back to life.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​