soppy

“Thank you. I’d actually like that.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would.” ‘Cos he loves everything you write. And he doesn’t hate himself so much these days. 

You slink back so your butt is on the sofa and your thighs are over his thigh, prompting him again with your rest, digging it into his arm. He has a scar you like to fall in love with up the curve of his bicep, enticing even while you’re busy, and it doesn’t mind being kissed. 

Remus takes the test out of your fingers as you duck down. 

“Oh?” he says, bringing it to his eye level. 

“Oh, yeah. It stuck this time, Lupin. How’d you manage it? Puppy time starts now.”

“What?”

You point to the result with your thumbnail. “Two lines for positive, baby love.”

“Stop teasing, a second,” he says softly. 

Your chest does this violent squeamish twisty thing because Remus has never done that to you before; you don’t know how to feel at his sudden lack of humour, your body goes right for nausea. 

You turn a bit in his lap to meet his eyes. “Remus, you wanted–”

“No, I know, I do want. I want– You’re not joking?”

“It’s real,” you say, resting your hand carefully between the lines of his pecs. There’s muscle there, but bone beneath. Close to the surface. “Why would I be joking?” 

He puts the test in the crease of his trousers, bringing both hands to your face. His fingers are big, and soft, his hands smelling of neroli as he lines your face up tightly to his. Eye to eye, like he could go in for a kiss. 

“Not like that,” he say. “Oh, dove.”

He’s freaking you out. You want to tell him so, tell him strongly. When you’d first started seeing you could barely tell him anything. You couldn’t tell him you loved him, couldn’t ask to be exclusive, couldn’t even confess to wanting more than sex, because you had no idea what he wanted beyond that. 

But. Remus knows you now. Knows what you like, how you love, knows the things you need. That very first time you’d been together, he’d watched you with little baby Harry wishing for things you never thought you’d get, had later confessed how easily he saw it with you himself. Puppies. 

“Sweet girl,” he says, all his emphasis on girl, his voice rough and gritty like it burns to say. 

“I thought you’d be happy,” you mumble. You think he is, actually, but something makes you say it. 

He drags your face to his, your noses kissing, your foreheads tapped and then squished until he’s breathing your breath, his fingertips scrabbling at the sides of your face and your ears and the softest skin behind them. 

“You are so incredibly special,” he says quietly, an utterance that hardly breaks the room, filling your stomach with a fondness so deep it borders dread, “you’re more than I ever thought I’d find, and having a baby with you is almost everything I could ever want.” 

“Remus…”

His sudden intensity isn’t entirely bad. Your chest is lightening. The dread dissipates. His hands are warm on your cheeks, thumbs drawing kindly lines over the perfect skin by your mouth. It’s soft enough to send a shiver down your back. 

“I want you,” he says, “and everything you want, too. My reaction isn’t– I’m not getting cold feet.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“This is a big moment, lovey. I want you to feel that.”

“It’s unnerving when you get all serious with me.”

Your voice is meandering. He likes it, his smile ghosting against your lips as he waits for his kiss. “I’m not trying to,” he says. 

“I didn’t think it was that big a deal. We knew it would happen eventually.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, one arm slinking down you to slide behind your back, holding you to him, skewiff and practised in his lap. You still remember sitting like this with him as he’d mumbled the lyrics to Hello, Dolly in your ear, swaying you from side to side, your stomach in a semi-constant somersault because no one had ever treated you that way before. It’s the same feeling now. This is what it’s like to be adored. 

“What?” James asks again. He seems as though he might still have one foot in a dream. 

“I’m really sorry,” you say. “I, um. Did someone move the bin?” 

“If I’d known it was going to upset you so much you’d spill it all over,” Sirius says drily, “I would have left it where it was.” 

You shrink meekly. “It was an accident.” 

Remus is looking between you and the trash like he can’t quite make sense of what he’s woken up to. “Did you just get home?” 

“Mhm.” You reach into the bread bag, pulling out another slice to nibble on anxiously. 

“Babe.” Sirius looks down on you with an arch to his brow. “Are you eating plain bread on our floor right now?” 

You hug your bread closer to you possessively. “...yes.” 

“Why?” Remus rubs his eyes. “Why are you doing that?” 

“Because, it’s good. And you weren’t supposed to see.” You look up at him woefully. “I’m sorry I made you wake up. I was really trying not to, I promise.” 

Remus’ expression melds into something softer. “Oh, don’t get upset.” 

“Oh my god,” James laughs from the sofa. “How sozzled are you?” 

“I…don’t know what that means,” you lie. 

Sirius snorts, and James, clearly feeling left out, clambers out of his pile of blankets on the sofa to join you all in the kitchen. It’s then, with all three of them in front of you, that you realize something wonderful. 

“You’re wearing the pajamas I got you!” you gasp. 

Sirius’ expression drains of humor. Remus looks embarrassed, and James actually looks down to see what he’s wearing. 

“Oh my god, this is so cute! You’re all matching!” You reach up to the counter, feeling blindly around for your phone. “I wished you’d waited until I was wearing mine too, but I have to get a picture—wait, stay there!” 

“Goodnight,” says Sirius, high-tailing back to his room. 

“I think you must have set your phone down in your room,” Remus says, slipping something into his pocket as he bends to start gathering the spilled rubbish. 

“But…I haven’t been there yet?” 

“Hm.” 

“I’m sorry.” You start to crawl over to him, forgetting your bread on the floor. “Let me do that.” 

“No, you’re alright.” He touches your shoulder kindly, stopping you before you start trampling rubbish. “It’s not very much. You should go to bed.” 

You frown at him. “But…” 

“Here, up we go.” James hauls you up with hands under your arms. He guides you over to the sofa, a glass of water appearing in your hands. “I want to hear about your night.” 

You smile at him. “I want to hear about yours. Did you put on your matching pajamas for boys' night?” 

He glances towards Remus surreptitiously before leaning closer to you to answer. “Yes,” he whispers, “and I’m sure it’ll happen again, they’re madly comfortable. Just bide your time.” 

“You’ll help me get a photo?” 

“You alright?” Lily asks you. 

You hum quietly against the dashboard. 

She eyes Sirius. “Am I going to be able to leave her with you?” 

“Yes,” he answers quickly. Too quickly to be convincing, more evidence of how badly he wants to be there for you than of any real competence. Sirius tries again. “Yeah, I’ve got her. Promise. I’m sorry I surprised you,” he says, crouching in the driveway to try and get a look at your face. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” You sound a bit unlike yourself. It’s your voice, but foggy, like when you’re pulled suddenly from your thoughts and you haven’t quite caught up to reality yet. “Sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Sirius and Lily say at the same time. Sirius guiltily, Lily a tad defensively. 

“Ready to go inside?” Sirius asks you. 

“Sure,” you hum. 

Lily watches like a hawk as he helps you out of the car. Sirius thinks she probably won’t leave until she sees you safely inside, and even if part of him is indignant part of him is a little grateful, too. It’s nice to think of you being so well looked after when Sirius isn’t around to do it. 

“Step,” he warns, reaching for your hand. It feels strange telling you about the step up outside your own home, but you wobble like you weren’t anticipating it and Sirius is glad he did. “There you go. Careful, lovely.” 

“Thanks.”

“For what?” Sirius asks lightly. 

You glance over at him with an uncertain little divot forming between your brows, and he adjusts, kissing your hair lightly. “There’s no need to thank me, pretty girl.” 

He gets the door—again, weird to be letting you into your own home—and waves goodbye to Lily as he ushers you inside. His fingers feel melded to the curves of your hand. 

“Are you thirsty?” he asks. You hesitate. “Hungry? I can make you something, if you like.” 

It’s possible Sirius has overprepared. In his defense, he’d been rather set on edge by the call from Lily (via your phone, so Sirius didn’t find out it was her until after he’d called his best mate’s girlfriend “sweet thing”), and she’d told him it was senseless for him to meet you at A&E, so he’s been left with nothing to do for the past few hours but overthink and prepare and gather every source of potential comfort he could find. 

Your supply of pain relievers has been restocked. There are four choices of beverage for you to take them with. Sirius has filled your pantry with all of your favorite snacks, unearthed every blanket you own to arrange them near the bed and the sofa (he wasn’t sure which you’d choose), and put a cold pack in your freezer in case your head is hurting you. 

He’s new to the boyfriend thing. He wants to get it right. 

“I don’t…” You blink, that unwelcome divot reappearing to mar your forehead. “I think I’m just tired.” 

Sirius tries not to deflate. “Yeah. Of course you are, sweetheart, I hear an afternoon in waiting rooms will do that to a person.” He gives your hand a light squeeze. “You want your pajamas first?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Sirius really did have too much time on his hands before you got here—and possibly too much nervous energy. A pair of your pajamas waits folded for you at the end of the bed. He makes sure you’re steady on your feet before leaving you to change, returning a minute later with a glass of water. 

“Hey,” he says softly, wary of startling you again. It works; you turn slowly this time, looking so precious in your t-shirt and flowery shorts that Sirius has to shove down on the desire to bite you. “Ready?” 

You watch him get into your bed like you’re studying an alien life form. It’s only when Sirius beckons you that you follow suit, settling in next to him and allowing him to slip a hand beneath your cheek. The curtains are closed, and your eyes appear murky dark as they observe him. 

He touches the edge of your bandage with his thumb. “Did they tell you how many stitches you got?” 

You hum. “Six, I think.” 

“Oh, my poor girl.” Sirius strokes a short line over the tape. “How’s it feel?” 

You give a sort of shrug. “Hurts,” you say, whispery. 

Sirius’ heart really might spill out of his ribcage. He’s concerned about this possibility. “Yeah?” 

You hum again.

“I’m sorry, baby. Maybe a rest will help, yeah?” 

“Maybe…Sirius?” 

“Hm?” 

“Are you staying?” 

He blinks. “I…yeah. I was planning on it. Is that okay?” 

“It’s fine,” you say. You’ve begun smoothing the corner of your pillowcase between two fingers, and he wonders if you’re nervous. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, though. I’ll be okay.” 

Sirius does have to, actually. Not only because Lily would castrate him if he didn’t, but also because the doctor was very clear that someone needs to stay with you for at least the first twenty-four hours of your concussion and thirdly because he’s quite sure his heart would give out if there were more than twenty feet between you. But have to isn’t really the issue. “I want to,” he says. 

“It’s just…” You’re still watching him. Like you’re absorbing every reaction, like you’re trying to parse him out. “It’s not really what we do, is it?” 

“What? Look after each other?” Sirius is trying not to take this personally, but he’s failing. 

You do look away now, down to where you’ve made a point of your pillowcase. “Yeah. I guess. It’s never really been part of our…thing.” 

“I thought we were trying to amend what our thing is.” 

You glance at him again. “What?” 

It takes Sirius a moment to place your confusion. When he does, it’s both a relief and a disappointment. 

You did have very specific, limiting terms to your relationship, up until a few days ago. You were constantly breaking them, was the issue. You were only a one-time hookup, except you kept showing up at each other’s door; it was meant to stay rough and without tenderness, but you really liked kissing and Sirius wanted to cuddle afterwards, so you made allowances; you couldn’t go on dates, only drinks before fucking hardly counted, did they? It was fine. None of that mattered, so long as it was clear there were no romantic feelings between you. At least, until you both developed them. 

It was during a post-coital cuddle that you finally admitted what Sirius was too cowardly to. What unfurled from there felt too perfect to be anything but fate, and now, with you in his arms not understanding how you got here, he wonders if you still feel its tug. The rightness of this. 

“Do you remember,” he says carefully, “when you told me you wanted to be together?” 

Your eyes grow wide. “I did?” 

Oh, you’re adorable. Sirius weaves his fingers through the ones smoothing your pillowcase. “It’s okay,” he tells you, wanting to get ahead of any upset. “It was only a few days ago. We talked about trying things a bit differently.” 

“Differently how?” you murmur. 

“Less rules.” He drags his thumb across your knuckles. “More like a genuine relationship.” 

It’s funny, you look almost the same now as you did the first time around. Hopeful. Terrified. “That’s…oh.” You close your eyes, expression pinching. 

Sirius sits up a bit. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, sorry. There’s these, like, flashes.” 

He coos, relaxing. “Keep them closed, sweetheart. Why don’t you try to go to sleep?” 

You hum complaisantly. Some of the tension in your features eases, and Sirius presses a kiss between your brows. Your lashes flicker but don’t open. 

“We just do that now?” you ask. 

“If you’re alright with it. We do anything you want, lovely girl.” 

“I like it,” you say. A bit shyly, Sirius thinks. “It’s weird. You’re acting mostly the same.” 

Truthfully, you’d rather be three sheets to the wind right now, but it’s never a good idea to drink on the job. It had been hard enough to get your department editor to approve this assignment to begin with; you don’t need to go sullying it with anything that could call your credibility into question. 

The story is an unlikely one. Rumors have started swirling of what some are calling a cult, people who claim vampires are real and that they’re devoting themselves as willing sustenance to them so the immortals don’t need to find other victims. The police department was involved briefly, but any investigation fizzled out soon enough; the cult members were clearly fantastical, but so long as they weren’t hurting anybody, it wasn’t really the city’s business. You thought there might be something more there. 

Not vampires, obviously. But cults will always be interesting, and you were curious to see what the real blood and guts of this one looked like. Getting your editor to let you investigate took weeks, but finding out how to attend a meeting only took a few covert questions and a taxi ride. 

You have to admit, this whole thing has turned out to be more organized than you anticipated. You were expecting a midnight convocation in a cemetery, chanting, maybe some shrines. The reality was a potluck in a rented room of the YMCA, two organized logs for both volunteers and vamps to sign in, and a ride to your chosen sponsees’ home with a promise to check back in with the leadership by nine tomorrow morning. 

“See?” James smizes at Lily. “She likes my tea.” 

“Don’t get smug, she hasn’t tried it yet.” Lily takes a cup from the tray, passing it to you with a conspiratorial look. “You may want some cream in that, love.” 

“Thanks,” you murmur, picking up the pitcher. You watch the cream bloom and swirl, noticing in your periphery the looks James and Lily send each other. They seem at once entirely familiar and playfully coy with one another; it makes it difficult to tell how long they’ve been together, or if they’re only so ridiculously in love that it doesn’t matter. “So.” You clear your throat. “How often do you do this?” 

“This?” James tears his gaze from Lily to look at you. “Feeding?”

Your face warms. “Sorry, is it rude to ask?” 

“No.” He smiles, brown eyes crinkling sweetly. You take a second to look for fangs—specially sharpened teeth, prosthetics, even the plastic dime store things—but you can’t see any. The only thing supernatural about James’ smile is its disarming handsomeness. “No, sweetheart, you’re alright. We usually try for once a week. We can go longer, if we need to, but it’s not…” 

“It gets difficult,” Lily fills in for him. “Feeding once a week keeps you from wanting more when you shouldn’t, does that make sense?” 

You nod, though it doesn’t to you, not really. 

“Most others find someone to feed from every couple weeks or so.” James has taken a seat on the rug, ignoring the chair nearby. You notice the way he circles a hand around Lily’s ankle to rub his thumb over her skin and wonder if he’d rather sit on the floor than be any farther from her. “We do it more often because there’s two of us and one of you.” 

“So you always share?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Why?” 

“Feeding from someone can feel intimate,” says Lily. “We like to do it together, but we don’t have to.” You try to relax your expression when you notice her watching you carefully. “If there being two of us makes you uncomfortable, we can take you back. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

You shake your head, unwilling to be sent away. This may be your only chance to see what has everyone in the cult so enraptured. “I’m fine with it. Just asking.” 

“How’d you come to join?” James asks. 

“You know.” You shrug. “Friend of a friend. I was curious.” 

This last part, at least, is true. James considers you from behind thickly-framed glasses. You wonder how much he really believes all this; if he’s convinced himself the glasses are some human disguise he needs to keep up, or if in his version of the lore even vampires can have imperfect vision. 

“Curious about which part?” he asks. 

You aren’t sure how to act now. Too eager, and they might see right through you. Too casual, and they could think you don’t want to be involved. You go with the truth. “To see what all the excitement was about, I guess.” 

Lily chuckles. “I don’t know if we’ll live up to whatever your friend told you,” she says, “but we can show you what it’s like, if you feel ready.” 

You find yourself nodding without any forethought. There’s a spellbinding quality about her, about both of them, when their attention is on you. 

Vampire hypnosis, your brain supplies half-humorously. 

But there’s not an ounce of dissent in you as Lily lifts herself up from her spot on the sofa, pivoting to set a thigh down on either side of your lap. She settles her weight on top of you. 

“This okay?” she asks, arms rising behind her head. 

“Yeah,” you manage. Obviously distracted, watching her pull her hair through a hair tie she’s taken from her wrist. 

She smiles almost sheepishly. “Keeps it out of the way.” 

“Should I do mine, too?” 

“No, don’t worry about it.” She moves some hair away from your neck. The brush of her knuckles makes you shiver. “I’ll make sure there’s no mess. I’m going to go first, and then James can join if you’re okay with it after a little while, alright?” 

You feel strangely breathless. Probably just an effect of having someone like Lily this close. She smells like almonds. “Sure.” 

“Alright. Thank you.” Her bright green eyes skim you over. Every second she waits feels stretched into infinity, your heart thumping against your throat. “If it ever gets to be too much, just say something. We can stop or take a break whenever you like.” 

“Okay,” you breathe. Lily nods, bending toward you, and you blurt, “Is it going to hurt?” 

You’re not genuinely worried about vampire fangs, but—shit—what are they going to do to you? Does this ritual involve some sort of bloodletting? Is she hiding a pin behind your back that she’s going to prick your neck with?

Lily backs away so you can see her face again. Her expression is gentle, almost unbearably kind. On the floor, James has taken hold of your wrist and is rubbing soothing circles into it with his thumb. 

“Just for a second,” Lily tells you. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” 

It’s not much reassurance, except it is, coming from her. This is the strangest experience you’ve ever had. Your heart thrashes wildly, and still you say, “Okay,” and tip your head to the side. 

Lily cups the side of your face as she bends closer again, closing her lips over your skin. 

It’s nice. It’s kissing. You almost want to laugh, half delirious from relief and the familiar pleasure of it. Is this what it really is—a whole vampire cult, organized meetings and severely given warnings and we can stop whenever you want—it’s all some sort of sex thing? The first scrape of Lily’s teeth has a smile breaking out over your face, and you hear James chuckle at the sight of it. He must think you’re getting into it. Really, you’re just surprised by the gentleness of it. Lily is an excellent kisser, but you were bracing yourself for pain, not—

Oh. 

“Oh,” you say aloud, caught offguard by the dizzy feeling that takes you when Lily’s fangs break your skin. It’s a head rush, but the best head rush you’ve ever felt, glittery and freeing and intoxicating. Everything that binds you together seems to give out, and you’re putty in her hands, but she’s handling you oh so carefully, and it’s just like she said, it hardly hurts, and fuck. 

Fuck. This is real. Lily is a vampire. They’re both vampires. 

“Doing alright, lovely?” James asks you. His thumb is still rubbing your wrist. 

You shouldn’t be doing alright. You should be reeling, and you are, a bit, but it’s like—it’s as if your brain can’t latch onto a whole thought. You’re floating, and every worry you have simply slips away from you as you go further downstream. 

Your response to James is little more than a thready hum. You think he responds, but you can’t hold onto it. 

You have the sense to swallow a moan when you remember the device in your pocket, still recording, still picking up every sound around you. Lily’s quiet sucking noises, James’ whispered praise, the shushing of the velvet cushion when Lily shifts on top of you, pressing closer. She moans, and the sound makes your blood pound, thinking about your editor listening to it later. 

“James.” Her voice rises like a plea. You don’t know what she wants, but you want to give it to her. You’re desperate to be everything she needs. 

“What, love?” James asks indulgently. 

Lily makes a low sound against your throat. “She tastes so good.” 

It sends a rush of pride through you. You’re drunk on it, hot and cold in different places and altogether blissfully overwhelmed. 

“I can tell.” He says your name, asking politely for your attention. You didn’t realize he knew it. You’d introduced yourselves earlier, of course, but that feels like a lifetime ago now. You manage to open your eyes, finding James watching you patiently. “Do you feel alright to have me start?” 

For a moment, you don’t remember what he means. All you know is you want him—both of them—to do whatever they need to you, so you’re nodding before your brain catches up. 

“I’ll start slowly,” he says anyway. “We’ll be able to tell when it’s too much, but if you start to feel nervous, you can still say so and we’ll stop.” 

“Okay.” You’re nearly weeping, pain and pleasure a staticy jumble in your head. “Okay, okay, please.” 

“We’ve got you,” James promises, and bends his head. 

His mouth finds the same spot his thumb has been devoting itself to. He begins as promised, as Lily had, soft, impossibly sweet kisses on the inside of your wrist. You make a truly mortifying sound then, tape recorder forgotten in your anticipation, and Lily hushes you with a touch to your cheek. When James bites you, you go limp against their sofa. Part of the used, spent, beloved fabric of it. 

What follows is a blurry dream of skin and teeth and tongues. Your lips parted in reverence, sometimes graced with a passing kiss, your loose limbs maneuvered with heart-throbbing care. At some point Lily and James switch positions. You end up in his lap, her lying stomach-down on the sofa to put her mouth to your wrist. Maybe blood tastes different from different arteries; maybe this is their way of kissing, lapping up each other’s saliva from marks on your body; you don’t care. You make a home for yourself in the smell of James’ hair and the lovely softness of the world around you until it’s over, and both partners are licking your wounds to seal them. 

“Sorry.” Lily sounds shyer than she has since you met. There’s a pretty blush in the apples of her cheeks. (Your blood? It suits her better, you think.) “I went a bit too fast at first, got carried away. How are you feeling?” 

“Good,” you breathe. You let your head list forward, surprised when you slip a few inches down James’ front. 

“Careful, you’re alright.” He pulls you back up. James is so strong. You’d noticed the bulk of his arms before, but—is this a human strength? You feel there’s so much you don’t know. James folds your head into his neck, rubbing your back and kissing your temple with unexpected warmth. “It might take you a few minutes to get your legs back under you. It’s normal, don’t worry.” 

“Bet you say that to all your meals,” you say, words smearing together. 

The sound of his laughter mingling with Lily’s might be your new favorite. “We do, actually,” Lily admits. “Some parts of this are fairly routine. I’ve never had anyone that tastes like you do, though.” 

“Really?” You turn your head to see her, genuinely curious. 

Lily doesn’t strike you as someone prone to empty flattery, but if you’d had any doubts about her truthfulness her expression dispels them. She looks blissed out, the green of her irises nearly eclipsed by pupil and lips as red as if she’s been nibbling them raw, but her brows are drawn together in puzzlement. 

“Yeah,” she says, as though this is a mystery she too would like to get to the bottom of. “James?”

“For me, too,” he confirms. He’s still running his hand up and down your back, a grounding pressure. “What’s that about, you think?” 

“I don’t know,” Lily murmurs. As you come back to grips with yourself, you find yourself watching them again. Maybe it’s your default setting, the journalist in you, but you can’t help taking note of the way they act around each other. The way James constantly has a hand extended toward Lily, untroubled when she doesn’t always take it; the way she seems to solve problems for the both of them; the wordless looks they exchange which you want desperately to be able to decipher. 

“How long have you been doing this?” you ask.

“A while,” Lily answers cryptically. Something in her expression makes you wonder if perhaps she’d be willing to tell you more with time. With trust earned. “Do you think you might come back? Will we see you next week?” 

“Yes,” you say without hesitating. 

You’re content to observe Remus silently for the time being. Ever since you became aware of him, you can’t not be. You’ve become intimately acquainted with the way his tongue pokes into his cheek when he’s fighting back a smile. You notice the little curl that he tucks behind his ear whenever his hair gets too long, and you imagine what it might feel like to do it for him. You’ve begun to anticipate when his eyes will cut sideways to share sly looks with his friends. He does it now, glancing at Lily when Slughorn announces you’ll be pairing up to make the veritaserum antidote.

“Ah ah! Stay where you are,” Slughorn announces. He levels Marlene with a look. She sits down with a huff, pouting in Dorcas’ direction. “I won’t have an encore of last week; I’ll be assigning your partners. Black, you go with Evans.”

Sirius makes a sound like a wounded puppy. James looks equally as distressed, the two of them parting like forbidden lovers, with blown kisses and arms outheld longingly. 

“Potter, with Diggory. McKinnon and Vance, Trelawney and Meadows, Prewett and Fawley…” 

Skimming over the instructions for your potion, you don’t think to be concerned until you hear your name. You look up, unsure who was called before you, to see Remus making his way over. 

Your stomach plummets. 

“Hello,” he murmurs as he sits on the stool beside you, beginning to arrange things on the desk. 

You nod back. 

“I know this one is brewed in two parts, so hopefully today’s portion should be fairly simple.” He looks at you from the corner of his eye and gives you a small smile. “Would you rather chop or stir?” 

You pick up the small knife, holding it up in answer. Merlin, this is awkward. Remus gives you a second look for your silence before shrugging as if to say fair enough. 

“Right, we’ll need six of these minced, then.” He slides some sprigs across the work table to you.

It’s a struggle not to snark back I can read the textbook, too, thanks. You roll your eyes to yourself and get to chopping. 

Something admittedly pleasant and rather convenient about Remus is that he doesn’t have to fill silences. You work together with relative ease, no speech needed so long as you keep him supplied with his ingredients when he needs them and he keeps changing the direction of his stirring when the book says. It’s only when your potion is left to simmer and you’re preparing the herbs for the next step that you run into problems. 

“No—sorry, those need to be sliced, not diced.” Remus’ hand lands on your wrist. You still as he moves closer to you. “Here, can I?”

You step back mutely, allowing him to slip the knife from your hand. 

“Thanks,” he says. “You want to slice it in ribbons, like this, see? More of the juices get released that way. Can you see alright?” Remus looks back at you, standing a healthy distance away to peer around him. “Come on, you try.” 

You take the knife from him again. Remus doesn’t allow you half as much space as you had him, hovering over your shoulder as you slice the herbs just as he showed you. 

“That’s good.” He’s close enough for you to feel his breath on your ear. “Perfect, thanks.” He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze and returns to his place in front of the cauldron. 

You nod at him again in an attempt to convey some gratitude. Wince at how stilted it feels. 

Remus looks at you sideways. “You alright?” 

You try not to wince again, humming. 

“You sure?” He tries to get a better look at you. “Have I ticked you off somehow?” 

You shake your head.

“You’ve lost your voice?” 

Shake your head again. 

“Cat got your tongue?” 

You send him an unimpressed look out of the corner of your eye. Remus’ tongue pokes into his cheek. 

“Come on, then, what is it? I know you can speak, I’ve heard you before. You have a nice voice.” 

Now, why couldn’t those have been his first words to you?

“Frog in your throat?” 

You’re fighting a smile, now, too. The evidence of it makes Remus’ eyes spark with amusement. His lips turn up at the corners. 

“If only you were this quiet in study spaces,” he mutters, teasing. 

It’s so unknowingly dead-on that it shocks a laugh out of you. “Oh, fuck off!” 

Remus’ smile dissolves at the edges. His brow tightens, the spark in his eyes turning to something else. When you realize what you’ve done, you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. All the air has stolen from your lungs. 

“Did you…” 

“Shit,” you say. 

“It’s you. You’re it.” 

“Fuck. Merlin’s tits. I’m sorry, Remus.” 

“You…” He shakes his head, eyes scrunching shut. You know the feeling. When he opens them again, Remus looks resolute. “Come with me.” 

Slughorn hardly seems bothered that you’re leaving in the middle of class. James calls after you, “Moony?” to which Remus responds, “Loo!” and continues dragging you from the room. 

Only in the empty hallway does Remus drop your hand. The contact has sent warm funny goosebumps all up your arm, which isn’t a soulmate effect you’ve heard about before but it must be one. Remus looks at you like you’ve stolen all his air, too. 

“You just told me to fuck off,” he says. 

“Oh, come on.” You try to smile. “It can’t be the first time someone’s told you that.” 

“But you—” Remus tugs at his trousers, bringing them up just enough for you to see the light pink script around his ankle. “Did you know?” 

Any thoughts you’d had of attempting levity sputter out in the face of his upset. “Yeah,” you admit. “I knew.” 

“For how long?” 

“Not a long time.” 

“What’s—when did—” Remus passes a hand over his face. He often looks weary, you’ve noticed, or exasperated, but you’ve never seen him so frazzled. A worm of guilt wriggles in your gut. “Where’s yours?” 

You take a breath, beginning to loosen your tie and unbutton your shirt. As flustered as Remus already is, his face grows a tad pinker. You roll your eyes. 

“Fuck off, Lupin, I’m not undressing for you.” 

“You’re rather keen on saying that, aren’t you?” he mutters. “It’s a wonder I didn’t find you before now.” 

You unbutton just enough to pull your collar to the side, showing the words written in pink beneath your clavicle. 

“Do you…” he reads aloud before trailing off, mouthing the words to himself. His eyes flicker up to yours. “I remember that. That was months ago.” 

You rebutton your top, shrugging. “Yeah.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?” 

“I think that’s obvious.” You focus on your tie to avoid looking at him. “It’d give me away fairly quickly, wouldn’t it?” 

“And?” When you don’t say anything, Remus blows out a breath. “Why wouldn’t you want me to know?” 

“I didn’t want to find out about us,” you say honestly. Not caring if it stings. 

When you glance up, you see that it has. The pinch of Remus’ brows radiates hurt. “You didn’t think I deserved to?” he asks you. 

You shake your head. “I’m sorry. I just wasn’t ready.” 

“Ready for what?” 

A breathless little laugh leaves you. “For everything. For any of it.” It feels like your insides are shriveling, and all you can do is look at Remus, pleading for his help. “I didn’t think I’d find my soulmate this early. I’m still trying to figure out my own shit. I don’t—I don’t know anything about love, or relationships, and I’m not ready to start making decisions about my life based on someone else. Doesn’t it scare you?” 

Remus has stepped closer, into a sheet of sunlight coming in through one of the hallway’s tall windows. It makes his amber eyes appear warm and melty. Even when they’re narrowed at you, they’re melting.

“It doesn’t scare me,” he says frankly. “I’m not asking you to move in with me straight after school, or change your plans to suit mine. I don’t think it has to be all or nothing like that.” 

You can feel your heart bumping in your stomach. “No?” 

“No.” Remus’ expression gentles. “It’s not like we’re shackled with each other now. Having a soulmate, it’s still a choice, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice softening. You’ve never known anyone who’s talked about it that way before. Every soulmate meeting story you’ve been told has ended in them starting their new lives together, bound in harmony for the rest of their days. 

“I think it’s a choice,” Remus murmurs. “I’m not ready to change my life, either. But I’d like to get to know you, if you’re alright with it. We could take it slow.” 

You wet your lips. “You mean as friends for now?” 

He offers you a small smile. “It’s somewhere to start, isn’t it?” 

You nod, strangely breathless. You feel as if your life might be changing already, but despite all your misgivings you’re alright with this bit. 

“Oh, come on.” Remus’ lips curl some more. “Don’t do that again. I know you can still talk.” 

“I’m afraid I might tell you to fuck off again,” you manage. 

Remus’ laughter is unexpected and bright, and lovely enough that you instantly want to make him do it again. 

“I’m fine here,” you say. Doing your best to appear happy and content and also to not lay yourself down in the puddle forming at his feet. 

Sirius frowns and sits beside you. His hip and arm press to yours as you make room for him on your towel. You nearly sigh when the ends of his hair drip water onto your shoulder. You think perhaps Sirius notices anyway for the worried look he gives you. 

“Come get in the water with us,” he says. 

“I’m good.” 

“You look like you’re going to pass out.” Sirius works a hand behind your neck, lifting the hair from your nape. When he touches his knuckles to your hot skin, the cool of them makes you exhale, and his frown only worsens. “Lovely, you’re overheating. Just take off the shirt and get in.” 

You lean your head on his shoulder. More than a little self-pity makes its way into your voice when you say, “I don’t want to.” 

“Why?” asks Sirius, though he knows. You know he knows, not only because you’ve told him but because of the look he gives you, one part sad and two parts angry. You know the latter isn’t for you. “You’ve got nothing to hide. You’re gorgeous. Like, knock-me-off-my-feet stunning. You know that.” 

You know that Sirius thinks so. He’s told you often enough, and while Sirius is a good liar when he wants to be you can tell when he’s being earnest. You don’t know who you made a deal with in a past life for the most exquisite man you’ve ever seen to call you beautiful and mean it, but whatever price they set couldn’t have been high enough. Nevertheless, not everyone sees you through Sirius’ rose-colored glasses. 

You say something you’ll only ever admit to him. “I don’t feel like it. I don’t want everyone to see me.” 

His lips collect in a little purse on one side of his mouth. “No?”

You shrug, murmuring, “Sorry.” 

“Shut up, don’t be sorry, sweetheart.” He stamps a kiss on your head, then leans his cheek there, pensive. You continue basking in the relief of his skin on yours, still cool from the lake. “Alright. What if I told you I had a plan?” 

Ordinarily, you don’t condone any plans Sirius has that haven’t been formed with James to temper him, but this one actually doesn’t sound so bad. 

A short minute later, your shirt is being forcibly shucked off and you’re hoisted into Sirius’ arms. You gasp, clinging to him as he bounds towards the water, your front pressed close to his. Sirius looses a whoop once he’s waist-deep and jumps in to submerge you both. 

You laugh under the water. Bubbles of mirth float to the surface, and you chase them up, breaking through with your hair plastered to your shoulders and Sirius’ smiling face in front of you. The worst of your insecurities stay obscured by the waves. 

“Oh, foul play!” James cries. 

He and Marlene attack on your behalf, unloading their squirt guns on your boyfriend. Sirius grabs you to put you in front of him. 

Lily calls your name. “Come sit here with us,” she beckons. “He doesn’t deserve you.” 

“Oi!” Sirius flips her off, and Lily does it right back. He mutters into your neck, “Don’t listen to her, gorgeous, she’s always had it out for me.” 

You smile, shrugging at Lily apologetically. “Thanks, but I’ll stay.” 

“Ha! See?” Sirius winks at Lily before mushing a kiss to your cheek. “She loves her tormentor.” 

You hear the dial click and a lid cover a pan. Sirius has the patience and grace to flick the fan on for good measure.  

“Again, love?” 

Your only response is a miserably huffed fuck under your breath. 

“I don’t think you should go to work today.” He tells you then as he steps in front of you, one hand on each of your hips as he draws loving circles into the fat of your sides. Now you feel awful in more ways than one, knowing that you could very well have nine fucking months of this and you can’t very well not go to work just because your stomach is rioting against you; knowing you should have told him why you’ve been so sick this week instead of leaving him to worry. 

But you also can’t help but agree with him, because the mere smell of butter in the pan this morning had you rushing out of bed and towards the toilet; you’re not sure that the smell of alcohol and garlic and- oh god. 

And now your poor, unsuspecting boyfriend is hovering over you as you lean over the sink, dry heaving as he runs the water and rubs your back. 

“I’m going to call Jeffery.” He declares, his hand disappearing from your back in his quest to do just that.

“Wait.” You sputter, pulling your head out of the sink and immediately missing the relief of the running water whizzing past your face. “Wait. Before you do anything, I need to tell you something.” 

His brows meet in the middle and he cocks his head at you. Suddenly it doesn’t matter that he’s in your kitchen wearing plaid pyjama pants that you bought him nor that he’s shirtless; he manages to look formidable as ever as he crosses his arms and leans his hip against the counter waiting for you to continue. 

Right, you think dryly, that’s why you haven’t managed to tell him yet. 

It’s not that you think he doesn’t like kids – he loves kids; he plays a big game of being exhausted by them, mostly, but his love for his godson and his godson’s friends is both palpable and contagious. 

He’s made the odd comment here or there that would clue one into the fact that he’s at the very least thought about having children of his own: “I don’t know what I’d do if my kid ended up being a picky eater”; “remind me to never let a kid of mine do that”; “Harry is never, under any circumstances, allowed to babysit any of my future children”, etc. 

But other than that, the two of you haven’t really discussed what the future might look like together. And now that future isn’t so far out and you’re being forced to confront it.

You’re going to throw up.

Again. 

“I’m pregnant.” You manage to spit out, the end coming out in something of a whimper.

There’s a moment that you think you might have to find the courage to repeat yourself, Sirius’ brows furrowing somehow impossibly further as though you’ve thrown a completely new word at him.

But then his eyes flicker down to your stomach. And then his jaw – previously tense – loosens. And then his brows unfurl and his shoulders fall. 

“...You’re…”

You nod your head. “Pregnant.” It comes out as a whisper. 

His eyes flash up to yours again for the briefest moment before migrating back to your midsection, wide and alert as he uncrosses his arms and stands up straight. 

“You’re…we- I-”

“Sirius?”

“We’re pregnant!?”

You huff a hesitant laugh. “Well I don’t see you spending a third of your day hunched over a toilet bowl but, yes, I suppose you could say that.”

His eyes meet yours again, red-rimmed and glossy.

“We’re pregnant? We’re really… a baby?”

You let out a wet sounding laugh. “Is that okay?”

“Okay?” Sirius lets out disbelievingly, finally taking a few steps towards you; cautious as though he’s afraid you were a mirage that might dissolve should he disturb the air surrounding you. Funny that he’s so delicate when your current predicament comes from him being decidedly less delicate with you. “Is this okay? This is…yes, yes this is okay, this is- this is great, this is perfect. You’re perfect.” 

You’re not quite sure what does it, but he suddenly finds the courage to wrap his arms around you and pull you roughly into him, nearly lifting you off of your feet in the process. 

“You’re pregnant,” he hisses as though he just can’t believe it, holding you out in front of him to look you over again, “we’re going to have a baby.” 

“You think you’re ready for that?”

“Not at all.” He lets out with a laugh, not looking even slightly disturbed by that fact. “Oh my god, okay, alright. I’m going to call Effie, and then Lily. And then we’re booking doctor’s appointments. We’re gonna call Jeffery first, though.”

“What? Jeffery?” You call out, following after him as he disappears into the flat. “Why are we calling Jeffery?”

“Uhm, because you’re not going to work today. Maybe ever again.” Sirius tells you as though it’s really quite that simple. 

“Sirius,” you chide, snatching his phone from him which he allows without much fuss, “I can’t not go to work for the next nine months.”

“Why not?”

“Oh you infuriatingly handsome man.” You groan as you take his face between your hands and press a bruising kiss to his lips. “I will call into work today because I feel like shite.”

“Okay,” Sirius agrees quickly as he snatches back his phone. “And I’m going to call into work today because you feel like shite.”

“Oh for fuck’s sa-”

“Pregnant. Christ, this is the best day ever.” He sighs dreamily as he brings his phone up to his ear. “Bully about the nausea though babe, I’m sorry. We’ll find something for you to eat that doesn’t make you want to- Jeffery! Hi! Listen mate, bad news: you’re gonna have to live without me and Y/N tonight. Yeah, you’re a smart bloke, though; I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Listen, while I have you on the phone, I…”

Drinking is fun when you’re 21. Everything is something new, you’re not worried about a hangover, and people buy you drinks all the time. You’ve decided you don’t like beer, though. Which is why you politely shake your head when your Aunt Penny offers you the open neck of a bottle.

“Oh, come on. You don’t like beer? This is a navy bar! That’s practically all we serve.”

“The pilots can drink that,” You wrinkle your nose, sinking onto a stool near her washing station, “I prefer something that tastes good.”

“It’s not about the taste, it’s about the effect.” Penny grins, “Plus, it’s a total man-thing. Every man thinks they have to like beer.”

“I know. They all taste like it.” You scoff, and your Aunt Penny’s eyes light up.

“You’re kissing boys!” She gushes, her lips curling into a smirk, “I knew your mom was lying to me when she said you weren’t getting anywhere in the romance department.”

You roll your eyes towards the ceiling of the bar, catching the mugs hanging there precariously, “As flattering as that is, she wasn’t lying. I haven’t found anyone permanent. And I just don’t tell her about the less-than-permanent ones.”

“Any sex?” Penny’s brows raise, curious and concerned, clearly nervous she’ll need to invest in a Plan B tomorrow morning.

“No! No, that’s- that’s different. I don’t know, I’ve kissed a few people, but that’s- more. I want that to be special.”

“Good.” She nods, her face settling into a warm smile, “I’m all for experimentation, kid, but don’t do anything you’re gonna regret.”

“I won’t!” You insist, “I have very good judgement.”

“And men are very good liars.” She tilts her head downwards, eyeing you pointedly, “Don’t let them fool you.”

You’re not easily fooled. You can spot a grimy man from a mile away, one that smiles too widely at you, one whose eyes flick downwards towards your chest even if your eyes are further north. One who’s insistent upon slinging his arm around your waist, and asking you if you’re still in college. You’re too smart to fall for their tricks, and when Penny hands you an impressive amount of beers and points to a table in the corner, you feel no apprehension at all approaching the group of men.

And there’s a woman, you note, with jet black hair pulled neatly back into a regulation bun. You sidle up beside her and ease the beers onto the table, letting them go one by one as the pilots hurry to grab them from you before you inevitably drop one.

“Thank you,” The woman hums, her eyes narrowed slightly as she looks at you, “You work here?”

“For the summer,” You nod, smiling politely at the group of aviators staring at you. Your hands drift behind your back to clasp awkwardly, “I’m Y/N- Penny’s my aunt, so…”

“Oh, you got a sweet little summer gig going,” One of them notes, and the pin on his uniform says Machado, “She’s paying you, right?”

“Of course,” You laugh, “I don’t work for free.”

“That’s right.” A man smirks from across the table, his voice brash and tinged with a southern drawl. “Don’t let her underpay you. What are you gonna use the money for?”

“Maybe a car.” You shrug, edging slightly closer to the table where there’s an empty chair, desperate to be out of the milling crowd of people, “I don’t really know yet.”

“Is tonight your first night?” The woman asks, and you find yourself turning towards her subconsciously as you answer. She’s easy to talk to, kind eyes and a reassuring presence.

“Sort of? Right now all I’m doing is delivering drinks. She handles the money and pretty much everything else. I think I’m gonna be training all week.”

“Well we’ll see you a lot,” She smiles, “We’re here pretty often- we’re all here in reserve.”

Your brows raise, “You guys must be good, then.”

“Best of the best.” One of them grins, his uniform reading Garcia, but he nods towards the space over your shoulder, “Oh- behind you.”

You don’t have time to take a step back before a warm hand lands on the small of your back, and gently guides you away from the empty chair.

“Sorry,” The voice over your shoulder hums, slightly raspy, “Are you sitting here?”

You intend to answer, but when you turn to look at the man, you lose all brain function. He’s tall, his hair brown with a reddish undertone that’s gelled off of his forehead. There’s sunglasses over his eyes but you feel his gaze like it's burning raw into your own. He’s got a mustache that nearly blends into his face with how tan his skin is, and there’s a white and tan Hawaiian shirt draped over his tee.

“This is Penny’s niece.” The woman sets her hand on your shoulder, grounding you back to the present moment, “Y/N. She works here now- brought us our drinks. Y/N, are you allowed to sit with us? You’re more than welcome to, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

"That’s okay,” You shake your head, stepping back from the table and into the crowd again, “I should be working. Thank you, though! That’s really nice of you guys.”

“We could always use a new face,” The man with the mustache smiles, and you wish you knew what his name was, because he’s the only one out of a uniform, “We’ll see you when we run out of beer?”

“See you then.” You promise, and you turn on your heel to rush back towards the counter.

“Those are some of our most frequent customers.” Your aunt informs you when you rejoin her, nodding at the pilots in the corner, “Last year they were all called in for a special mission at Top Gun, and once they completed it they were given spots in the Reserve. The base here happens to support reserve aviators, so they all just decided to stay here. Now they’re all over the place. Consultants, instructors, whatever needs to be done. Not always a ton of action, but good pay. And nights off,” She grins, ”To come here and give me all that money they’re making.”

“They seemed nice.” You glance back over at them, seeing the empty seat now filled by the man with the mustache, “They said I could sit with them.”

“Do you want to?” Penny offers, rubbing your shoulder, “I bet you’re still a little shaken up from travelling. It might be nice for you to make some friends, have some drinks, that sort of thing.”

“I’m okay.” You insist, but it’s a little gloomy, “I’m working, I want to help you.”

“Oh, I’ll be okay.” She squeezes your shoulder, letting go to take someone’s order at the till, “The next time they need a refill, get something for yourself, too!”

“Alright!” You call back, with absolutely zero intention of following her orders.

It would be nice, admittedly, to ‘make friends’. Your room is stunning, an attic loft with a beach view, and Amelia is sweet. But she’s a little young, and your room is really big and lonely. Other than her and Penny you don’t have anyone in San Diego that you can talk to, and if these pilots are a permanent fixture in this bar, you might as well take advantage of it. 

But still, you’re here to work. And blowing off your responsibilities to chat with patrons would be offensive to any employer but your aunt, who has a background of questionable life choices attributed to naval aviators herself. She wouldn’t be upset with you, but you shouldn’t take advantage of her like this. You’ll work, you’ll earn your keep, and you’ll enjoy your summer in the sun.

This resolve lasts you about twenty minutes. 

You get a better feel for the menu, and you’re grateful to everyone who orders something other than a beer because you get to watch Penny mix it, and she keeps a shot of whatever it is aside for you. You try a mai tai, a long island iced tea, and something with strawberry vodka in it, but you can’t remember the navy-themed name she’d given it. You suppose you’ll need to memorize those soon, but Penny’s doing a good job of distracting you with drinks.

“Here comes Rooster.” She nods at the space behind you, and your brows furrow until you turn and see the man with the mustache heading for the counter. He’s got an empty bottle in his hands, and Penny grabs a full one for him, uncapping it on the counter.

“His callsign is Rooster.” She explains, “Go with him, yeah? I gave you three shots for courage,” She winks, “I mean it. Go make some friends.”

“Penny,” You scold, but you can’t lie- you’re much more agreeable now. 

When ‘Rooster’ reaches the bar Penny hands him his drink and pushes you out from behind the counter, “Y/N’s taking you up on your offer. What do you want to drink?”

“Nothing.” You shake your head, and she hands you a second beer.

“Muscle through it, hon. You’re in navy territory, now.”

You sneer at her before letting Rooter lead you away with a hand on your shoulder.

“You don’t like beer?”

“It’s not my favorite.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know yet,” You admit, letting Rooster’s hand sink to your lower back as he parades you around the bar. You slip past group after group of dancing patrons, gruff pool players, and people playing darts that are entirely too intoxicated to be doing so safely. Once you finally arrive back at the table Rooster offers you a hand so you can hoist yourself up onto the barstool, and instead of dragging over another seat he stands behind you with his drink.

“Sorry, I took your spot.” You hum over your shoulder, but he smiles down good-naturedly at you.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been on your feet long enough,” He takes a swig of his beer, his mustache glistening after he runs his tongue over his lips, “Besides, I bet you’re kind of a lightweight, aren’t you? Wouldn’t want you falling over.”

“Hey! I wouldn’t fall,” You laugh indignantly, and the woman you’d spoken to earlier crosses her arms, leaning back in her chair.

“One of the rules of this bar that’s not on that sign over there:” She points to your aunt’s prized possession, “It’s never wise to boast about how much you can handle, or you might end up in a drinking contest.”

“And I don’t lose drinking contests,” Garcia brags, “Don’t challenge if you can’t win.”

“I won’t,” You decide, eyeing your beer like it might poison you, “But I will ask for your names. I don’t think I know- any of them, but my aunt told me you’re Rooster?”

You cast a wary glance back at the man behind you, and his chest shakes with a brief laugh. 

“That’s my callsign.” 

“She told me that, too. But I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s like a nickname,” The one with the southern accent drawls, “My real name is Jake, but my callsign is Hangman. They’re supposed to be easier and quicker than your name to refer to you while you’re in the air. And ideally they kind of describe you as a pilot- and as a person. Hangman- well,” He grins, “I’m hung.”

You barely have time to register the euphemism before the table groans, and Garcia punches him swiftly in the arm.

“Dude, she’s Penny’s niece.” One of them hisses at Hangman, and you feel your cheeks heat with the rule he enforces next, “Off-limits.”

“I might be Penny’s niece,” You defend the Texan man, “But I’m twenty-one.” You pipe up, “You don’t have to censor yourselves for me.”

“He should censor himself for me.” The woman groans, “Fanboy’s just saying your aunt will decapitate anyone who isn’t careful around you.”

“We should let her decapitate him,” ‘Fanboy’ apologizes, “Really his callsign's because- one more wrong move from the guy and we’re gonna strangle him. But yeah, my callsign is Fanboy. My name’s Mickey, but you can call me whichever one you want. Around here we mostly just use our callsigns.”

“Fanboy,” You reach out to shake his hand, “And Hangman, interesting. And everyone else’s?”

“Mine’s Phoenix,” The woman leans forwards to squeeze your hand, “And my real name is Natasha.”

“Payback,” A man with the name Fitch on his uniform smiles, “Or Reuben. But Payback sounds way cooler.”

“I’m Coyote.” The man who’d spoken to you before, last name Machado goes next, “My name is Javy, though. Either one’s fine.”

“That’s a lot of names.” You note, and you finally give in to a swig of beer from the overload. 

“There’s one more.” Natasha elbows the space beside her- the space that’s taken up by a man- god, you hadn’t even seem him. He’d blended in with the plethora of soldiers behind him, all showing off their khaki uniforms. His reads Reynolds, and he smiles at you kindly from behind wire-rimmed glasses, his sweet brown eyes shining in the warm light of the bar.

“My name is Bob.” He introduces himself.

“Bob,” You nod sweetly, “And do you have a callsign?”

“That is his callsign,” Fanboy snickers.

“Oh! What’s your real name?” You lean in, intrigued.

“Also- it’s also Bob.” Bob smiles tightly, “Everyone just calls me Bob.”

“Bob,” You nod again, “Nice to meet you.”

You bask in the warmth of their reciprocations, but you realize there’s one person who’d managed to evade you yet.

“And you,” You turn on Rooster, your eyes narrowed, “You never told me your real name. What is it?”

He lets you wait for a moment, on the edge of your seat as he takes another swig of beer. The amber-colored liquid is almost the same tone as his skin, and when he exhales the warm air reaches your fingertips and makes them tingle against your own cold bottle.

“It’s Bradley.” He introduces himself in a warm, slightly gruff voice, one that stops your heart dead in your chest and starts it up again ten times faster, “My name is Bradley.”

“Bradley.” You hum, almost dazedly, “Nice to- officially meet you.”

“You too, honey.” He raises a hand to squeeze your shoulder again, and you sink back into your seat with the lingering feeling on your mind- and body.

The pilots are nice, and for the most part, they make an effort to include you in conversation. They give a sanitized, brief overview of the mission that had brought them all together as the ‘Dagger Squad’, and your eyes shine with adoration in the dim lights of the bar as you peek at the story’s hero. Bradley laughs off the exoneration from his peers but if he notices the way you gush at his heroism, he doesn’t say anything. All he does is sip his beer, with his hand still resting on your shoulder. Sometimes it shifts, a muscle tightening or his thumb rubbing briefly back and forth against your t-shirt. But it never drops, never lifts, never leaves.

You indulge in your own drink, and it makes it slightly easier to be inevitably excluded from their conversations. They’re kind- overwhelmingly so, and friendly enough to where you don’t realize it at first. But every topic of conversation, no matter how far away from military operations, always comes back to something you know nothing about. Whether it’s trading stories from their students, remembering old times in the air, or swapping technical terms to quiz each other’s operational knowledge, time and time again you fall silent until someone starts a new, more ‘civilian’ conversation.

Bradley chimes in, but the phrase ‘strong, silent type’ pops into your head the more you sit there and nurse your drink. The beer isn’t doing you any favors taste-wise, but you feel a tendril of haziness begin tugging at your brain by the time you eventually drain the last drop.

“You want another one?” Bradley sees you knocking back your bottle, “Or is there something else you’d prefer?”

“I’m okay,” You shake your head, “I don’t want anything.”

“It gets a lot easier to listen to technical jargon if you’re buzzed,” Rooster suggests, “What about something that doesn’t taste so much like alcohol? You said you’re twenty-one, right?” “Right.”

“So you probably haven’t tried much. Unless- did you drink before your birthday?” He raises an accusatory eyebrow your way.

“No! Well- once or twice,” You scoff, the slight undercurrent of liquor in your blood making your voice honey-sweet, “Nothing crazy. I don’t have a favorite-anything. Just- just get me whatever you think I’d like.”

That turns out to be a jack and coke, which he explains has much more of the latter than the former. He also explains it’s what you drink when you’re young and- he uses a nicer word, but he means stupid, and you’re trying not to drink without getting caught. The glass he hands you is definitely coke-colored, and you can tell why it’s a favorite amongst hungry teens.

“You won’t get too drunk,” He hands off the glass, “And it’ll taste mostly like coke with just a bit of the whiskey. It’s good- you’ll definitely go home in the fall with a new favorite drink.”

“Maybe it’ll be this one,” You grin, and pucker your lips around the straw for a sip.

Admittedly, it doesn’t taste much like alcohol. Whiskey’s stronger but beer’s more pungent, and you find that whiskey’s actually preferable to beer’s acrid taste, even if it makes the coke taste off. The coke does a good enough job at hiding most of the liquor anyways. It’s not a drink you’d have ordered on your own, so you swallow a sizable sip and thank Bradley.

“‘Knew you’d like it,” He elbows you, his voice almost a drawl but not as careless- something raspy but kind, “If you ever need drink recommendations come to me, okay? Hangman will just tell you to drink straight from the first bottle you can find- or he’ll go on and on about some stupid Texan tradition. Just drink what tastes good, not what puts hair on your chest.”

You’re fairly certain whiskey does that, but the sweet cherries Bradley had ordered in your drink will surely cancel it out.

“Speaking of the fall, are you in school?” He asks, and you nod through a sip of your drink.

“I should have graduated already,” You admit, “But I kept switching my major, and every time I did I needed new courses for my transfer requirements. I’m ready, though. I’m set to start at a university in North Carolina this fall.”

“San Diego to North Carolina,” Bradley muses, “That’s a bit of a jump. No thoughts towards joining the navy?” Bradley asks, and your mouth actually falls open as you laugh.

“What? No,” You look bright-eyed, incredulously at him, “That’s not my thing.”

“I just figured they’re trying to induct you here, with all of the stuff they’re talking about.”

“I do feel like I’m being recruited,” You admit, and Bradley’s chest shakes with a chuckle. It’s raspy and gruff, and you wonder if alcohol increases your sex drive. You know some people are sad drunks, some people are angry drunks, some people are reckless drunks- are you perhaps a horny drunk? Is there such a thing?

“They forgot how to have a good time,” Bradley laments, his voice pitched only for your ears.

You narrow your eyes at him, “But you haven’t?”

“No,” He looks almost offended, but you know it’s teasingly so, “I’m the most fun person in this bar.”

“Prove it,” You shrug, turning further in your seat to face him.

“You know how to play pool?” Rooster asks, flicking his eyes towards the table in the corner. You’d seen patrons gathered around it earlier but it’s blessedly free now, and you take another sip of your drink before shaking your head.

“Then I’ll teach you,” Rooster offers, holding out a hand to get you out of your seat, “We can spend the summer practicing, and then when you go to North Carolina you can hustle anyone who underestimates your skills.”

“You’re gonna turn me into a collegiate pool shark?” You laugh incredulously, but you take his hand regardless, letting him drag you towards the green-topped table. The previous players had left it in a state of disarray- something you’re sure can be explained away by how many of them are outside puking into the sand, but Bradley scoops each ball up with practiced ease and fits them into their rack.

You try not to stare too hard at his hands while he’s doing it.

“Lesson number one,” He offers you a cue, and you grasp it in unsure fingers, “How do you think you’re supposed to hold this?”

You don’t even get to finish tucking the thing beneath your arm before he shakes his head, “Wrong. Terrible.”

“Hey!”

“You’re gripping it too tight,” He glances down at your strained, nervous grip on the cue, “And you were just drinking with the other hand a minute ago. Hold it in your dominant, down by your hip.”

You do as you’re told, and Rooster reaches out to adjust it, angle it ever-so-slightly towards the table.

“Good. Bend over,” He pushes against your right shoulder while holding your hip with his other hand, forcing you to bend at the waist. It’s another thing you try not to think about too hard, as you’re now standing with your ass out to the entire bar, Rooster’s heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Now put your other hand on the table. Spread your fingers out- there,” Bradley pushes and pokes at the hand you splay over the pool table until everything but your thumb is planted into the surface, “Now put the tip of the cue there, just between your thumb and pointer.”

You realize now why your thumb is elevated, as the front of the pool cue hovers just above the top of the table once it’s resting on the space between your fingers. It’s aimed right at the cue ball, and you’re already calculating how hard you’ll have to hit it for it to careen into the others.

“Now I’m gonna let you botch your first few shots, just to get the hang of using the cue. Aim anywhere,” Rooster lifts the rack, but the balls stay in place, a target you can’t miss, even if you don’t sink every ball on your first try, “Pull back, and hit the white one.”

You think it can’t possibly be hard to hit one of the balls, but when you pull the cue back and tap it against the white ball, it barely moves an inch.

You’re stunned for a brief moment, but it melts into sheepishness when Rooster’s tanned hand plants itself on the table beside your own.

”That’s okay.” He soothes, and your stomach begins a series of somersaults, “They’re weighed differently than you think they are. You’ve gotta give it more power than that,” He bends down behind you, keeping himself a respectable distance away even though he’s taking your dominant hand in his own, “Like this.”

He tugs your hand and the pool cue it’s clutching back with far more force than you’d been brave enough to use, and when he whacks the cue into the all-white ball, it scatters the rest of them. It’s not a perfect shot- they spiral in ridiculous directions, frenzied and disorganized, but now you know how hard you have to hit it.

”That’s better. Feel it? You’ve gotta put some strength behind it. You’re going for a strike, not a tap.”

You feel it. You feel the cold breeze rush against the skin on your hand that Bradley had been touching with his own, as well as the absence behind you, the lack of legs between your own. He’d stayed politely away from you ass, something that’s enticing and disappointing all at once, but you still notice the lack of his presence.

”I feel it,” You hum, standing up in a daze that can’t be solely attributed to the liquor, “But how do I aim? Isn’t it all about angles and strategy?”

“We’ll get to that later.” Rooster promises, “For now, just get used to hitting it.

You, for one, would love to get used to hitting it.

You hit a few more practice shots, and you're not desperate enough to pretend to be worse so that Rooster comes up behind you again to guide you, but the thought does cross your mind. Perhaps it’s the whiskey, perhaps it’s the porn stache. At this point in the night, it’s anyone’s guess.

You feel well and truly pampered. When you drain the last bit of your drink, Rooster goes to refill it for you, and both of you miss the way Penny’s eyes travel when he leaves, watching the way he adjusts your grip on the pol cue. It catches her attention, and after each glass she fills for each customer she helps, she peers over towards the corner where you’re now learning to aim.

"You’re gonna wanna look down the cue to see what it’ll hit." Rooster explains, "Kind of like you’re shooting a rifle. If you can see down the barrel, you know where your shot’s gonna go.

"That’s morbid,” You muse, your nose scrunched in distaste, “Are all of you navy men so violent?”

"Do you want to learn how to shoot pool or not?” He laughs, “Listen, bend over again.”

You’re quick to comply.

Penny watches from the bar as you let Rooster push you down over the pool table, her jaw clenching as he stands behind you, slotting his pelvis into line with your ass. She sucks her teeth as she recognizes perhaps the oldest trick in the book: ‘Let me teach you to shoot pool’. She’s owned this bar for many years, and not a day has gone by where a cocky pilot doesn't use this tactic to his advantage. But she doesn’t like thinking about that pilot being Rooster, and she doesn’t like thinking about that girl being you. 

You’re old enough, sure. And it’s normal- healthy, even, to make catastrophic dating mistakes. She had her fair share of those. But you’re her niece, and no matter how old you get, she has the urge to mother hen. It’s why, when Natasha sidles up to the bar, replacing you for the night as their designated drink-gatherer, Penny appeals to her woman-to-woman.

“Rooster has absconded with my niece.” Penny laments, a tiredness in her eyes that’s laced with worry and ages her ten years, “Is it really all men?”

Phoenix glances over towards the pool table, her brows raising and her eyes flooding with amusement like it’s been dropped there, rippling outwards, “Well. They got real close real fast.”

“I know she’s an adult.” Penny starts, “But- she’s a young adult. I guess I was doing worse shit at fifteen, but that didn’t work out well for me.”

“It’s not the worst gap I’ve ever seen,” Phoenix reasons, “And if I had to choose the best person for the job I guess it’d be Rooster. But it’s- notable.”

“Notable,” Penny snorts, “Right. He’s tricking her into thinking she’s got a shot with him long-term.”

“Rooster’s not like that,” Phoenix frowns, but the more her eyes trace the space between your bodies- a line, really, two shapes trying to blend, the more uneasy her stomach feels, “You know him, he’s a good guy. Maybe he wants cheap sex now and again, but... he wouldn't trick anyone. And he knows she's your niece- he wouldn't.”

“You don’t think he’s trying to spend a night with her?” Penny gestures, “He’s grinding on her ass, Nat.”

“He’s better than that.” Natasha swears, her brows furrowing, “But... I’ll talk to him. Just in case. Tell him to take it easy so she doesn’t get her feelings hurt. He probably doesn’t mean anything by it,” She feels how weak her argument sounds, but she knows Bradley, she knows that she’s scored more at the Hard Deck than he ever has. He’s not usually one for picking up chicks in a bar, but this looks an awful lot like he’s about to score.

“Get to him before I do.” Penny snaps, turning away when Rooster takes your hand in his, “And make sure I don’t have to follow up.”

When she turns back her eyes focus solely on Natasha, though they itch to go over her shoulder, “Can you get her home tonight? One of you- I don’t care who. She’s gonna be drunk if she has any more and you know I don’t close until late. I want her home before three in the morning if she’s gonna be out of it.”

“I’ll make sure she gets back to your place safely,” Natasha nods, and Penny knows she’ll keep her promise, “We can stick her in the back of the bronco with a trash bag.”

“Maybe you should let her puke on the seats,” Penny’s dismal mood brightens slightly, and she lets a smirk slide onto her face as gratitude towards Natasha, “Then Rooster won’t like her anymore.”

--

”Look at it like this,” Bradley prompts, getting behind you once more- though this time is markedly different from the last as he molds his body to the shape of yours. Unlike before he presses his pelvis into your ass, his chin nestled over your shoulder so that he’s got the same view you do.

”Line your eye up with the end of the cue.” He instructs, his voice pitched to a low murmur as it’s pumped straight into your ears, “Make sure you’re looking straight down. Then you’re gonna aim to hit any of the balls besides the 8-ball. When you’re playing against someone, you’ll split the rack in half, but for now, more practice is good. Just sink them all except for the 8-ball.”

“That’s last?” You recall hazy memories of pool-playing scenes in movies, and your general knowledge of the game.

“That’s last.” He nods, “Sometimes you have to sink them in order but for now, just see what you can do.”

‘What you can do’ ends up being sinking the cue ball several times, as well as the 8-ball on one unlucky occasion. You do end up clearing the table, though, and Bradley watches from beneath his sunglasses as you finally stand from your hunched position.

“You’re pretty decent for a beginner,” He notes, draining the last dregs of beer from his third bottle, “We’ll have you hustling in no time.”

Once again, the idea of pretending you’re dogshit at the sport to get yourself more ‘tutoring time’, where Bradley pushes against you from behind as you bend over the table, does come to mind, but you stand up with dignity, instead.

The idea of using the bathroom is much more practical after a few drinks, and you hand off your cue to Bradley as you exit.

“Wait for me?” You ask, and the question holds more weight than you should have injected it with.

“Won’t move a muscle,” Bradley grins, his mustache almost obscuring his pearly-whites, and you feel your heart swell in your chest.

Natasha moves in as soon as Bradley’s eyes fall from your back, as soon as the door to the bathroom shuts behind you.

“So,” She calls, her voice pointedly calm as she settles beside Bradley around the pool table, “You’re teaching Y/N to play pool?”

“She doesn’t know how,” Bradley nods towards the table, “But she’s doing decent so far.”

“And is pressing yourself up against her ass helping her learn?” Natasha raises an eyebrow, her tone lethal.

Rooster’s face morphs into a grimace, “Phoenix-”

“She’s Penny’s niece. And she’s younger than you are- not by a ton, but come on. You really think Penny wants some older guy skulking around her niece?”

“I’m not skulking around,” Rooster scoffs, “I’m not a creep. You really think I’d do that? Phee, she wanted to have a good time tonight. You guys weren’t including her in conversation! She’s away from home for the first time, and she’s excited to spend a summer on the beach, just- let her have some fun.”

“With you?”

“With anyone,” Rooster glares through his sunglasses, “Relax. I showed her how to shoot one time. I didn’t take her over the table. And I’m not going to- I get it, off-limits. I’m just trying to show her a good time.”

“Not too good.” Natasha warns, an accusatory finger pointed in Bradley’s face, “Just remember, Penny’s got fantastic aim, and she’s got access to a garbage can full of beer bottles. You won’t make it out of this one alive, Bradshaw.”

“Noted.” Bradley drawls, glancing over Natasha’s shoulder to see the bathroom door still shut, “But if you aren’t gonna join in on our pool match, you should clear the area. She shot one of the balls straight over the edge.”

“Good luck,” She claps Rooster on the shoulder with a laugh, “And watch your balls, Rooster.”

--

Going to the bathroom was necessary, but you’re happy for the sanctuary it grants you afterwards. With an empty bladder you stare at yourself in the dingy mirror, your makeup still intact and your eyes shimmering with adrenaline and liquor. There’s just enough in your system to make you giddy, and you fluff up your outfit so that it’s at maximum levels of attractiveness.

The feeling of Bradley pushing you down over the table had been thrilling. Something you hadn’t gotten from the boys back home- the ones you’d kissed behind the gym shed during class or on your front porch after a movie date. You’re used to puppy crushes and sweet dates, but you’re finding the other side of the spectrum rather alluring three drinks in. The boys you’ve kissed before now- they were just that, they were boys, and this is a man, a naval aviator with a porn stache. Then and there you resolve to tear up the town this summer. If you can score on your first night-? You’re gonna make waves.

Maybe you’ll even tease Bradley. Have some fun with him, keep him waiting for you so that the tension grows.

You’re going to be a new woman- a bombshell this summer, you decide, and Rooster will be one of many.

Candidate number two presents himself the second you set foot outside of the bathroom. He’s taller than you, and he uses it to his advantage, looming over you with a sleazy grin. This- this is definitely one of the men your aunt had told you to stay away from, but maneaters eat, so you let him trap you against the wall.

“I saw you learning how to play pool.” He drawls, beer in hand, “Did you need more shooting practice? I can bend you over better than that guy.”

“That’s a very compelling offer,” Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets at his audacity but you keep your cool, “But I think I’m good with my teacher for the night.”

“Him?” The man scrunches his nose in distaste, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to fool around with older guys. He’s pushing forty- don’t you want someone who can keep up with your appetite?”

“You’re a dog,” You scoff, but you find that you’re not entirely warded off, not when the allure of sex- raw, lustful, cheap sex is on the table, “You really think I’m falling for that?”

“You’re supposed to,” The man grins, and admittedly, his smile would be charming if the rest of him was, “That’s what you do during summer vacation, isn’t it? I know you’re new here, I’ve never seen you before. You’re supposed to let loose, have fun, go wild.”

You suppose he’s right. And you’re not really falling for anything if you know he’s a douche from the start. You’re just agreeing to enjoy him the same way he’ll enjoy you. Mutual manipulation, you suppose- you’re taking advantage of him just as much as he’s trying to take advantage of you.

“Just get some fresh air with me. It’s crowded in here,” The man gestures to the bar around you, “We can refill our drinks and go kiss on the patio. That’s all- just kiss.”

“That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard,” You scoff, but you push yourself off of the bathroom door and take his hand, “But I like the ocean breeze, so you’re in luck. A jack and coke,” You instruct your new suitor, pushing him towards the bar while you beeline for the door. Your stomach still flips as you remember Bradley handing the drink off to you, and you send him a brief, seemingly-accidental look his way, like perhaps you’ve forgotten him due to the swarm of men around you, “With cherries, and meet me outside.”

You don’t wait for a response, all you do is leave.

--

Bradley watches the door to the bar shut behind you, his stomach churning with uneasiness as the man you’d been talking to orders two drinks. Personal feelings aside- he knows most navy men are not to be trusted. Especially the young ones- the bucking broncos who are liable to leave before you’re even finished. He sees a familiar drink being made, one he’d ordered himself an hour ago, and decides to beat the guy out there, walking away so fast that Natasha doesn’t even get back to their table before he’s gone.

Rooster finds you leaning against the railing of the bar’s patio, overlooking the sand below and the ocean beyond. You’re pretty in the moonlight, looking like someone that belongs bathed in it instead of lit by the dim yellow glow of a bar.

“I was waiting for you,” Bradley reminds you, and you turn back to find him, “Did you decide you don’t want to learn how to hustle?”

“I was talking to someone else,” You feign nonchalance, ensuring that you stay far away from any chaste, passionless crushes, “This guy started talking to me outside of the bathroom.”

“I saw,” Rooster slots into place beside you, “He looked like a real douche.”

“I told him as much,” You shrug, “But it’s summer vacation, and I figured I could let loose a little.”

Bradley chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment before responding, “Is that what you want?”

“I just told you I wanted to let loose.”

“Letting loose doesn’t have to mean taking a guy up on his offer of sex just because he’s the first one to offer it to you.”

“What if I want to?”

“Do you?” He asks again, more pointed this time, more convictive. “Do you really want that guy’s face to be the first thing to pop into your mind when people ask how your summer was? Or how your first time went?”

“How’d you know it’s my first time?” You mumble grumpily after a beat of silence, “Is it really that obvious?”

“Jack and coke,” A voice, a shade darker and a tad sleazier than Bradley’s raspy one comes from behind you, and the noise of the bar floats through the open door. Your unnamed suitor stands there double-fisted with drinks, and his eyes darken slightly as he finds Bradley standing beside you.

“I didn’t think we’d have company,” He offers you your drink, but Bradley plucks it from your hands as soon as you take it.

“You’re the company, kid. And we’re having a private conversation. You know the bartender’s her aunt? Don’t get yourself a lifetime ban from drinking in San Diego.” Bradley slips his sunglasses off of his face to glare at the man, and though they’re useless in the moonlight, you mourn the loss of the allure they’d given him. 

That is, until you see his eyes completely unobscured for the first time. You’d caught glimpses of brown before, when he’d tilted his head downwards or when they’d slide down his nose. But in full force they’re puppy-like, even if they’re narrowed lethally at the man standing in the doorway.

He seems convinced, now, that he’s lost, and he sends a fleeting scowl your way before declaring, “Didn’t know she was off-limits. Not worth it- too gullible anyways. I like a chase.”

“He’s about to be the subject of a police chase,” Bradley decides, after the door snaps shut behind him, muffling the sound and leaving you in a moonlit moment, “If he doesn’t leave you alone.”

You try laughing at Bradley’s quip, but you’re still wrestling with resentment over the loss of your cheap sex. No, he probably wouldn’t have been something you were proud of. But do you always need to be proud of your decisions? Men seek out sex for sex’s sake all the time, why should you act any different? 

“I could tell it would have been your first time,” Bradley settles back against the railing, letting the ocean breeze whip against his face, “Because you were gonna let him. And that’s the kind of mistake you only make if it’s your first.”

“You don’t know me well enough to know if it’d be a mistake for me or not,” You gripe, “You met me, like- three hours ago.”

“And you’re great so far,” Rooster turns towards you, “You’re sweet and you’re funny and you’re down to try new things, and your excitement shows on your face, and you’re fun to be around. That guy looked like he clears out any room where people are sober enough to notice him come in.”

“Rooster, I want that!” You gush, pained to admit it but passionate all the same, “I want to have some god-awful summer fling just because it’s easy, and not because he’s the love of my life! I’m trying to do new things, I’m trying to get away from silly little hometown crushes. They're- well, sweet, but I want something more exciting. I want to start living life."

“That’s not a fun life to live,” Bradley pours your jack and coke into the sand, “Did you even watch him through the window? He could have slipped something in here.”

“He didn’t,” You scoff, but it’s more out of defensiveness than facts, because you admittedly hadn't been watching, “Rooster, you don’t know what’s good for me.”

“I might not have known you for very long, but I do know what’s not good for you,” He sets the glass on the railing, “Because that’s not hard to see. You deserve better than someone like him. But,” He straightens up, his Hawaiian shirt whipping in the wind, “If you really want to fuck some hotshot up against the side of the bar, and not even get his number out of it, I’ll leave you to it. You’re an adult, and you can do whatever you want. Just remember, you deserve better than what you want right now- if that’s really what you want.”

He turns to leave, and something terribly, viciously lonely and afraid claws at your insides. It makes your chest hurt, it aches and stabs and tears at you from the inside-out.

“I want something right now.” You gush, breaking the night’s silence and stopping Rooster with his hand on the doorknob, “I- I want something now. Of course I want the perfect man, that’s-” You laugh, breathily, almost dazedly, “That’s what everybody wants. But I’m so tired of sitting around and waiting- I want something now. And the express options aren’t always the best, but they’re quick and they’re easy and that’s what I want.”

“Quantity for quality,” Rooster drawls, unimpressed, “You keep saying you want things but I don’t think you really do.”

“I can’t find quality, Bradley!” You gush, “I can’t- the boys back home were nice, okay? But I’m not gonna spend the rest of my life with them,” You lament, “They were sweet but there was no passion. And then- guys like that one, they’re offering me the other end of the spectrum. Of course I’d love someone right in the middle- someone who’s sexy, someone who’s hot and exciting and makes me feel the same way. And someone who also cares, who listens to me talk and enjoys being around me when I’ve got clothes on, too. That’s- like, every woman’s dream. But they’re one in a million,” Rooster turns, and you watch as the moonlight shines in his big brown eyes, “And I could be waiting a lifetime for someone like that to roll around,” Bradley’s mouth has curved downwards, an endearing pouted frown as you sing him your sorrow song, “And I think if I don’t find him right now-”

You stop dead, your chest heaving with a breath.

Rooster’s auburn hair looks caramel-brown in the darkness, but his white shirt almost glows against his firm abdomen. He’s let go of the doorknob to face you, and his shiny eyes are dulled while he listens to you rage about your woes, your fears, your insecurities. You consider the way he’d scared off your near-mistake, the way he’d tipped the glass of coke into the sand, the way he’d left the warm, boozy bar to make sure you weren’t getting fondled against the side of the building.

You come to the absolutely sickening realization, right then and there, that you’ve fallen in love with the first man you’d met in San Diego.

“I think…” This was supposed to be an escape. You’d wanted to flee from the sweet love of your past, the child’s play of swapping kisses on a swingset. You’d yearned for something more fiery, more exciting, but you’re not sure you’d have found it in the man you’d been about to fuck. Fiery, exciting- that was feeling Rooster’s palm against your back in the bar, that was feeling his pelvis bump against your ass while he’d murmured into your ear.

And perhaps some sweetness isn’t too bad. It’s what you’ve enjoyed historically, after all. You’d mistaken wanting more for wanting something else entirely- you’d assumed no sex god of San Diego would have a heart to match, but Bradley’s presenting the perfect mix of sweet and spicy. You come to the conclusion that maybe your maneater fantasies were due to whiskey and adrenaline, and were not a true reflection of your wishes. A fleeting phase, one you're glad you were rescued from before it would have ruined your summer. Your savior waits for the end of your sentence, tilting his chin towards you to prompt you to finish.

“I think it’s you.” You admit, your vulnerable voice carrying softly on the ocean breeze, and you surge forwards to kiss him.

You have been on the market for a vehicle for some time now after your last one gave up the ghost on you, and whilst Barty and Evan have loved nothing more than chauffeuring you around and waiting on you hand and foot, you were eager for some freedom and independence and neither of them could blame you for it. 

So, he’d done some research and sent you to test drive a vehicle.

“It went great!” You tell him, a giddy little dance on the spot as you beam at him. Evan doesn’t miss the way Barty’s brows climb up his forehead. 

“Yeah? What’s the verdict?” 

“I got a car!” You all but squeal, forcing Evan to stop in his show of procuring a glass of water. 

“You got a car?” He asks you slowly, convinced he didn’t hear you correctly. 

He did hear you correctly, apparently – you nod your head yes enthusiastically. 

“You were supposed to test drive a car.” He reminds everyone in the room, looking at Barty who offers him a measly eye roll as he falls back lackadaisically into a kitchen chair. 

Your head bobs back and forth in a so-so manner. “I did test drive the car.”

Evan blinks at you and you jump to fill the silence; answering a question he hasn’t yet asked. 

“And then I paid a deposit.” 

“You were only supposed to test drive the car.” 

“But the deposit is non refundable.” You offer with a slight pout. Evan’s eyes flicker over to Barty. 

Barty, for his part, shrugs his shoulders as though he’s bored with the entire situation. “The deposit was only £500.” 

“And is non refundable.” You remind Evan as though he might’ve forgotten that part. 

“And how’d you pay this £500?”

The first signs of bashfulness colour your features and the corners of Evan’s lips threaten to lift traitorously at the sight alone. 

“I, erm, well, I used your card.” You murmur softly as though he didn’t give you a credit card to do with what you will. It’s technically your card – it has your sodding signature on the back of it – only that the account’s in Evan’s name. 

Evan finally huffs a laugh, and you peek up at him through your lashes as though trying to gauge how much trouble you might be in. 

“Poppet, you were meant to test drive a car. What if there were other cars I’d found for you to test drive?”

You must sense something in Evan’s tone or words – a tell he has that he isn’t aware of – as he watches in amusement when you perk up with newfound optimism. 

“Oh, but you don’t have to, Ev! This one is perfect, I just love it so much!” 

“You do, do you?” He drawls, sighing when this elicits another round of eager nods from you.

He decides to direct his attention at Barty; he’s having a very hard time being terse with you. “And you did nothing to stop her?”

“What was I supposed to do, Rosie?” Barty huffs, holding his arms out helplessly. “She named the sodding thing.” 

“You named the car?” Evan redirects to you, his statement less of a question and more an expression of disbelief. 

You answer him anyway. “I named the car.”

“What did you name the car?”

“Anastassia” Barty answers for you with a laugh. 

“You named the car Anastassia?” Evan directs at you. 

“I named the car Anastassia.” You agree solemnly.

“That’s a terrible name for a car, love.” Evan informs you with a laugh of his own. 

You merely tip your nose up in the air petulantly, still just as lovely as always. “Don’t talk about Stassi that way.” 

Evan lets out a rather inelegant and a particularly theatric groan as he leans back against the granite countertops; his displeasure entirely for show. 

“Well since you’ve already named it I guess we can’t kill it.” 

Your displeasure melts away quickly, likely just as much for show as Evan’s own is. “Precisely.” 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute, pet.” Evan chides, though his sternness is severely undermined as he lifts one of his arms at you, inviting you to tuck yourself in against his side which you do, dutifully. He breathes you in, levelling Barty with a ‘glare’ over the top of your head that probably falls just as loving as he’d been looking at you if Barty’s knowing smile said anything at all. 

“She was giving me that look, Ev,” he explains, Barty’s eyes falling softer as they dart from Evan’s face to yours, though his mouth quickly turns up in a rather smarmy looking smile, “plus she looked really fucking fit behind the wheel.” 

Well, Evan figures that’s about as good a reason as any to buy you a car.

You shake your head. “I used all the honey. So we’re out, sorry.” Remus tsks sympathetically. “Out of cough drops, too, so. I think I just have to ride it out until the pharmacies open.” 

Your flatmate’s eyes glint humorously in the dark. “What, you still need cough drops? Didn’t James’ soup heal you completely?” 

“I don’t want to badmouth Euphemia,” you hedge. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t be. She only makes a good soup; James came up with the idea that it cures everything all on his own.” 

“Then no. But in fairness, your vitamin C didn’t work either.” 

“Well, I never claimed it was a miracle.” You’re teasing, but Remus’ voice has turned somber, his palm making slow circles on your upper back. He looks almost sorry. 

“Yeah, I know,” you murmur. “I think we’ve exhausted all avenues. Sorry I woke you.” 

“Sorry you’re being kept up,” he replies softly. 

You shrug, hapless. There’s nothing more either of you can do. You’re stuck with this, but Remus can still go back to his room and get some sleep. You expect he’ll do that now, so it surprises you when he asks, “Aren’t you hungry?” 

You cough a bit in surprise. “I had soup.” 

“So that wasn’t a piece of coriander I saw sticking out of the kitchen sink drain a bit ago?” 

You shrink. “Shit. I thought I rinsed it all down.” 

Remus smiles. It’s a lovely sight, and a rare enough treat that you relax. When Remus smiles, you always feel like you must’ve done something right to earn it. 

“I won’t tell,” he swears. “James will say it only didn’t work because you didn’t eat it all. He’ll want to go get you more.” 

“I tried to finish it,” you say weakly. “But it was a big bowl, and it wasn’t really to my taste…” 

“Careful, you’ll wake him from a dead sleep saying things like that,” Remus teases you. You smile, and watch his expression soften in the low light. “You must be hungry, though. Maybe a different soup? Something warm might calm your throat long enough for you to get to sleep.” 

Remus starts to get up before he’s even finished talking. You think your poor facial control is to blame; you probably look like he’s just offered you a spa holiday. 

“Rem.” You catch his wrist as he stands, letting go when a coughing fit takes you and you have to cover your mouth. Remus stays put anyway. “It’s the middle of the night.” 

“I know,” he says patiently. 

“You really don’t have to.” 

“Okay.” 

“So, you…” You eye him, caught between wishing for him to get a good night’s rest and really, really liking the idea of some soup. “...won’t?” 

“No, I am.” Remus straightens the rest of the way. “Do you want to come with? You can breathe the steam while the pot’s boiling.” 

You do follow him, obviously. You express your desire for one of you to get to sleep a couple more times before Remus tells you kindly to piss off, but then you’re not going to let him slave away for you in the kitchen by himself. 

Remus outright forbids you from helping him chop vegetables, because I know you think you’re steady right now, but I promise you you’ll cut off the same finger you did last time. You end up sitting on the counter beside the stove, face growing warm and dewy as you lean over a simmering pot of broth. 

“Do you really think Sirius is going to get sick now?” you ask. 

“Yes,” Remus answers, chopping carrots with a practiced rhythm. The thunk-thunk-thunk of his knife landing on the cutting board is soothing. “You can’t blame yourself for that, though. Sirius is always getting sick. He’s got the worst immune system of anyone I’ve ever met. You’d think that’d make him used to it, but no.”

“Just like hay fever?” you guess. 

Remus glances over his shoulder to give you a commiserative look. “Just like hay fever. He whines like mad the whole time.” 

You sigh, pleasantly surprised when the cough it provokes feels less painful than usual. The steam may be helping. “I’ll stay home and take care of him. It’s the least I can do, seeing as I brought it here.” 

“Maybe wait and see how well you still like him before committing to things like that. When Sirius gets really stuffed up, he turns on the shower and just steams in there. Runs out all the hot water.” 

You smile ruefully to yourself. “I hope he doesn’t get it as badly as me, then.” 

Remus turns fully now, walking over with the cutting board to dump diced vegetables into the pot. He pushes a damp piece of hair away from your temple. “Me, too,” he says sincerely. 

You look at Remus in the warm glow of the stove light. It softens his skin, blurring freckles and blemishes and melting the amber of his eyes. It feels too intimate, holding his gaze like this while you’re alone, but you can’t pull yours away. 

“Thank you for the soup,” you say. 

The corner of Remus’ mouth twitches. “It’s not finished yet.” 

“I know.” He’s teasing again, but you’re not in the mood anymore. You want him to know how much this means. “It’s just really nice of you. I appreciate it.” 

Sirius is pleased to have some way to help. Remus puts things on tall shelves without considering that he’s the only one who can reach them, and while the rest of you usually manage fine it’s understandable that you didn’t feel like climbing around in your state. Sirius gets up on the kitchen counter, using a hand on the pantry door to lean over and retrieve a box of tissues from the top shelf. He tosses it in the air as he walks back to your room, congratulating himself. 

“I love you,” you say as he brings it to you, your voice light but your gratitude palpably genuine. 

Sirius winks. “We can’t let the stilt-walkers win, can we?” He steals a tissue and uses it as a sort of glove to begin picking up the rest of your rubbish scattered about the room. Mostly wadded-up toilet paper, Sirius can see now. Blech. 

“Hey,” you rasp from behind him. “You don’t have to do that.” 

Sirius scoffs and waves you off. “Standards of cleanliness must be kept. Remus’ll have a fit. Has anyone else been home, by the way?” 

“No, not yet.” You sit up on your elbow a bit to talk to him, and fuck, you look miserable. The exhaustion seeps from you like it might be contagious, too. “Actually, do you know where James might’ve gone? I called him to ask if he could pick me up some cough drops on his way home, and he said he’d get me something better and not to expect him back for a while. He’s being all cryptic about it.” 

Sirius chuckles. “He’s gone to get you his soup.” 

“His soup?” 

“It’s his in that he goes to get it so often the staff of the restaurant know him by name. He thinks it’s a miracle cure for colds, but it’s across town, so he makes a whole journey to get it.” 

Your voice goes a tad soft. “I didn’t mean to make him make a journey.” 

“No point in trying to tell him no.” Sirius shrugs. “He likes to do it. Just say ‘mmm’ while you’re eating it and talk about how you can feel your congestion clearing up and he’ll be well chuffed.” 

You hum, the sound broken up by what Sirius can only assume is an agonizingly sore throat. 

“Really, the one with all the miracle cures is Remus,” he goes on. “He was always in and out of the infirmary when we started out at school, but now that he’s older I swear he’s never ill for more than a day or two before he’s kicked it. He’ll have the stuff you want.” 

“What does he do?” you ask.

Sirius shrugs again. He genuinely doesn’t know. “He’s a wizard or something.” 

It’s just as Sirius has finished picking up the last of your makeshift tissues that he hears the door open. It’s still too early for James to have made it back. 

“Remus!” Sirius calls. “Come quickly, we’re in dire need of your help.” 

Remus does not come quickly. Sirius hears him setting down his bag, presumably taking the time to neatly remove his shoes before Remus begins at an ordinary pace towards your room. Honestly, if there’s ever a fire or something, Sirius is going to have to think up a more effective way to get his friend’s attention. Shouting hasn’t worked since they were kids. 

“What is it?” Remus asks. 

Sirius points at you accusingly. “She’s dying.” 

“It’s a cold.” There’s a fondness in the roll of your eyes. As Remus enters, his attention goes right to you. 

He frowns in a way Sirius recognizes. It’s the same as he looked when Sirius came home from his first bar shift sporting a black eye and when Lily broke down crying after confessing she’d kissed Mary. Remus goes to crouch by your bed with a concerned little notch in his forehead, like there’s a hook caught right between his eyebrows and you’re reeling him in. 

“Careful,” you say, leaning away from him. “I’m a biohazard.” 

Remus ignores you and sets the backs of his fingers to your head. Sirius startles a bit. He hasn’t actually…well, call it shameful or call it self-preservation, but Sirius hasn’t thought to touch you since he walked in here. Since you warned him off, he’s kept his distance almost unthinkingly. 

And Remus is not an innately tactile bloke. Sirius and James have worn him down over the years, so these days he’ll weather their affections without complaint and even offer a hug if he’s in a particular mood, but to initiate it with you so carelessly, like it’s a reflex, is strange. It’s not like him. 

“You’re warm,” Remus mutters, that frown unabating. He studies you like there might be a solution your ailment in the pink of your eyes. “How long have you been feeling like this?” 

You give a sad little shrug. “I just woke up with it. Sirius said you know a miracle cure?” you ask hopefully. 

Remus’ lips twitch. He looks at Sirius from the corner of his eye, and Sirius grins. “What? You do.” 

“It’s not a miracle cure,” Remus says, seeming almost apologetic as he brushes another touch across your forehead, “it’s only vitamin C. I like to dissolve it with some honey in a cup of tea.” 

“That sounds nice.” You’ve retreated into your covers a bit more, inexplicably shy. “Could I have some, please?” 

“Of course,” Remus says, but he doesn’t move. He stays crouched by your bed like he can’t tear himself away. “Your eyes are red. Do they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah.” 

“I’ll get you a towel for them, too.”

“Thanks. Remus?” you say softly. 

“Hm?” 

“Back up before I get you sick.” You give his chest a light push, smiling a little. Remus rolls his eyes as he obeys. He juts his chin at Sirius.

“He’s the one you need to be worried about.” He looks at his friend. “Your immune system is shit. You shouldn’t even be in here.” 

Sirius is inclined to agree, but he feels suddenly as though he shouldn’t leave the two of you alone. “Hey.” He holds up his hands, pointedly tapping one set of knuckles against the wall. “I’m keeping a safe distance.” 

You sneeze violently, making both boys wince, just as you all hear the door open again. 

“Never fear,” James announces himself. “Your remedy has arrived.” 

“Don’t suppose he actually stopped for cough drops,” you murmur to Sirius. Sirius shakes his head. 

“Thank you, Jamie,” you say kindly as James comes in, bearing a takeaway container of soup. “What’s this?” 

“This,” replies James as he sets it in your lap with a flourish, “is my tried-and-true soup for getting rid of a cold. My mum isn’t here, unfortunately, but this place makes it just like she does.” 

You open the top, breathing in the steam. “Mm, it smells good.” 

Behind James, Sirius gestures for you to play it up. 

“Wow.” You clear your throat, making an effort to sound clearer. “Is this stuff some kind of miracle cure? I’m only smelling it and I feel like my congestion is already clearing up.” 

“That’s exactly what it is.” James looks happy as a clam. His curls bounce gleefully as he nods. “Let me go get you a spoon. We’ll have you right as rain by tomorrow.” 

“It’s true! We have nothing but love for the two of you; as dense and stubborn as you’ve been all these years.” Sirius insists. 

James nods eagerly in agreement. “C’mon, mate; is it a crime to want to see your best mate happy?” 

“Oh, how noble.” Remus sneers with a fraction of the heat he hoped to imbue. “You humiliated the both of us for a laugh. You know he posted a video of the bit? It’s gone fuckin’ viral; my socials are blowing up now.” 

Whatever reaction he thought he would get is replaced by excited cheers. “So, we got you laid and made you famous! You’re welcome!” 

“Fuck off.” Remus groans. 

“Please just tell us it worked out!” James practically begs. 

“Come on, show us the morning glory; can’t be a walk of shame if you’re still laying in bed, yeah? What would that be, then?” Sirius peters off, turning to James in ask.

“A lay of shame?” 

Apt enough for Sirius, it seems. “Yeah, show us the lay of shame!” 

“You tits don’t deserve to know a sodding thing about me ever again after that.” 

“God I forgot how much of a wanker you are in the mornings.” Sirius huffs. 

“Just tells us you're thoroughly fucked and all blissed-out this fine, beautiful morning!” James urges.

“Oh yeah, I’m just full of bliss, can’t you tell?” Remus deadpans. 

“Give us a better angle, you glorious specimen of a man; I can’t see the bed behind you!” James carries on, craning his neck as though that might actually help.

“Fuck off and let me sleep.” 

This, it seems, is major cause for concern for the two men. 

“Oh my God, he didn’t do it.” 

“You didn’t do it?” James shrills. 

“What the fuck, mate!?” Sirius carries on. “You fucking let her go home?”

“After all that effort!” 

Remus, for his part, merely rolls his eyes and throws an arm over his face, bracing himself for further shite. 

“Fuckin’ hell, you really are hopeless!” Sirius scoffs incredulously. 

“We are deeply disappointed, young man.” James tells him, now pacing in view behind Sirius with his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. “We tried the patient method, we tried the gentle encouragement method. So, we found the one method you couldn’t possibly ignore, and we really thought that–” 

But James’ scolding is cut off but a tired whine, far too high and too feminine to have come from Remus who’s only encouraged to remove his phone-free arm from his face in favour of looking to his left, face falling soft as he smiles at something out of frame. 

Then, the screen picks up one manicured hand making itself at home on Remus’ bare chest, and the screaming starts. 

In an attempt to spare his hearing, Remus moves the phone away from his face as the two continue their hooting and hollering, revealing – what Remus is sure would later be described as – the glorious sight of your naked back as you snuggle onto Remus’ equally naked torso, the duvet snugly wrapped around your waist which only elicits even more shouting. 

“Are they always so bloody loud in the mornings?” You groan into Remus’ chest, causing him to chuckle as he rubs his free hand up and down your back in apology. 

“Not as loud as you were last night, I bet!” Sirius hollers, earning him a withering glare from his currently naked friend. 

“Shut up.” You huff with a good natured laugh. “Yes, yes, I’m thoroughly fucked and blissed out. Now if you don’t mind, I’m trying to get some sleep so I can climb him like a tree again later, alright?” 

“YES ALRIGHT!” Sirius cheers as James is seen actually jumping for joy in the background. “That’s fuckin’ right! We’re geniuses!” 

“Matchmaking geniuses!” James agrees. 

“The two of you owe us for fucking life!” 

“We need special mentions at the wedding!” James concurs breathlessly, jamming his face into the frame until Remus’ entire screen consists of him. “And, before I forget: congratu-fucking-lations!” 

“Yeah, thanks a fuckin’ lot.” Remus huffs around a laugh, thoroughly exasperated but clearly chuffed. “Now, fuck off.” 

You’re heard chucking lazily in the background, and the last thing Sirius and James see before the screen turns dark is your hand on Remus’ jaw as you pull their smiling friend in for what neither of them doubt to be a filthy, long awaited kiss.