lover.

Nervous was an understatement. Haymitch was practically quivering where he stood at the end of what felt like the longest aisle in the world. He’d wanted something simpler but those who knew both you and him had other ideas. He supposed a part of him was grateful they wanted it to be special, but that part was silenced in the wake of his fear.

If only his mother was here. Her presence may have offered something resembling comfort, at least familiarity. Or even Sid; goofy, lovable, with that unseriousness that resided in young boys. With a pang he began to miss them, not bothering to shoo the feeling away. It distracted him from the eyes prying into him from the rows of seats he was facing.

Burdock was at his side, but he was moon-eyed staring at Asterid sitting in the front row. No help at all. Maybe it didn’t occur to his friend that he would be nervous. At Burdock’s wedding he’d not shown the slightest hint of it. Haymitch remembered the event fondly, a night spent tipsy and swaying under the stars with you between his arms.

Shifting, he stared down at his tight shoes, a loose curl falling onto his forehead. His clothes were new and he felt like a stranger in them. That didn’t help the tightness in his chest. Taking in a breath, he turned his head to look at the wildflowers carefully twined over the arch he was standing under. Pink. Your favorite. Thinking of you helped him calm, and so he shut his eyes, imagining what you might be doing at this very moment.

Maybe you were hugging your sister or smacking your brother’s arm because he’d made a snarky comment about your choice of groom. Haymitch’s lips twitched up. He couldn’t blame him, really. Had he a younger sister he’d have likely done the same.

He hadn’t seen your dress yet due to your insistence. He also hadn’t seen you since yesterday even though he’d protested the tradition. What, a man couldn’t wake up on the day of his own wedding with his girl in his arms? A flawed practice in his opinion.

There was a long day ahead of him, what with the toast and the reception, but at least you’d be with him for that part. This would be the worst of it, waiting and trying not to think about everyone staring at him. It was a sunny day, thankfully perfect. Birds twittered nearby, and he relaxed his shoulders. They reminded him of you, the way you’d hum moving around his house.

If it weren’t for you he didn’t know how he’d stand living in the shiny lodgings provided by the Capitol. It was too new, too much of a reminder of all he’d been through. This was the prize. If his old house was still standing he’d have opted to live there.

For the first few days after everything he’d been slumped over a table dead to the world. You’d arrived swiftly and pried the glass of white liquor from his hand, forcing him into the shower and setting up the beginnings of a meal at his brand new stove.

He’d been toweling off when you entered the bathroom quietly, brushing off the fact that he was naked and wrapping your arms around his middle, face pressed to his chest. With the scent of you filling his nose, he began to sober up.

“Baby,” he breathed, mouth sinking into your hair.

You shook your head, fingers spread wide across his back. “I’m sorry.”

Haymitch shook his head back. The thought poked its head from the inner parts of his mind. Marrying you. But he didn’t dare utter it aloud until years later.

You’d seen him like this and you still wanted him. Still loved him. You were a miracle, and he didn’t believe in miracles anymore.

Every nightmare, every bad day and you’d stuck around. He found comfort in spoiling you with the Capitol-stamped checks that came for you every month, making sure you had all the pretty things you could want. You decorated his house and made it feel more like a home than a lifeless shell. The smell of your cooking filled the kitchen every night and he lingered in your shadow to ‘help’ (clumsily chopping vegetables, pressing kisses to the back of your neck, cleaning dishes, threading his arms around your waist from behind while you stirred).

Haymitch didn’t know why he’d been shocked when you said yes. In his head you were practically married already but still he had found himself trembling pulling out the pretty ring he’d acquired for you.

Now here he was at the end of the aisle, folding his hands in front of him and hoping he wouldn’t faint before you appeared. Was it a common ailment for grooms? Maybe the new Mrs. Everdeen had a tonic on her. He’d been sober since yesterday but maybe a drink this morning would have calmed his nerves.

Burdock finally tore his eyes away from his wife and faced him, giving him a not-subtle-at-all thumbs up. Haymitch found the energy to lean over and shoulder him lightly, earning a grin in return.

The man who’d be marrying the two of you arrived (Haymitch could never quite remember his title) and took his place in the center of the arch. They were getting closer. He wondered where you were, if you were as nervous as him.

Burdock elbowed him, nodding toward the back of the aisle. When Haymitch looked, his breath was stolen. He could only see a glimpse, but what a sight. You, hair loose, wildflowers threaded through it, holding more bunched in your hands and tied with a pink ribbon. Your mother’s necklace sat at your collarbone- he could see the familiar pendent he’d twisted between his fingers on so many late nights from here. Your white dress was simple- half of its beauty came from the wearer. It was all of this that overwhelmed him: your ethereal glow, the context, you. You looked so happy. It was hard to believe he was the cause.

When you began to walk closer, his breath fled him again. All of this just for him. His wife. You clung to your brother’s arm as you made your way down the aisle, smiling at the guests on both sides. Your bare feet occasionally peeked from under your hem- you loved the feel of warm grass on your heels.

When you finally looked at him he realized he was smiling, so much that it might hurt later. Your brother caught his eye, giving him a knowing look that he nodded ever so slightly at. It was clear: take care of her or else. There was nothing else in the world he’d rather do.

Your brother was supposed to put your hand into Haymitch’s and then he was supposed to lead you under the arch to stand in front of him. When your brother gave him your hand, Haymitch instead pulled you forward, crushing you to his chest. He heard a sigh from somewhere in the audience, likely your sister who’d been up since dawn primping you for today. You didn’t seem to care one bit, wrapping your arms around his middle and tilting your bouquet against his back. Surely you could feel his rapidly beating heart but you didn’t let on. He kissed your hair, your flowery scent filling him. When he pulled back, he noticed a loose flower and fixed it back where it had been tucked behind your ear.

“Hi,” you whispered, and his face split into a grin again.

“Hi, angel,” he breathed, watching your eyes light up. Stepping back, he adjusted your dress as you stared at him adoringly, not bothering to straighten his own clothes.

Standing up straight, he held out his hand, melting when you placed your soft one in his palm. Your sister stepped forward to take your bouquet, giving Haymitch a pointed look, but he didn’t care.

His girl was here, about to be his wife.

For once, the drink wasn’t the reason he didn’t remember something. Haymitch’s eyes were glued to you all through the ceremony, his lips moving when they needed to. He’d already pledged everything he was to you. This was just a formality.

When the man declared you husband and wife, he seized you around the waist, lifting you up so you were level with him. He waited until you leaned forward to kiss you back. Your first kiss married. One out of infinity.

Sweeping you up, he secured an arm under your legs to carry you down the aisle much to the crowd’s delight. You wrapped your arms around his neck happily and leaned your head on his shoulder.

He went through the motions of the toast, the reception all while keeping his eyes on you, a hand on your waist. Maybe it was possessive but he had rights. You were his wife. It felt so good on his tongue. You were just as clingy, hand practically glued to his chest.

Haymitch held you as it grew dark, the stars the only light. The music was slow and smooth, and he swayed back and forth with you, brushing a strand of hair from your face every now and then.

You pressed a kiss over his heart. “Did I tell you yet how handsome you look?”

“Couple times.” He watched you fondly straighten the handkerchief around his neck. “Did I-?”

“Yes,” you laughed, and he grinned, picking you up to spin around once.

“Didn’t let me finish,” he teased, reaching his thumb up to brush your cheek. “Did I tell you there’s a bug in your hair?”

“Funny.”

“No, really.” He used his hand to lift it from one of your flowers. A ladybug. Maybe it’d been there the whole time. “Make a wish.” It was something you’d taught him, that they were good luck. He used the little sentiment to drown out what they’d come to mean in the arena.

“I wish…” you trailed off, meeting his eyes. Standing on tiptoes, you whispered in his ear as he clasped your hand with his other. “…that we’ll be this happy forever.” Both of you turned to watch just in time to see the ladybug unsheath its wings and fly away.

His eyes inevitably turned back to you as you watched the bug take flight with wonder in your face. Special things like you weren’t meant to happen to people like him. But here you were, glowing under the gaze of the moon and stars, choosing to be with him. He’d choose you right back every single time.

Lifting your hands to his lips, he planted a kiss on your knuckles, right by your ring. “Your wish is my command.”

“Of course I do!” Remus suddenly exploded, standing from the chair and holding his palms to his temples. “Don’t even—don’t you dare for a minute insinuate that I don’t miss her with every fibre of my fucking being! You have no idea what it was like when you were in Azkaban—when I thought I’d lost both of you! How much I wished you both were here!”

Sirius scowled. “Imagine how I felt from my cell!”

Remus’ hands trembled as he shook his head, turning from Sirius. “Save the story, Sirius. I’ve heard it a hundred times before.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“You want me to break the law, Sirius! You’d like for us to go against the Order’s wishes to see—to go and see her, and fuck, Sirius, Merlin knows how much I’d kill to see her again, but we can’t! Horrible, terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time! We were given strict orders—to retrieve James’ cloak. We can’t let anyone see us, Sirius!”

Sirius felt like he could rip his hair from his head. Instead, he bit his knuckles. “But horrible things happened to us anyway, Remus! How the fuck could it get any worse than it’s ended up? There’s another war raging on. I went to Azkaban, you spent thirteen years alone, and Y/N is fucking dead! She’s gone, and you can’t even say her fucking name!” He watched Remus’ face go completely white. “Go on, say it, Remus! Because I haven’t heard you say her name since she was—since she was here with us!”

Remus’ fists curled. “Fuck off, will you?”

“I said your names every single day when I was in Azkaban! I refused to forget any of it. Any of what we had! Just say it, Remus!” Sirius’ voice rose to yelling, and he stood from the bed. “Go on. It’s Y/N—in case you fucking forgot. Say Y/N’s na—”

Remus caught Sirius’ wrists when Sirius went to shove him, his large hands gripping him hard. “You’ll be back in Azkaban if we were caught! And I’d be in the cell next to yours! Is that what you want?” “I don’t care—”

“Of course you don’t, but one of us needs to think rationally. You said you’d be fine doing this when Moody asked! You said—”

Sirius jerked away from Remus, his face stony and his glare cold. “Fuck off, Remus.”

Remus rolled his eyes and quickly shuffled for the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He watched Sirius stalk back over to the bed and chuck himself in it, yanking the duvet up to his shoulders. He felt the strain in his chest and his throat, his eyes growing incredibly hot as he propped open the inn’s window. He lit his cigarette and hung his head out into the cold air, and only then did he let the tears drip down his face.

He glared at the snowy pavement, seething with rage—furious that Sirius had put him in such an awful position, angry at you for no longer being here, and absolutely sickened at the fact that he had the time turner around his neck. He couldn’t use it for the one thing in the world that he wanted. 

He glanced over at the vibrant pink and green sweet shop. Honeydukes was always the first place you went to, every Hogsmeade trip, and you always used to get the same thing—toffees and a chocolate frog. Across from Honeydukes was the bench where the three of you had drunkenly admitted your feelings for one another back in your sixth year. He stubbed his cigarette out on the windowsill hard and then lit a second one. 

 When he finished and shut the window, he turned, and the room was cold and smelled of nicotine. He pulled off his clothes and got into the bed next to Sirius, careful not to touch him—apprehensive that the feeling of their skin touching would only fuel their furies. 

Sirius’ voice was thick with clogged tears when he spoke a few minutes later, filling the heavy silence. “We don’t work without her, Remus. You know that.”

He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t say anything for a long while. He thought Sirius might have fallen asleep, and perhaps that was how he gained the courage to speak. 

“I miss Y/N all of the time,” he whispered, barely audible. “I miss her first thing in the morning, and the last thing at night. I think about what the three of us had back then. It was the last time I was actually happy. And we all took it for granted.”

“We were idiots,” Sirius whispered back croakily. “Young, and we all thought that made us fucking invincible or something.”

“It should have woken us up when Marlene died.”

“They—” Sirius’ voice cracked. “Peter was always going to have to kill Y/N if he wanted to frame me and make you go away. There was nothing we could have done.”

Remus’ fists clenched. He scrunched his eyes shut. “She loved Peter.”

Sirius choked. “What he did to her—” He felt physical pain shudder through his system. “The state he left her in—He was fucking brutal, Remus.”

“I know,” Remus whispered, his eyes growing fuzzy, his brain numb. 

“She didn’t deserve that. She was still—she was alive when I—”

“I know,” Remus said, harder. “I already know.”

Sirius lifted his shaky hands as if he could still see the blood on them, even in the dark. Remus reached over to encase one of them, and he tugged his hand against his chest. Sirius shook as he cried, wriggling closer to Remus, sobbing into his chest. Remus felt himself begin to crumble, too. 

“She was only twenty-one.”

And that was enough for Remus to really sob. They were in their late thirties now. Remus was aware they were never supposed to get this old without you. You had always spoken of your future together, every word as optimistic as the last. You were supposed to be here. He would let you take his place any day. He’d let you and Sirius have this at the drop of a hat—you deserved to see the world beyond the first war. 

“Just one more time,” Remus whispered, and he grasped Sirius’ hand tighter in both of his, moving them upward from his chest to the time turner sitting around his neck, engulfing the cool metal. 

Sirius’ eyes were wide and wet with shock. “Remus?”

Remus spun the time turner back and back and back—all the way to 1978, before they had become soldiers for the Order.

── .✦

Remus inhaled the familiar smell of the Hogwarts corridors. He’d been here only a few years ago at his temporary position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, but somehow, this felt different. Perhaps it was because Sirius was by his side, or maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had gone back to the 1970s. He swallowed as he glanced around at the empty halls, his expression nearly matching Sirius’. 

“Merlin,” Sirius muttered. “This is fucking insane.”

Remus nodded in agreement. “This was a bad idea.”

Sirius swatted him hard. “Are you fucking kidding me, Remus? She’s here! She’s in this building right now!” “And we’re nearly forty years—”

“-I’m thirty-six, actually—”

“We will not blend in with everybody else here! We’re going to be noticed immediately,” Remus worried. “And Dumbledore will quickly realise we’re from the future, and we’ll be hurled off to—”

Sirius grabbed Remus’ wrist and yanked him closer to an alcove despite the lack of anybody around them. “Okay, so we’ll sneak into Slughorn’s classroom. He’s bound to have some sort of de-ageing potion.”

Remus scratched the back of his neck anxiously. “This is so wrong, Sirius.”

“I’m not leaving here without seeing her, Remus,” he told him firmly, and Sirius took off in the direction of the dungeons, as if it hadn’t been twenty years since they were last students here. 

It was rather easy for Remus and Sirius to find the correct potion in Slughorn’s storage cupboard. Sirius and James used to have their fair share of fun experimenting and swapping things over to cause chaos for early-morning potion lessons. Remus watched Sirius throw his head back and down the potion as if it were a shot at the bar, his face scrunching at the taste.

Sirius wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ridding the purple residue, and he blinked at Remus strangely. “Well? Do I look any different?”

Remus shook his head. “No, you—”

Sirius suddenly jerked forward with a violent cough, one of his hands grabbing onto Remus. Remus’ hands gripped him, trying to keep him upright, his dark eyes wide. 

“Pads!” Remus panicked. “Shit, are you—”

He watched the silvers that had been starting to appear on the back of Sirius’ head turn black again. His shoulders seemed to broaden ever so slightly, his body rejuvenating after the thirteen years spent malnourished in prison. Remus gawked, helping Sirius back up when he’d stopped trembling.

“Sirius?” He whispered. “Are you alright?”

Sirius groaned and touched his forehead. “Yeah, I think so.” His voice. Remus felt his heart skip a beat. He grasped Sirius’ head, forcing him to look at him, and Remus felt everything inside him freeze over and then promptly ignite. Gone were the first signs of wrinkles around his eyes and the bits of silver that had started to make an appearance on his head. Sirius’ stubble was gone, replaced with smooth, clear skin—his eyes youthful, his face a little fuller.

“Did it work?”

Remus couldn’t help but laugh. “It fucking worked, Pads. It actually worked.”

“It’s your turn, Remus. It’s your turn. Hurry!”

Sirius spent the next ten minutes looking at himself in the reflection in one of Slughorn’s cauldrons, while the effects of Remus’ took place. The coat he was wearing suddenly felt looser, his back and hip far less stiff. Remus moved Sirius out of the way to look, touching his scarred face in awe at the youthful man looking back at him. 

“How long does this last?” He whispered in awe.

Sirius reached over to touch Remus’ face. “A few hours. Merlin, Rem. You look so young, it’s terrifying. We were so young when all of this was happening.”

Remus swallowed and touched Sirius’ hands. They were smooth. “I’m scared,” he suddenly admitted out loud—he didn’t even realise he was going to blurt it, and hadn’t a clue that he was really feeling so anxious. “Part of me isn’t sure I can handle seeing her, Sirius.”

Sirius exhaled and splayed his fingers broader on Remus’ face, as if to cup as much of him as he could in his palm. “You can do it, Remus.”

“What if she asks questions, Sirius?” Remus whispered painfully. “I can’t spend these moments lying to her. I can’t—I don’t know if I can do this knowing it’s the last time I’ll see her. I accepted years ago that I never got to say goodbye. I can’t say goodbye to her tonight, Sirius. I ca—” He was cut off by a pair of lips pressing against his own. Remus hesitated for a moment before he kissed back, and he was startled by the familiarity of kissing a much younger Sirius. It almost felt wrong, and yet it felt like no time had passed, as if he was back home. He pressed his hands to Sirius’ arms as if to physically force himself off of him. 

“Shall we find her?” Sirius pleaded breathlessly.

Remus nodded, his chest tightening. 

── .✦

“It’s only eleven at night, so chances are, everybody’s in the common room,” Sirius said as they headed up one of the staircases. 

Remus pulled a face. “Yes, including us, Sirius. How are we going to get past that one, hm?”

Sirius chewed on his bottom lip. “Errr—” “Mr Lupin!” Madame Pomfrey exclaimed, and both men jumped as they turned to face the older woman. “Did I or did I not tell you to stay put exactly where you were? You shouldn’t be moving with your leg the way it is!”

Remus exchanged a panicked glance with Sirius. “Er, I’m sorry, Madame Pomfrey. It’s only, I’ve been feeling better, you see, and Sirius was just walking me back up the dorms. I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

“Mr Black, you should also be in bed!” Madame Pomfrey scowled. “You’re in no position to be helping Mr Lupin yourself! Where on earth is your splint?”

It dawned on Remus very quickly which full moon had just occurred. He remembered it all too well, with a sick feeling in his stomach still to this day. He had badly hurt Sirius in his Animagus form, and Sirius had ended up with a snapped arm and a broken nose. It was the Christmas break, and you had stayed to not only keep Remus company over the full moon but also because you would rather be with them than back home.

 If Remus was remembering correctly, you were one of the only students to stay that year. The war was raging on, and people didn’t feel as safe at Hogwarts anymore. James’ father was starting to get sick, and he wanted to take Lily back to them for their first Christmas as a couple. 

“Miss Y/L/N will come and see you boys first thing in the morning, she told you herself,” Madame Pomfrey scolded. Remus flinched, and Sirius nearly swayed in his spot. “So get back down to the infirmary right now. I’m heading back in ten minutes—I expect to see you back in your beds, and you with that splint on, Mr Black!” She turned away from them, marching down the corridor. “For Merlin’s sake, these children…”

“Fuck,” Sirius said, holding his hand against his pounding heart as soon as they were out of sight of the school nurse. “That was so fucking close. How lucky was that?”

“Lucky,” Remus said, though he was hardly as amused as Sirius. “Come on, before I make us turn around.”

They hurried up the stairs even quicker than they had been going before. Remus took three steps at a time easily, though his legs felt like lead, as if they wanted to plant to the ground and stay there. When they reached the portrait of the fat lady, Sirius groaned.

“It’s you,” he said distastefully. 

“Not the password!” She sang to him. 

“We don’t have time for this. If you’d be so kind as to let us in,” Sirius said with a forced smile, his teeth practically gritted. “You know who we are.”

“You could be anybody!” The Fat Lady argued. 

“Do I look like anybody to you?” Sirius huffed. “I am Sirius Black, you know exactly who—”

The portrait swung open, causing the Fat Lady to scream unexpectedly. Her shrieks dimmed in both their ears, and their mouths dropped open. Remus swallowed thickly, his heart nearly coming out of his throat. Sirius was as silent as Remus had ever seen him. 

You stood there, wearing one of Remus’ old knitted jumpers—one he still had at his home to this day, and the plaid bed shorts you swore matched it. You looked just as beautiful as they both remembered you, though your face was yanked down with the heavy weight of concern. Remus felt like he had been sliced open. 

“I thought I heard you two bickering out here,” you said uncertainly, your furrowed brows scanning them both over. “Oh, Merlin, I am so glad you’re both okay.”

You hopped from the small stair and landed with your arms thrown around both their shoulders. Your touch was all to familiar, like hearing a song you had completely forgotten about, and fuck, you smelled of the oils you ran through the ends of your hair each evening, and the moisturiser you always used to “bribe” him or Sirius to slather on your skin (they were more than happy to do it for you, they just liked when you asked). 

Remus thought he might be sick as he wrapped his arms around you, too. Sirius was as stiff as a board, his eyes startled as if somebody had just murdered his entire family in front of him. 

“Sirius,” you murmured as you pulled away, and your hand touched his face. He flinched back to life. “Are you okay, darling?”

Sirius choked a laugh and then began to laugh harder. 

Remus anxiously grasped the back of Sirius’ neck, squeezing it gently. “I-I think maybe he’s still in shock. From last night.”

You nodded and traced your hand down so that it met with his. You squeezed his fingers. “Come on then. I didn’t know Madame Pomfrey was going to let you both out tonight; otherwise, I might have asked the House Elves to prepare us all a nice dinner. I already ate something, but I could maybe—”

“We’re fine, thank you, Y/N,” Remus murmured and followed you into the common room. It was easier to talk to you when he was covering for Sirius. If he’d had to speak purely for himself, he was sure he might be in the same boat. 

Remus had visited your grave for more years than he had known you alive, and yet there you stood, walking around, smiling and doting over them as if nothing was wrong. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He was sure he’d wake up, and it would be a dream. 

“Y/N,” Sirius suddenly rasped from where he sat on the sofa. You quickly turned to him. “Y/N.”

He touched your face and then stroked your hair behind your ear. His eyes were darting all over you, as if he was looking for any sign of injury. He looked down at his hands after he had touched you, and he found no blood this time. Last time, his skin had been stained with it. He’d woken up in his cell covered in the crimson that used to keep you alive, and they did not let him scrub it off of himself for weeks. 

“Sirius,” you repeated, and cocked your hide to the side with a small smile. “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” You reached up and touched his forehead. “You are quite warm,” you told him. 

“He’s fine,” Remus said pointedly. “How are you?”

You thought for a moment and then sighed, your face contorting into a pinched smile. “I’m okay. Better now that you two are here. It was awful without you last night—it’s really scary in the tower alone.”

Remus felt the guilt start to eat him. You’d been alone when it had happened. You had most likely been the most terrified you had ever been in your entire life. 

“I missed you both,” you said, and ran a hand through Sirius’ hair. 

He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. 

“I missed you, too,” Sirius whispered, and his hand reached up to cup yours over his face.

You furrowed your brows at him. “Why are you being so solemn, hm? You’re concerning me a little bit, love. And you’re being awfully standoffish over there, too, Rem.”

Sirius shook his head quickly. “No, no. I think—I think the full moon just reminded us that it’s scary when we’re all apart. And that—and that anything could happen. We’re just glad nothing happened to you.”

“Because I wasn’t stupid enough to chase after Rem when he clearly wanted to be alone,” you chuckled at Sirius and leaned forward to kiss him. “Always have to insert yourself into places you don’t belong, don’t you?”

Sirius frowned. Remus nearly chuckled at the irony. She was right, and Sirius never grew out of it. 

“It’s not a bad thing, sweetheart,” you told him affectionately. “Just don’t like seeing you get hurt because of it. It’s bad enough when Remus has torn himself apart every month. Don’t need both of you in there.”

Both of them were in awe at your kindness. They had forgotten that people like you existed. Someone who was so understanding of them—someone who saw all of their flaws and loved them for them. You were so young, and yet so emotionally intelligent. Neither had met anybody like you before. 

“It won’t happen again,” Sirius whispered. 

“I’ll believe that when I see it!” You called with a laugh as you headed over to the staircase. “Come on then, we should head to bed. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow! It’d be nice to take a walk through Hogsmeade if you’re both feeling up to it. We’ll need to check your hip first, Rem.”

Remus felt his heart lurch. He grasped Sirius when he stood to follow you eagerly. 

“We might stay down here for a little bit, baby,” Remus said as softly as he could, his brown eyes nearly melting in the warm lights of the Gryffindor common room. “We’re not tired yet, but we’ll follow you up.”

Sirius pulled away as you frowned. “But—but I don’t want to sleep without you again,” you said. “Please, Rem. I don’t mind you’re awake. You can read or—or do whatever you’d like, but I just want to sleep with you next to me.”

“Of course we’ll come up with you, sweetheart,” Sirius said, and turned back to give Remus a wicked grin. “Come on, Remus. Don’t be so ridiculous.”

Remus could have smacked Sirius. The look on your face was enough to make his heart burst in his chest. His logic was battling with his feelings, and he knew the right thing to do for all of you was to leave now, but he couldn’t force himself. He found his long legs carrying him up the familiar staircase that led to their old dormitory. You pushed open the door like it was yours, and quickly rushed to jump into Sirius’ bed, which had been transfigured into a king-size at some point. 

You wriggled under the covers. Remus glanced at Sirius and saw him staring at the bed at the end of the room. James’ bed. His Quidditch kit was chucked over his chair, a pair of red Converse by the end of the bed as if he had been there only the other day—because he had been. He bit down on his bottom lip and gently pulled Sirius over to you, who hadn’t noticed the strange behaviour from the boys. 

Sirius felt his face melt, and he was quick to head over, kneeling onto the bed and climbing into your side. 

“You need to put your pyjamas on!” You told him. “Both of you, hurry.”

He laughed as your hands half-heartedly pushed him away. He opened the drawer at his bedside and then the one beneath. He couldn’t quite remember where he put them until—

“Idiot,” you muttered and threw a pair of plaid trousers at his head. “Under your pillow, remember?”

“Right,” Sirius said, and ripped his shirt from his body, then his trousers. 

He pulled on the pyjamas and glanced over at Remus, who was doing the same. They were both moving like teenagers again, slightly more effortlessly than men in their late thirties. His gaze flickered to his own chest and his arms. He had the start of a couple of tattoos, but nowhere near as many as he got as soon as he had left Hogwarts. He felt naked.

“James sent an owl asking how you both were, by the way,” you said, and it was so casual to you, and yet so horrific for them to hear as they got dressed. “He said he feels bad for leaving while you were asleep, but I reminded him it’s not his fault. Oh, and Lily asked about you both, too.”

“We’ll owl them,” Remus said, his chest hollow, his smile fragile as he turned back to you and climbed into the bed. 

You were in the middle tonight, it seemed, and neither of them was complaining. It was where you often ended up, if Sirius wasn’t in a mood and desperately after the most attention. 

“Pete asked too,” you said, and all the blood left both their faces immediately. “He’s such a sweetheart, honestly, you two—he sent in a box of chocolates for you both. It’s got some of your favourites in it, Rem, but from the looks of it, he chose which ones went in himself. It’s got a note and everything, bless him.”

“Bless him?” Sirius retorted, his fists clenching the bedsheets.

He suddenly felt as sick as he did that day. He could see you lying on the kitchen floor of the house, which the three of you shared. Remus and Sirius weren’t talking to each other—they were arguing for the hundredth time that week, and you were being a fucking saint putting up with them. It had ended particularly awful that morning, with both of them accusing the other of being the traitor that the Order was searching for. Remus was off doing werewolf-related tasks for the Order, and Sirius went out for a ride on his motorbike. It was better than having to listen to you and your excuses for Remus.

He walked slowly up the path, dreading your kindness, but the sight of your front door knocked open enough to make him feel nauseous. He was lightheaded all the way through to the kitchen, where your record player had stopped singing and instead rested on a static pause. The sink was full of cold, soapy water, dishes half done, and you had baked something—he remembered the air was so sickly sweet that night. Cinnamon. He couldn’t stand that smell anymore. 

It had mixed with the scent of iron. He had nearly slipped on all of the blood. It was thick. It pooled over the tiles you used to dance on, it caked the hair he used to run his fingers through. Your dress was ripped, a slice down your arm that was obvious to him in seconds. Your chest was home to a massacre, and the kitchen knife you always used, because it was the sharpest, lay discarded feet away, painted crimson with your blood. Your wand had rolled beneath the table, your fingers still open like you were reaching for it.

You musn’t have gone down without a fight. The kitchen was a mess. 

He lay there for an hour next to you. He kept thinking about how this would be the last time he’d ever get to do it. Eventually, his howls dimmed, and he lay staring at the kitchen ceiling as lifelessly as you. Sirius dragged himself up from the floor. He needed to find James—see if James knew where Remus was. He needed Remus. Remus needed to know about you. Remus had no idea. 

Sirius had continued to sob when he leaned over and gently grasped your wrists. He settled for leaving them on top of your stomach, and his fingers shakily reached to close your eyelids. He hovered over you for a few more minutes, and gripping the skirt of your dress, bunching the material as silent sobs racked through his body. 

It took him another hour to get up. His legs felt like lead as he left you there. He wasn’t sure he was fully alive as he Apparated to the back of the Potter’s cottage, where they often snuck in and out to avoid being noticed. Sirius startled when he found the air had shifted, a dark green cloud smoking over James’ home, a snake coming from a skull. 

He knew it was Peter immediately. The Secret-Keeper. Of course it was. He had been the traitor the entire time. Whilst Remus and Sirius had been pointing fingers at each other, Peter had been sitting there, often next to you, and he had probably been plotting all of your deaths. Sirius thought of James. Lily. Harry. You. He thought of you, and he knew what he had to do. 

The rest of the night was such a blur to Sirius now. He remembered hunting down Peter in his Animagus form, using his sense of smell to realise he wasn’t too far. He found him down a Muggle street in London, trembling and shaking down an alleyway. He remembered having Peter pinned, he remembered seeing blood down Peter’s arms, and a splatter across his face. 

Peter himself was missing a couple of his fingers. You must have gotten him. Sirius remembered how furious he had been: that Peter had gotten away, and you were gone. 

He was so furious that he wasn’t thinking straight. He could only imagine your confusion, your hurt, and the agony you must have been in. He hurt Peter the Muggle way. He wanted him to hurt as much as he hurt you. Only, Peter seemed to be thinking more rationally— he drew his wand, and he created an explosion. 

It was so large that Sirius had dropped him, and by the time he’d looked back, Peter was in his rat form—gone. 

The Aurors arrested him near enough on the spot. He screamed and protested. He yanked at his chains and gritted his teeth as they told him he was going to be imprisoned for all of his crimes. He begged for Remus over and over again. His screams turned to laughter when he realised how easily he had been tricked by Peter Pettigrew. Everybody had underestimated him. Sirius himself had seen Peter as meek and underpowered. Sirius had lost absolutely everything in a matter of hours, and he had woken up that morning thinking the day would be no different from every other. 

He went manic. He screamed and screamed all night. He rattled the bars of his cage until somebody Crucio’d him. He wondered if he was in as much pain as you had been when Peter had stabbed you over and over and over again. He told himself he deserved it for not being there for you. He deserved to rot behind bars just for that. 

“Did Pete do something?” You asked, and Sirius nearly leaned over the side of the bed to be sick. 

His eyes flickered over to Remus, who was watching you with such a haunted look that Sirius couldn’t take it. Sirius thought to himself that if he were to ignore hindsight and the future, then he would be sending you off to your death. You’d die again. It really would be his fault. He could have saved you. He should have saved you. He should have—

“I just don’t really like him very much anymore,” Sirius murmured. “I’ve… I’ve seen something in these tea leaves, okay? I saw something, and I didn’t like it.”

You snorted and tapped Sirius’ chest. “You’re rubbish at Divination! Last month, you thought you were going to end up riding a Hippogriff back to London!”

Sirius and Remus cast a look at each other, Sirius’ mouth slightly agape. “Actually, I think I have a knack for it. Maybe my timing’s just a bit off.”

“Sirius,” Remus warned. 

“He won’t freak me out, don’t worry,” you reassured Remus, and patted his leg over the duvet. “Why, Siri? What did you see that Peter did?”

Sirius swallowed and shut his eyes. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he panicked once he reopened them, and he was quick to dart away. 

You worriedly watched him go and looked back at Remus. “What’s wrong with him, Rem? Seriously. I’m worried about him. He’s not acting like normal.”

Remus sighed heavily. “Let me go and check on him.”

He climbed carefully from the bed, walking over to the bathroom. Just as he touched the handle of the door, he glanced back at you. You were watching him, your head tilted curiously. 

“What?” You asked. 

He shook his head. “Just stay right there, okay? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I don’t plan on going anywhere any time soon, don’t you worry,” you told him innocently enough. 

Remus shook his head and pulled open the door. He shut it behind him immediately when light poured through, and he found Sirius bent over the toilet, trembling.

“I can’t do it, I can’t do it,” he kept muttering. 

Remus felt the rage ignite inside his chest, hot and raw. “Sirius, this was your idea.”

“I thought I could handle a peaceful evening with her,” Sirius heaved. “But I can’t, Remus. How can we leave her here, knowing what’s going to happen to her? We’re essentially sentencing her to her death!”

Remus’ face curled, but his eyes were hot with tears. “It’s difficult. It’s how…” his voice broke. “It’s how it’s supposed to go.”

“You don’t even believe that!” Sirius shot back. “I can tell in your voice! You want to save her, too! Didn’t we always promise her that we’d keep her safe, Remus? Didn’t we? Look at her! She’s eighteen years old, and she only has three years left! That’s not fucking fair, Remus! Why did we get to live for so long, and she didn’t?”

They’d had this conversation a hundred times since Azkaban. Sirius held a particular amount of survivor’s guilt and PTSD. Remus was slightly better at burying his grief and self-loathing, just about content enough to survive until he saw Voldemort and Peter dead. He always thought he’d see how he felt after that. 

“Sirius, I know,” Remus hushed him, smoothing his face with his hands. “I know. I know.”

“We could save James and Lily, too,” Sirius said desperately. “And Marlene. Harry’d never have to go to the Dursleys. The second war would never have broken out. We just have to kill that fucking rat! Right now, Remus! I can gut him as he did to her!”

Remus closed his eyes, grounding himself by gripping Sirius’ shoulders. “Calm down, okay?”

“Calm down—?”

“If Harry and Lily didn’t defeat Voldemort, who would have, Sirius? We were losing the war back then. If it had never happened, the Dark Lord most likely would have become even more powerful. Eventually, he would have taken over. You’d have been used as an example of blood treason. James, too. Lily and the other Muggleborns would have probably been rounded up to be slaughtered. I’d be carted off to the werewolf packs. Y/N…” His face went green. “Fuck, Sirius, Y/N would have probably been married off for her blood status—used to repopulate the Purebloods.”

“You don’t know that!” Sirius seethed, but his face was crestfallen, his breathing rapid. 

“You don’t know that wouldn’t happen either, though, Sirius! Everything has a knock-on effect.”

“Then…” He hesitated, a strangled expression over his face. “Then perhaps we can just try to save Y/N.”

He mentally apologised to James over and over and over again. He’d make it up to him through Harry. 

Remus covered his face with his hand. “You’re not listening.”

“I don’t care!” Sirius cried. “Is that what you’d like me to say, Remus? In all honesty, I will take whatever risk it is to give Y/N the chance of living! So we don’t kill Peter then. Fine. But maybe we can make sure that Y/N is not in the house that night. That nothing bad happens to her that night. I won’t—I won’t go to Azkaban, she won’t die, you won’t have to spend years alone, and Harry can have a family! The three of us can raise him, Remus. We’ll stop the second war from breaking out. We’ll let Peter go to Azkaban for what he’s done! That’s worse than death!”

Remus blinked, and for a few moments, it looked as though he was truly considering what Sirius was saying. Sirius could feel the hope blossoming and blooming in his chest. He grasped onto Remus and shook him impatiently, as if that would make him hurry up with his decision. 

“Well? You look like you like my idea.” “Of course I do,” Remus melted. “Of course I want all of that to happen.” He tugged his lip between his teeth. “I have always said I would do anything to have her back.”

Sirius could have burst into tears. “Remus, don’t say all of this to take it back. Please.”

“Sirius, if we get caught, we’ll be arrested at the very minimum.”

“I’d go back to Azkaban for a hundred years for her, Remus,” Sirius said so determinedly that the air knocked from Remus’ lungs, and it was as if Sirius’ words had burst Remus’ morality bubble for the first time that evening.

His body sagged, his eyes sinking. “Yeah, me too, Pads.” “Then let’s risk it. Or give me the time turner, Rem. I’ll do it myself. We can send you back, and I’ll come and get her. I’ll make it right. You’ll never know the difference,” Sirius pleaded.

Remus’ trembling hand took Sirius’, and he shook his head. “You won’t have to do this alone, Sirius. We’ll do it together.”

There was a knock at the bathroom door, gentle and quiet. They both glanced at each other with softened eyes, and for the first time, their chests deflated. There was a feeling of ease knowing they were going to rewrite their story, that they would get to spend the rest of their lives together after all. 

Remus moved forward and opened the door, letting it swing open. Your eyes squinted blearily at the bright light of the bathroom. 

“Sirius, are you okay?” You asked softly. “I’m sorry if I made you feel silly about your… vision of Peter. It’s just… it’s Pete. He’s our best friend.”

“Y/N, I think we should all sit down and have a talk,” Remus suggested as calmly as he could muster, placing a hand on her arm, gently guiding her back into the room—back to Sirius’ bed. “It’s probably best we come clean to you.”

You peer at them even more anxiously. “Did something happen? Oh Merlin, Sirius, is your arm actually okay?”

“My arm is perfectly fine, baby,” Sirius couldn’t help but laugh, and he wanted to lean in and peck your hairline, but he was scared you’d want him nowhere near you in the next few minutes, so he refrained. “It’s something else entirely.”

“And you’re clever,” Remus said. “So we’re going to try not to sugar coat things. It’s going to be… hard to listen to. But we’re here for you the whole time, alright, sweetheart? Okay?”

You hesitated, staring them both over for a few more moments. Then you nodded, and Remus took a deep breath. 

“Good girl. Do you know what this is?” He reached under his shirt and pulled out a golden chain with a circular pendant.

You shook your head. “I don’t think so, Rem.”

“This is a time turner,” Remus explained. “Do you want to see how it works?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, and Remus was positive you didn’t fully understand the meaning behind his words from how nonchalantly you were reacting to the information he was giving you. 

“Give me your hands, sweet,” he instructed, and when you did so, he cupped your hand beneath his and gave the time turner one small spin. 

Suddenly, the two of you were standing up in the exact place you had been moments ago, right before you sat on the bed. The past versions of you disappeared, and Sirius’ gaze flickered between you both, his lips quirking up. 

Your eyes were nearly bulging out of your sockets. “What just happened?”

“We went back in time,” Remus explained. “Only by a few seconds. It’s not always good to go back too far.”

“When did you two get that?” You gaped and pinched your brows together at Sirius. “Did you steal it? Potter heirloom?”

“No,” Sirius laughed. “No stealing, not an heirloom. The Order gave it to us.”

You cocked a brow. “The Order of the Phoenix?”

“Yes.”

You nearly howled with laughter. “Well, that’s absurd! Why would the Order of the Phoenix trust you two with a time turner? You’re only eighteen years old, for goodness sake! We’re still at school!”

The silence that followed quickly made your amused smile evaporate. It started to settle in that this was not a joking matter, and that they were being very serious. Your gaze flickered between them, and your eyes widened as you seemed to put two and two together. 

“You're not from this time, are you?” You whispered to them both. 

“No,” Sirius admitted quietly. 

“But how is that possible?” You demanded, standing from your seat and pacing, running a hand through your hair. “Are you from the future? By what? A couple of years? You both look exactly the same as you did when I saw you a few hours ago.”

“Y/N,” Remus swallowed. “Sit down.”

You did as you were told, but you felt incredibly lightheaded, the dizziness starting to make you sway a little. Sirius supported you with a large hand. 

“We’re from the future, yes,” Sirius said. “We’re from, well, 1996.”

You paused. Your stomach flipped and your hands grew clammy. You stared at them both, unsurely. 

“This is a prank?” You asked, but you had a feeling even these two weren’t such good actors. There was no way they would do this to you so close after a full moon. Even if Sirius had come up with the sick idea, you don’t believe he’d ever be able to do it to you, and Remus would never agree to it anyway.

“Not a prank,” Remus assured her. 

You were silent for a few moments. “Well, that would make you each thirty-six years old. That’s not possible, is it? You look so young. Do your appearances change with the time you go to?”

“We took a de-ageing potion,” Remus admitted shamefully. “To blend in.”

You stare for longer. “Rem, I don’t like this. It’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke, I swear on your life, sweetheart,” Remus said. “Look, I can prove it.”

He moved over to the coat he’d thrown over the chair and went into the pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes and a few crumpled bits of paper. “Er, receipts with the year on them.” He dug in the other one and found his wallet, taking his seat next to her again. “That’s you. In the future.”

Sure enough, Remus opened his wallet and in the plastic covering was a small Polaroid of you. Your breath hitched and you took it from him. You looked hardly any different to the way you looked now, except your hair was cut differently, in a way you had never had it before, and this was your first time seeing the image. 

“That’s me?”

“That’s you,” Sirius said thickly. “In 1980.”

You shook your head. “Wow. Well, this is only a couple of years away, then.” You handed it back to Remus. “Why… Why are you showing me this? Why are you two here? Are my Remus and Sirius okay?”

“They’re fine, darling,” Remus said. “They’re still in the hospital wing healing, and if I remember correctly, they’re anxious to come and see you—but they’re fine.”

You smile waveringly. “Is this to do with Peter, then? Like you said before? You don’t like him?”

There was a long silence.

“What did the Order send you here to do?”

“The Order didn’t exactly send us here,” Sirius said. “This was more of my idea, really. I just…”

Your breath hitched at the look on his face. Suddenly, their strange behaviour made so much more sense. Sirius getting emotional, Remus becoming shut off. 

“That’s the last photo you have of me, isn’t it?” Your voice came out deadpan, dread icing your insides as you watch their faces for confirmation. “That’s why you don’t have a newer one, hm?” Their expressions crumbled. Remus looked positively ashamed, avoiding your eyes. Disgust crept over Sirius’ features.

You tried hard not to let the panic swallow you. “Can you…what happens to me?”

Remus hesitated. “You die during the war.”

You don’t say anything for a moment, but hot tears flood your eyes. “When I’m twenty-one? In 1980?”

Sirius nodded, and you dumped your face into your hands. “Oh, Merlin. Oh no.” Your mutterings broke their hearts, and then they heard you begin to cry, your frame shaking with each sob. “I don’t get any older?”

Sirius felt sick. Remus couldn’t open his mouth as he watched you cry, but Sirius had been itching to comfort you since the second he saw you on the kitchen floor eighteen years ago. All he’d wanted was for you to wake up and cry, so he could reassure you, wrap his arms around you, and reassure you that you were going to be fine. 

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” Sirius cried. “We weren’t… We weren’t there the day it happened. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“What happened?” You whimpered. “What happened to me?” It dawns on you. “Pete?” 

When neither said anything, you became more frantic. “No! Did I die saving him? It must have been—it must have been some freak accident, surely!”

Sirius shook his head, fists clenched. “It was not an accident, Y/N,”

You rubbed your eyes. “But—but—Peter is—”

“Not at all what any of us thought,” Remus finished for her sternly. 

“Oh Gods. Is it painless at least?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Remus cut in before Sirius could. “Because it’s not going to happen again.”

“Wha—what do you mean?”

Remus lifted the time turner. “We’re not going back to a world you’re not in, Y/N. Not ever.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“I know this is overwhelming,” Sirius said. “I’m sorry. We just—we want to be sure that you want to be saved, Y/N. That you want to live. We don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

You thought for a few seconds. “Of course I want to live,” you croaked. “I want to grow old with you both. But I don’t want to change the future for the worse. What if bad things happen?”

“Bad things happen anyway,” Sirius mumbled.

“Sirius is blamed for your death,” Remus said, and purposefully left out the news of James and Lily. “He goes to Azkaban for thirteen years, until he breaks out.”

You look over at him, agony nearly shredding you apart. “Sirius,” you breathed, and your sniffling nose and flushed eyes were enough to make him coo and bring you into his warm chest. “Merlin, Sirius, I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured into your hair. “Never your fault, honey.”

You stayed like that for minutes. Your eyes began to feel tired from the emotion and weight of the day. Sirius couldn’t take his eyes off of you, curled up in his arms, finally safe.

“Let us save you,” Remus pleaded with her quietly, brushing her hair from her face. “Please.”

“But what if it makes everything worse in the long run? I don’t want you two to get into more trouble.”

“We’d Obliviate you after this, sweetheart,” Remus said, and Sirius was nearly surprised that he’d come up with a plan so soon, but also not really because it was Remus. “You won’t remember this, and you’ll go on like normal. Sirius and I will jump to the day you pass. We’ll make sure Pete doesn’t get to hurt you.”

“Why can’t we stop Peter now?” 

“We can’t change too much of the timeline, baby,” Sirius swallowed thickly. “No matter how much we want to. Some things have to stay the same.”

There was a long silence. Minutes ticked by agonisingly slowly.

“What do you think?” Remus asked quietly. 

“Let me sleep on it, Rem,” you said, furrowing your brows, but not opening your eyes as you rested against Sirius’ chest. “I can’t—I can’t think straight right now. Too much.”

“Okay,” Remus whispered, though his fingers twitched and his lips pursed. “Yeah, darling. Go to sleep. We’ll still be here in the morning.”

It took you a very long time to finally lose consciousness. You lay there, dwelling and agonising for hours, until the steady beat of Sirius’ heart lulled you to sleep. 

── .✦

The next morning, you were the first to wake. You studied the men on either side of you, unsure if you were freaked out by their aged faces or calmed by them. A part of you was relieved that they got to see this age, and they survived a war you hadn’t managed to. The other part of you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that there was no other version of you that got to wake up to this. 

They both mostly looked the same. Both had a few silvers running through their hair, and the slightest of wrinkles around their eyes. It was obvious they were older in a handsome way, tattoos adorning every inch of Sirius’ skin in a way that had you almost breathless. 

You traced them until he stirred slightly, and then you froze, a nervousness washing over you that you usually didn’t get with the boys. You supposed that was because these weren’t boys, but men. You didn’t know this version of Sirius and Remus; these were around eighteen years older than you and had lived lives you’d never know about. 

You hesitated for a few moments, your thoughts drifting to the version of Sirius and Remus who were downstairs in the medical wing. You suddenly yearned for them more than ever, even if their elder selves were with you. Very carefully, you chose the one who used to always sleep like a log and prayed that was still true. Climbing over Sirius’ sleeping figure was a sport you had become extremely skilled at, especially because he liked to lie flat on his stomach. 

Pulling on Remus’ jumper, you hesitated, watching them both sleep peacefully in the bed. Remus’ nose twitched, just like it always did. His hand splayed out across the mattress, as if looking for you or Sirius. You decided to leave before they woke up. 

You stalked down all of the staircases, not a soul in sight, until you made it to the infirmary. You pushed the door open and headed straight for the two occupied beds at the end of the hall. Remus was already awake, a book in his hands and his eyes bleary from, knowing him, lack of sleep. 

“Hi,” you breathed, and dropped into the chair next to him. 

He looked pleased to see you, his face melting into a smile. “Y/N. It’s so early. Why are you here?”

“I just needed to come and see you both,” you whispered, but your voice cracked at his gentle face, and your eyes welled with hot tears, much to your horror. 

Remus quickly placed the book down, concerned, and he pulled his blankets off his legs. 

“No, no, no,” you attempted to usher him back in. “Rest, Rem. Stop. Don’t worry about me, I just… I had a nightmare last night. I’m being silly.”

He looked dramatically less concerned, his face easing into a look of sympathy as he made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Oh, sweetheart. You had a nightmare, did you? What was it about?”

You hesitated and gulped down the lump in your throat. It felt like all of the air was stuck there, and something was squeezing your chest unrelentingly. 

“I died,” you blurted. “A couple of years into the war. I got murdered. You and Sirius—you both were really sad afterwards.”

Remus’ brows tugged together, and he opened his arms out to you. You climbed into them, careful of all of his wounds, resting your head on his chest. You felt better nearly instantly, but dread sank in your stomach like an anchor—a constant, aching reminder that you would only have this for the next couple of years. You looked over at a sleeping Sirius. In a couple of years, he would be in Azkaban. Remus would be alone, a shell of the person he was before. 

“That won’t happen,” Remus whispered, stroking your hair. You almost believed him from the softness and sincerity in his tone. “You’re safe with us, baby. I’ve got you.”

The tears streamed even more easily down your face.

“Y/N?” Sirius’ groggy voice came from the bed over. “Is she okay, Rem?”

“Poor thing’s had a nightmare,” Remus said, and it wasn’t long before you heard the duvet shuffle and the padding of feet over to you. 

“Darling,” Sirius whined dotingly, and stole you from Remus’ arms, dotting kisses throughout your hair. “You’re alright. Was it that bad?”

“I just—it felt really, really real,” you sniffled. “And I’m—I’m— I was thinking what would happen to the two of you if something really did happen to me.”

Remus’ face contorted. “Don’t ask questions like that, love.”

“Yeah, it won’t ever happen,” Sirius said forcefully. “Never, Y/N.”

You grasped his jumper tighter. 

“Gods, your hands are shaking, sweetheart,” Sirius muttered. 

“Sorry,” you murmured, and dragged yourself away from him. 

They both watched you with such soft, kind eyes. Your heart ached, pulsating and dying all at once. You itched to grab them again. 

You wanted this forever. You wanted to know the two boys in the tower above you, too—you wanted to watch this Sirius and Remus grow into the men upstairs. Hopefully, happier, less traumatised versions. 

You’d felt a weird sense of nausea when you’d woken up earlier, looking at the familiar faces of your boyfriends and realising you didn’t know them, and would never know them. 

You needed to know them.  

“I’m going to get ready for the day,” you breathed out. “I’ll shower and put some clean clothes on, and then I’m going to come down here with some games or something for us to play. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”

Remus frowned. “Let us come with you.”

“No, no. I’m going to get the house elves to make us something really nice, okay?” You said, and your encouraging smile lifted their spirits slightly. “You’re right. Both of you. It was just a dream.”

You had your answer for the Sirius and Remus upstairs.

“C'mere,” Bucky said, voice already threatening to break.

He pulled you both into his arms in one sweeping motion, pressing you against his chest, his metal hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head. He kissed your forehead, then Jamie’s cheek, then your lips, then Jamie’s nose—over and over, like he was trying to memorise the feeling.

This mission was unavoidable.

A Hydra remnant had resurfaced— and the team decided on a stealth op, one man in, one man out. No comms except for daily status checks. It had to be someone with experience, someone who knew Hydra, someone who could disappear without a trace and still come home.

It had to be Bucky.

But it killed him to go.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair. “So much. You take care of Mama, alright?” he said quietly to Jamie, who blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You tried to smile, even as your eyes blurred. “We’ll be right here, Buck.”

Bucky kissed your lips again and lingered there, forehead to forehead afterward. “You’re my whole world,” he said quietly. Then he pulled back, crouched to Jamie’s level, and pressed a hundred tiny kisses to his son’s chubby cheeks.

“Love you, Jamie,” he cooed. “I’m so proud of you already,” he whispered, his voice cracking just a little. “Don’t grow up too fast while I’m gone, okay?”

Jamie laughed, squeezing his father’s vibranium fingers with his mittened hands.

Bucky kissed him one more time. Then you.

Then he stepped away— like if he turned around too quickly, he wouldn't want to go.

—

You and Bucky had a cosy little house in the suburbs just outside the city on a quiet street with a fenced-in backyard and a nursery Bucky had painted himself in. It was your dream place to raise Jamie. But when Bucky got called in for the mission, he insisted that you and the baby stay in the Watchtower while he was gone. 

“It’s safer,” he had said with his hand on your back. “Security’s tighter. You’ll have people around if anything happens. Please, honey,” he had puzzled into your neck, placing gentle kisses there, “It’ll help me sleep at night.” 

You couldn’t argue. With Yelena and John both on recovery, Bob always nearby, and even with Ava and Alexei in and out on missions, you wouldn’t be alone. There was always someone to lend a hand, and the reinforced security systems at the Tower made your alarm system look like a toy. So, for Bucky’s peace of mind—and maybe yours, too—you agreed.

But you were only supposed to be here for four weeks.

That’s what Bucky said—“Just a month, sweets. They won’t even know I was there.” He had smiled when he said it, trying to hide how hard it was to leave you. “It'll go so fast.”

It didn’t.

The days passed like honey, slow and sticky. Jamie was teething, waking every couple of hours with red cheeks and a heartbreaking whimper. Every time you soothed him back to sleep, you whispered stories about his daddy—how brave he was, how much he loved him, how every mission he ever went on was just so he could protect you both.

The New Avengers had your back. Bob made you meals, even when you weren’t hungry. John insisted on installing baby gates. Yelena would hold Jamie when your arms got tired. Alexei insisted he remembered how to swaddle (he didn’t), and Ava had access to the baby monitor— because realistically, if there was an emergency, she would get there the fastest by phasing through walls.

And every night, at exactly 2200 hours, the comms come to life with a single message from the field. 

“Alive.”

That was all you got. Nothing more. You weren’t allowed to respond, couldn’t ask if he was warm, if he’d eaten, if he missed you—though you knew the answer.

Then, at the 30-day mark, a second message came.

“Need more time. One month.”

You had to sit down. Your heart beat so loud and quick it muffled the silence that followed.

John placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re doing great,” he said. “And he’s gonna be okay.”

But you didn’t feel great, though. 

—

Around week six, it happened.

You’d just finished changing Jamie into his footie pajamas—the yellow ones with little moons and stars—and were placing him on the playmat in the middle of the living room when he surprised you. He’d been trying for days, wobbling like a baby penguin with a mission, always toppling sideways or collapsing onto his belly with a frustrated huff.

But this time… he did it.

With a determined little grunt and a proud scrunch of his brow, Jamie pushed himself upright—his pudgy hands planted firmly on the mat, his legs bent in just the right way—and he sat…. unassisted.

You froze, blinking in disbelief for a full second before the joy hit you like a wave.

“You sat up on your own, Jamie!” you squealed, your voice high and overwhelmed with pride. You rushed forward, scooping him into your arms and covering his chubby cheeks with rapid-fire kisses. “You’re so clever!”

Jamie laughed a delighted giggle that made your heart explode—and you clapped for him like he’d just graduated from college. You kissed him again and again, whispering praises, brushing his hair back, watching how his eyes lit up from your joy.

But then you looked up— just for a second.

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the doorway, half-expecting to see Bucky there leaning against the frame. You could practically picture it—the way he’d whisper "Atta boy..." 

But the doorway was empty.

Oh, right. He wasn’t here.

Still, you held Jamie close to your chest, rocking him gently as his small hands gripped your shirt. “Daddy would’ve loved that,” you whispered into his hair, kissing the top of his head. “He would’ve clapped louder than me.”

—

It was around week seven when it happened— a quiet afternoon in the nursery, rain pattering against the Watchtower’s windows, and you were in the other room folding laundry while Yelena played with Jamie on the floor. You heard her voice, delighted. “Wait—wait, wait! bozhe moy—he’s doing it!”

You dropped the stack of baby onesies and rushed in just in time to see Jamie, your seven-month-old bundle of determination, wiggling forward on his hands and knees, his little face scrunched in focus as he crawled for the first time— straight toward his favourite stacking rings.

Yelena already had her phone out, camera rolling, grinning like a proud aunt. “Look at this strong little soldier,” she said, laughing. “He has places to be!”

You dropped to your knees beside them, your hand over your mouth as laughter and tears bubbled up all at once. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Jamie,” you whispered, scooping him into your arms as he squealed, triumphant. “You did it, baby. You did it!”

Later that night, after Jamie had drifted off in his crib, you sat in the Watchtower kitchen surrounded by avengers and half-drunk mugs. You played the video again (complete with Yelena’s commentary, Jamie’s babbling giggles, the sound of his tiny palms slapping the play mat) as everyone gathered around—Ava and Bob peering over your shoulder, John and Alexei leaning against the fridge.

“He did this today?” Ava said, visibly impressed.

You nodded. “He just… took off.”

“Bucky would lose his mind,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. “He’s been waiting for this.” You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, glanced toward the nursery monitor on the table.

“He’s growing up so fast,” you said softly. “Too fast.”

And though no one said it aloud, you could feel it in the way Ava gently touched your shoulder, in the way Yelena squeezed your hand, in the way even John stayed silent for once— Bucky was missing moments he would never get back.

—

Around week eight, the daily message finally came through on the Tower comms, blinking with the same buzz it always did. You dropped what you were doing and hurried over, hoping that today would be the day he said he was on his way home.

But the screen displayed:

“Need more time.”

That was it.

No follow-up and no time estimate. 

You stood there in the dimmed hallway light, heart sinking into your stomach. You pressed a hand to the monitor screen like it might somehow pass through, like it might reach him— like it might let him know how much you needed him now.

You hadn’t realised just how much hope you’d pinned on hearing something different today.

After you got Jamie down for the night, you sat in the rocking chair by the window in the nursery. You clutched one of his worn t-shirts to your chest—washed too many times but still faintly smelling like him—and glanced at the small framed photo on your nightstand.

It was a candid shot of Bucky holding Jamie the day after he was born. His metal hand was cradling Jamie’s head so delicately, his human hand around his little body.

You looked at it every night— and lately, you’d started talking to it.

“I swear, Buck, he’s got your attitude,” you murmured with a smile. “Fights nap time like he’s trying to break out of a prison transport. He’s teething now, too—two little teeth on the bottom. He bit my shoulder today and then laughed.”

You laughed to yourself, but it was tired. “And he crawled up two stairs today. Alexei nearly had a heart attack. I’m fine. Totally fine. Totally not freaking out.”

You rested your head against the back of the chair, tears burning your eyes as you looked over at the crib.

Jamie was sound asleep, arms spread, a tiny fist curled around the edge of his blanket. You got up and tiptoed over.

“Wanna say goodnight to Daddy, sweetheart?”

As part of your nightly routine, you’d started showing Jamie a few photos of Bucky—his favorite was the one of Bucky grinning with sunglasses on and Jamie strapped to his chest in a carrier.. You’d hold it up and say, “That’s your daddy. He loves you so much.”

Then you’d pull up the recording Bucky had made weeks before the mission of him reading Jamie’s favourite bedtime story— Goodnight Moon. It had been his idea, something he insisted on recording “just in case.”

As his voice filled the room—“Goodnight comb and goodnight brush…”—Jamie stirred, but only to sigh and snuggle deeper into the mattress, soothed by the sound of the man he hadn’t seen in more than three months.

—

By the time week twelve rolled around, the days had started to blur into each other. You weren’t sure if it was Tuesday or Saturday, or if you’d eaten lunch or just forgotten again. Your life was just Jamie’s routine and the single nightly message from Bucky.

“Alive.”

That was all he was allowed to say. It wasn’t much, but it was everything to you.

But then came the night the comms didn’t crackle at all.

You’d finished Jamie’s bedtime routine—bath, bottle, story—and sat in the control room with the monitor nearby, watching the clock tick past the usual transmission window. You waited one minute. Then ten. Then twenty.

Just as your chest began to tighten, Ava appeared in the doorway, still in half of her mission gear.

“Delay in transmission,” she reassured. “There’s been some disruption on the line. It doesn’t mean anything bad. Happens sometimes.”

You nodded, even though your stomach had already sunk halfway through the floor. “Thanks.”

But sleep didn’t come that night. You tried to lie down, tried to close your eyes, but your body was on high alert.

So instead, you padded barefoot to the nursery and lifted Jamie from his crib. He stirred in your arms, but didn’t fully wake— just tucked his head against your shoulder the way BUcky often did when you cuddled, tiny fingers curling into your sleeve like he knew you needed him as much as he needed you.

You curled up in the rocking chair with him, forehead pressed against the fuzz of his hair.

“Daddy’s okay,” you whispered, rocking slowly,“He’s coming home soon. Any day now, sweetheart. He promised.”

—

One night, while you rocked Jamie through the tail end of another teething fuss, the Tower’s main comm crackled to life.

You weren’t expecting much— maybe the usual “Alive”, maybe nothing at all. But then you saw it.

“On my way back. ETA: 2 hours.”

You stared at the words for a second, blinking once they sank in.

Oh.

Oh. Oh my God.

Your heart started racing, hands trembling around Jamie’s warm little body. You pressed a kiss to his hair, eyes filling with tears. “He’s coming home, baby,” you whispered to him.

Two hours later, almost to the minute, the Watchtower’s hangar doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh. The team had decided to give you privacy, so you were the only one there. 

Still, your lungs had forgotten how to work the second you saw him.

Bucky.

He stood at the top of the ramp, his tactical gear scraped and worn, smeared with dust and bloodHis hair was tied back, a little longer than when he’d left. His face was gaunt with fatigue—like he’d lived a lifetime in the past three months—but none of that mattered.

Because his eyes were on you.

And then he ran.

You barely had time to react before he barreled into you, boots slamming against the floor, arms wrapping around you in a grip so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. His body collided with yours and you stumbled back a step, arms coming up around his shoulders like muscle memory.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—” he whispered into your neck, his voice cracking. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your hair—frantic and tender.

You curled your fingers into the rough fabric of his jacket, fisting the front of it. He smelled like dirt and ash, but beneath it, he still smelled like home. You closed your eyes and breathed him in like oxygen.

“I made sure Jamie was napping,” you murmured, “Wanted to have you all to myself first.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. He cupped your face in both hands, gently brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs, as if you were something precious and fragile.

“You did?” he chuckled playfully.

You nodded, eyes wet. 

“Sweetheart…” His breath hitched. “God, I missed you. So much.”

You pressed your lips to his in a kiss— and there was no rush, no frantic edge— just pure love, poured from the cracks in your heart into hisYou melted into him, every part of you screaming finally.

“I don’t care what Val says,” he whispered against your lips. “No more long missions. I don’t care if I have to clean the Tower bathrooms with a toothbrush— the longest I’ll ever go without you is a weekend. That’s it.”

You smiled through your tears, resting your forehead against his.

—

Later, once the team greeted him for a debrief and he got checked up in the medical bay, Bucky walked through the corridor to the nursery, your hand in his. You stopped just outside the door, letting him step in first.

The glow of the nightlight spilled across the room like moonlight, Jamie was fast asleep in his crib, one tiny hand curled near his cheek.

Bucky stood in the doorway.

For a long time, he didn’t speak. He just stared, glassy-eyed.

“He’s so big…” Bucky whispered, voice breaking. His metal hand tightened around yours just slightly. “I mean, I knew he would grow—but…”

“He did,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist. “He grew up so much.”

Bucky leaned down, resting his chin atop your head, eyes never leaving his son.

“I missed him,” Bucky murmured. “I missed everything. His face… He’s changed.”

You nodded, pressing your cheek against his jacket. “He looks more like you now.”

Bucky gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, still watching Jamie’s chest rise and fall. “I wanna hold him so bad,” Bucky said. “But I should shower. Get the dirt off me before I touch either of my babies.”

“He’ll be up in the morning. He’s become a morning person, like his dad,” you whispered, “But I don’t mind the dirt.”

Bucky finally turned, pulling you into his arms again, a bit more relaxed now. “Don’t you, now?” he chuckled, dropping a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw.

You grinned, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned in closer.

“I missed this,” he said, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “Missed you in our bed. Missed the sounds you make. Missed waking up with you. Missed touching you—loving you.”

Your breath caught as his hands traced your sides. “Bucky—” you whispered, heart racing.

“Let me love my girl,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “Let me come home to you properly.”

You nodded.

He took your hand in his, and with one last glance toward the crib before closing the door as he led you to your shared tower bedroom.

—

The hum of the baby monitor filled the bedroom — until it didn’t. You heard a faint rustle, the scrunch of fabric, and a sleepy little sigh followed by the unmistakable pat-pat of tiny hands against the crib mattress.

You stirred beneath the blanket, blinking awake. “He’s up,” you whispered, barely a breath.

But Bucky, excited to finally see his son, was already halfway across the room.

You sat up as he disappeared into the hallway as you followed behind watching him pause outside the nursery door.

He reached for the handle and then he opened the door.

The morning light spilled across the floor, filtering in through the curtains, and there—right where you'd left him—was Jamie. Blinking drowsily, legs kicking beneath, his cheeks still warm.

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently, crouching down beside the crib. His voice was rough, quiet—like reverence wrapped in gravel. “There’s my boy.”

Jamie blinked once before a high-pitched squeal erupted from his little body, his whole face scrunching into a gummy, delighted grin. He kicked hard, flailing his arms like he might fly right out of the crib.

Bucky let out a laugh that sounded half a choke, half a sob. “You remember me, huh?” he whispered, almost amazed.

He scooped Jamie up with both arms, holding him against his chest like he was made of spun sugar.

You leaned against the doorframe, a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course he did.” 

Bucky pressed a kiss to Jamie’s hair and shut his eyes. “God, he’s heavier,” he said.

Jamie babbled something unintelligible, tugging at Bucky’s collar like he had a lot to catch up on and no words to say it.  

The three of you curled up on the couch not long after—Jamie nestled in Bucky’s lap, clutching his bottle with sleepy fingers while Bucky held him close, murmuring nonsense. Jamie giggled, tugged gently at his hair, and babbled like they were resuming a conversation that had never ended.

You sat beside them, then you pulled out your phone.

“Here,” you said, shifting closer until your thigh brushed his. “You missed a few things. I saved everything.”

Bucky glanced at the screen as you pulled up the first video.

It was Jamie crawling. Wobbly and determined, launching himself forward from the rug to the couch as you cheered and Yelena laughed in the background.

Bucky’s breath caught. “Look at him go,” he whispered, brushing Jamie’s hair back. He kissed his son’s temple.

You smiled and swiped to the next.

This one was Jamie sitting up all by himself, beaming proudly, clearly so proud of himself.

Bucky’s smile was gentler this time.

Clip after clip, moment after moment—Jamie waving at Bob for the first time, babbling nonsense as Alexei tried to teach him the Russian word for “banana” — These were three months worth of milestones, one after another.

You were too busy watching the screen to see the way Bucky’s teeth clenched, the way his metal hand flexed against his thigh.

“And here,” you said, “this was last week. He figured out how to hold the bottle himself.”

You tapped the video: Jamie lying on a blanket, gripping his little bottle with both hands, gurgling contentedly between sips. It was three days ago.

“That’s… that’s great,” he whispered, barely audible.

You turned your head to look at him, resting your hand on his thigh. “You okay?”

He met your eyes with a sad smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good, sweetheart. Just… taking it all in.”

You nodded, comforted by the answer, and turned back to the next video..

You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on the screen long afterwards, the way his hands tightened around Jamie’s. 

He kissed Jamie’s cheek again.

Because while you saw memories, Bucky only saw his absence from an entire chapter of his son’s life that he could never get back. And even as Jamie cooed against him, Bucky couldn’t help but think—

I should’ve been there.

—

That night, sometime past 2 a.m., the baby monitor crackled to life—a fizz of static followed by the most heartbreaking cry.

You stirred beneath the covers, still half-asleep, but before you could even lift your head, Bucky was already sitting up, one hand brushing your thigh.

“I got this, honey,” he reassured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Go back to sleep.”

You gave a groggy hum of thank you and rolled over, already sinking back into the mattress.

Bucky moved down the hallway and into the nursery, easing the door open. 

Jamie was wriggling in his crib, face red and scrunched, little fists clenched tight as he let out another frustrated cry— the particular pitch that could only mean one thing.

“Hey, hey, alright, buddy,” Bucky soothed, already reaching in. “You mad about the diaper again? I get it. Nobody likes soggy pants.”

He changed him on the table— hesitant at first, but it came back to him like muscle memory. Tape, wipe, fresh diaper, blanket with the faded cartoon stars— he one Jamie always settled best in.

“There we go,” Bucky whispered, swaddling him up with care. “Better?”

Jamie hiccupped, then let out a sleepy little sigh. His eyes drooped.

But neither Jamie nor Bucky headed straight back to bed— it was as if they were both awake and in this together now..

So, he drifted into the Watchtower’s common room, where the city lights bled in through the windows and walked around the kitchen tower. He reached and pointed to the fridge, most likely for a bottle.

“You hungry, too, huh?” he asked. He quickly warmed up the bottle before slipping it gently into Jamie’s hands.

And Jamie… gripped it. He adjusted it and found the rubber nipple on his own like it was second nature.

Bucky didn’t help anymore, he didn’t have to. Jamie had it handled.

Tears pricked his eyes as he sank into the couch.

“You’re so good at that now,” he whispered, voice cracking as he brushed a hand over Jamie’s brown curls. “You don’t even need me to help.”

Jamie drank peacefully, his little hand patting absently at Bucky’s chest.

“I should’ve been here for that,” Bucky continued. “Should’ve helped you figure it out. And now I come back, and you’ve already moved past it.”

He looked away, wiping at his face, “What kind of dad misses that?”

“Someone who is trying,” came a gravelly voice behind him.

Bucky twisted to look behind him.

Alexei stood in the doorway, travel-worn, duffel bag still slung over his shoulder, just coming home from a mission. He smelled like pavement and engine grease, and he was careful not to get too close to little Jamie.

“Hey there, malen’kiy medvezhonok,” he greeted Jamie. Then, with a smirk, he said, “And bol’shoy medved,” he added, nodding to Bucky with dry amusement— his long-standing nickname for Bucky’s bear-like devotion to fatherhood.

Jamie made a sleepy gurgle and blinked up at him, unimpressed.

Bucky sighed. “He figured out the bottle on his own.”

Alexei nodded, stepping inside and collapsing into the nearby armchair with a grunt. “Babies do that.” he said, dropping his bag, “But I think my girls skipped it and went straight for knives.”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, but it faded quickly.

“Be honest with me, Alexei.”

Alexei raised a brow. “Always.”

“Am I a failure of a father?”

Alexei blinked, frowning like Bucky had asked whether water was optional for survival.

“What? No.”

“I missed him crawling, sitting up. All the big firsts. I keep telling her I’m fine, that I’m proud, but I’m already behind and he’s not even one. How do I even begin to catch up?”

Alexei sat on an armchair. Then he leaned back, stretching his legs with a groan. “You want truth?”

Bucky nodded.

“You are not failure. You are a man who had to leave but came back.” He gestured vaguely. “That alone makes you better than ninety-nine percent of men I’ve known—including my own father. It makes you better than me for most of Natasha and Yelena’s lives.”

Bucky frowned. “But—”

“Listen to me.” Alexei held up a hand, interrupting him. “I used to think I could fix everything with fists. I thought if I hit enough bad guys, it made me good by default. But then.... I stay— and Yelena likes me better now. We need to keep coming back, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it.”

He paused, then added, “John —he is not perfect. He missed much of his child’s early life. Now he gets weekend and playground visits. But he shows up. He tries. Do you think he is bad father?”

“No,” Bucky admitted, remembering when John’s kid got a tour of the tower, giggly and happy, “Not anymore.”

“Exactly,” Alexei said, “And John left for a year. You? You are holding your son and feeling bad about a bottle.”

Bucky looked down. Jamie was dozing now, the bottle half-full, his hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“You think he’ll forgive me?” Bucky asked.

Alexei snorted. “He is baby. He will forgive you before breakfast.”

That drew a real laugh from Bucky. He buried his nose in Jamie’s hair and closed his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said.

Alexei stood with a stretch. “I go find food. Or shower. Or both. In whatever order I hit first.” He gave Jamie a parting glance. “Good baby. Sleeps better than little Yelena.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bucky and Jamie alone again.

—

The light of morning spilled across the Watchtower’s windows. The city below hummed—cars drifting like whispers on distant roads, the sound of turbines blending into birdsong. Inside, the common room was warm and quiet.

You sat curled on the long couch, a travel bag at your feet and Jamie balanced in your lap, his tiny body still warm from sleep. He wore his little bear-print onesie, his cheeks smudged pink, fingers lazily wrapped around the last bit of his morning bottle. He blinked sleepily up at you, eyelashes fluttering like they were too heavy.

It was your last morning at the Tower, Bucky had just finished debriefing everyone he needed to and doing all the official paperwork. You’d be back often, of course—visits, Bucky’s (hopefully shorter) missions, and dinners with the team—but today, you were finally going home. Back to your own kitchen, your backyard, to your birdfeeder. Back to your quiet street and your swing and the scent of fresh coffee in your own kitchen. Back to your bed that no longer felt too big, because Bucky was coming with you.

He’d slipped out earlier, promising to pack up your things while you focused on Jamie. “Let me do something useful, sweets,” he’d said, pressing a kiss to your temple. He was still carrying this guilt in small ways— over-packing the diaper bag, refolding clothes you’d already folded, checking three times that Jamie had socks on.

And you let him.

Because this was how he stitched himself back into your life.

Jamie finished the bottle and gave a small, sleepy grunt. Then he kicked around, accidentally knocking your empty breakfast plate from the coffee table. 

CLACK!

It clattered to the ground with an echo that felt so much louder than it should have been.

Jamie flinched.

His whole body jolted as his eyes went wide, mouth pulling down hard. And then— like a dam cracking open— the cries began— the kind that came with a startled fear only babies felt, when they didn’t understand the world enough to explain it.

“Oh, baby—no, no, it’s okay,” you whispered, immediately rocking him. “Just a sound, it’s alright. Just a noise. Mama’s got you—shhh…”

But he was inconsolable. His tiny fists curled tight against your collarbone, whole face turning red as he wailed.

That was the moment the door slid open.

Bucky stepped into the room, a suitcase in one hand and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed from some conversation he’d just had with John on the comms. “Hey, I found the monitor and that book you always—oh—”

He froze, watching you frantically try to calm little Jamie down

“What happened?” he asked quickly, dropping the bag before you could answer.

“He scared himself,” you explained. “He knocked the plate off the table and made a loud noise.”

You didn’t need to explain more. He was already reaching.

“Come here,” Bucky said, his voice a particular tenderness he reserved only for you and Jamie. “Come to Daddy. Daddy’s got you now.”

You passed Jamie over, and Bucky drew him in tight— one hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head, the other rubbing soothing circles across his little spine. His voice dropped to a hush. “Shhh… It’s alright now. Just a dumb plate, huh? Didn’t mean to scare you. We’ll kick its ass later, huh?” he said, and you playfully slapped his shoulder for saying a bad word. “Plates are overrated anyway.”

Jamie’s cries had quieted into little hiccups, no longer frantic. He clung to Bucky’s shirt, burrowed in under his chin like.

And then it came in his small, raspy voice “...Dada.”

Bucky stopped moving. You blinked.

And then, slowly, Bucky pulled back just enough to look at Jamie’s face. “What… What did you say?” he whispered in disbelief.

Jamie blinked up at him as a chubby hand reached up and curled into Bucky’s beard.

“Dada,” he said again, clearer now.  

Bucky’s knees almost buckled.

His mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

“Is this—has he...?” he asked, barely turning his head toward you.

You were already nodding, tears burning in your own eyes. “It is,” you whispered, kissing Jamie’s forehead. “That’s his first word.”

Bucky let out a stunned laugh, his voice cracking.  “That’s me. That’s me, Jamie. I’m your Dada.”

He kissed the top of Jamie’s head over and over again, before kissing you— gentle and sweet. 

Jamie giggled at the sight of his parents showing affection to each other, delighted with himself, babbling nonsense now and again, but punctuating it with another firm, proud “Dada.”

You smiled, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder.

All those nights you’d shown Jamie picture after picture of his father—telling him over and over, “That’s your Daddy. He’s coming home.” All those times you’d held your breath hoping Jamie wouldn’t forget him… It had all paid off.

Bucky kissed your forehead without even looking, still half in shock, like he couldn’t believe this little boy—this squishy miracle—was his. And yours.

And that his very first word had been Dada.

Jamie wiggled and tucked his head beneath Bucky’s chin, pressing close with a little hum of contentment. “Dada,” Jamie said again, sleepily this time. 

Bucky leaned down and whispered, “That’s me, buddy.”

—end.

Request Guidelines

Masterlist

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

He guffaws. Actually guffaws, like you’ve just suggested he go jump in the Thames. “I think not,” he says. “I have a girlfriend.” 

A tiny laugh startles out of you. “Yeah, I’m aware. You alright?” 

Now he gives you a smile. Or his best attempt at one, but James has always been a terrible actor, and the false grin manifests as a grimace. “M’good, thanks.” 

He starts to turn back towards his friends, but you pull on his sleeve. 

“C’mon, Jamie,” you urge. “It’s time to go, yeah?” James turns around, looking truly scandalized now. You give his arm a tug. “Let’s go home.” 

“No,” he insists, firmer than you knew could be managed with a slur. “I told you, I have a girlfriend. She’s waiting at my home, ‘nd I love her very much. Leave me alone.” 

“James,” you laugh. “Honey, it’s me.” 

“Pads.” He turns around, wrapping his arm around Sirius’ shoulders like he needs to hold onto something lest you try and haul him away. “Pads, this woman is trying to take me home. Tell ‘er I have a girlfriend.” 

Your mouth drops open. “James!” 

Sirius turns slowly, raking his gaze over you. He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Get lost, babe. This one’s taken.” 

Then he jolts and cuts a glare towards Remus, who sips from his drink innocently. “Be nice,” he reminds his boyfriend, foot moving back under his own chair. 

Sirius sighs, rolling his eyes. “Prongs,” he says with great reluctance, “this is your girlfriend.” 

Even drunk, James knows enough to be suspicious of his friend when he’s in a mischief-making mood. He squints at Sirius. “My girlfriend s’at home,” he reasons. 

“Your girlfriend is here,” Sirius says evenly, and you can’t blame James for his skepticism; if you weren’t fully aware that you are here, you wouldn’t trust Sirius’ deadpan stare either. 

“I texted her, James,” Remus says helpfully. “She’s here because I told her where we were.” 

Your boyfriend’s lips part, and he turns to you with something between joy and heartache—but the shock of both—written all over his face. “Sweetheart,” he cries, “it’s you!” 

“Yeah,” you laugh, letting him tug you forward by the hips into an awkward hug. You set a consoling hand on top of his head. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.” 

“My sweetheart,” he mumbles into your stomach. “I didn’t know it was you, angel. Of course I’ll go home with you.” 

“Glad to hear it.” You pat his back, heat rising to your cheeks at the display. 

James turns his head, still gripping you tightly so the side of his face is pressed to your front. “You texted her for me?” he asks Remus, maudlin.

“Well, I texted her because I didn’t feel like walking in the opposite direction of our flat to carry you home,” Remus says, then shrugs. “But for you too, sure.” 

“Thank you, Moony,” James croons. 

Remus turns to hide a smile, and you take James’ head in your hands, angling his face back up towards you. “Hi, handsome,” you try again. “Ready to go home?” 

He bobs his head happily, clambering out of his seat and whistling rowdily when you slip an arm around his waist to help support him. You wonder if the heat from your face could be harvested to power a hospital or something. You wave goodbye to his friends as James calls over your shoulder how much he’ll miss them until he sees them tomorrow. 

“M’so excited to go home, baby.” He leans into your side as you maneuver the both of you out the door of the pub. “I’ve been dying to get home to you. You should’a heard, earlier, I was talking to this other girl ‘nd I told her, ‘I’m just dying to get home to my girlfriend’.” 

“Yeah, I remember,” you say. “That was me.” 

You let out a breath and look to your left, chewing on your lip as you try to find a delicate way of saying “the sex, Sirius.” 

“But why?” He finally manages, letting his weight fall back into the back of the sofa in a half-seated, half-standing position. You really picked a horrid place to have this conversation; you asked to come over, and Sirius - none the wiser - was likely excited for a romp, but then you were taking your shoes off to be polite but not allowing him to take your jacket, slapping him with the “I can’t do this anymore” before you were even five whole steps into his flat. 

“It’s…I don’t know, Sirius. It’s not enough for me.”

“I’m not enough for you.” He parrots in monotone; not a question.

“No, Sirius, that’s not what I’m saying.” You moan. “But, just, this arrangement - it isn’t enough for me anymore. I want more.”

“You want more. More, what?”

“Sirius, come on.” You groan, finally looking at him in exhaustion and hoping he can hear the desperation in your tone. “Are you really going to make me say it out loud?”

“I just don’t understand what’s changed!” He pleads, standing again and holding his hands out helplessly. 

“I have!” You shout back, immediately feeling guilty because this wasn’t meant to be a fight, and this was probably exactly why he insisted on this kind of arrangement with you. 

“I have,” you try again, softer this time, “I just…I want more. I want a boyfriend. And I can’t have that if…”

“If you’re sleeping with me.” He surmises, earning him a nod as you go back to studying the soft grey of his shirt. “But…we agreed, yeah? We agreed that that’s all we’d be.”

“I know.” You admit. “I know, and I’m sorry, I just…” Your shoulders raise helplessly, causing him to sigh.

“Was it…something I did?” He asks carefully, joining you in looking to the left of the room instead of at each other. 

“No, Sirius. And I don’t hold anything against you.” You insist delicately. “I’m not asking you for anything you’re not able to give me, either. That’s why I’m-”

“-leaving.” He finishes for you. The word apparently sour in his mouth, the aftertaste leaving his lips puckered somewhere between disgust and hurt. 

“This was just temporary, yeah?” You try, nudging your socked toe against a scuff in the hardwood floor beneath you. “This was never meant to be forever; not exclusive, no commitment.”

He turns to look at you at that, face pained as if you hadn’t just repeated his own rules verbatim. 

“Those were your rules.” You remind him gently. 

“But you want more.” He offers, again, not a question. 

“I’m sorry, Sirius.” Is all you can think to say. 

You try not to shrink under his gaze, your own eyes flitting between his - that look suspiciously red rimmed - and his t-shirt; apparently the thin fabric covering his heart safer territory than his eyes as they search your face for, what, you aren’t sure. 

“Alright.” He says simply, apparently having come to some decision.

“Alright?” You ask carefully, watching him as he stands and shakes out his hands, rolling his shoulders as if stepping away from a fist fight. 

“Alright,” he repeats, “you want a boyfriend? I’ll be your boyfriend.”

“Wha- wait, Sirius-”

“What? That’s what you said, right? You want more?” He’s gaining on you as he asks, and this time you do shrink under his gaze; feeling about two feet tall as he makes it to you, his chest centimetres from your own. “I’ll give you more, then.” 

“You- no, I…that’s-”

“You want a boyfriend, I’ll be your boyfriend.” He says again, softer as he slips his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans; not touching you, exactly, but enough to make him feel like an anchor for your fluttering heart.

“I don’t want you to be something you don’t want to be. I don’t want to force you.”

“You’re not forcing me.” He says, grey eyes mapping out points of your face. “I said this wouldn’t be exclusive but…it sort of already was for me. Might as well just call it what it is, then.”

You shake your head, not in disagreement, but in disbelief. “You said you don’t do relationships.” 

His eyes narrow slightly as if wanting to wince, but they stay open in favour of watching the way you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“No, I don’t.” He admits, and the little flicker of hope in your chest is almost snuffed at his admission. “But I’ve never really wanted to do a relationship before. But I want you.” 

“You want me?”

He must notice the tentative, hopeful smile on your lips, because a matching one grows on his own before his eyes flicker up to yours. “I want you.”

“But…I want a boyfriend?”

His smile softens but doesn’t shrink as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Then I guess I have myself a girlfriend, don’t I?”