Code Black

Regulus Black had never been one to accept charity. His pride wouldn’t allow it—not when he was sixteen and defying the family that had built him from the bones outward, and certainly not now, years later, sitting alone in the sleek London flat that still bore the ghosts of their wealth. It was one of the few things they hadn’t managed to take from him before disowning him, and even that felt like a cruel joke.

The apartment was pristine, bordering on sterile. White marble, dark wood, sharp lines—all carefully maintained, as if any trace of imperfection might turn it into something unfamiliar, something borrowed. Even now, as he sat at the kitchen island, a glass of firewhiskey untouched at his fingertips, he felt like a guest in his own home. The only hints of magic were subdued—an open medical text with a floating quill scribbling notes in the margins, a candle flickering with no wick, a small enchanted mirror on the counter that had muttered something about the dark circles beneath his eyes before wisely falling silent.

Tonight had been a mistake.

He had known it before he even stepped through the grand doors of the hospital gala, before the suffocating weight of expectation settled over his shoulders. He had attended out of duty, because his absence would have been noted, and he had navigated the evening with the same detached precision he wielded in every aspect of his life. Polite conversation, obligatory smiles, an untouched glass of champagne balanced in his hand—he had played his role well.

And yet, none of it had prepared him for James Potter.

James, who had been impossible to ignore, even when Regulus had kept his distance. He had filled the room effortlessly, the way he always did, bright laughter and easy charm drawing people in like a gravitational force. Regulus had stolen only the briefest of glances—long enough to see the way James tilted his head back when he laughed, the way his shirt sleeves had been rolled to his elbows, exposing tanned skin and the edge of ink along his forearm.

Long enough to catch James looking back.

It had been nothing, a flicker of eye contact across the room, gone as quickly as it had come. James had turned away first, smiling at something someone had said, and the moment had dissolved into nothingness.

Regulus exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

He had spent years perfecting the art of indifference, building walls so high that even he had started to believe in them. But tonight, something had slipped—a crack in the stone, a flicker of something sharp and aching beneath his ribs.

Had James always been this untouchable? Or had Regulus simply never let himself reach for him?

He pushed the thought away before it could settle, knocking back the firewhiskey in one sharp swallow.

He wouldn’t let James Potter unravel him. 

The next morning at St. Mungo’s was chaos. Regulus barely had time to drink his coffee before he was being paged to the emergency wing. He threw on his white coat and strode down the corridor, ignoring the fatigue settling in his bones.

"We’ve got multiple trauma patients coming in," Marlene McKinnon, one of the senior Healers, informed him as she fastened her dragon-hide gloves. "Carriage accident. One confirmed fatality, two critical. Potter’s already in trauma bay three. You’re with him."

Of course he was. Regulus bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. "On it."

He pushed into the trauma bay, immediately greeted by the sight of James working on a patient, his wand moving in practiced, precise motions. The glow of diagnostic spells reflected in his glasses as he assessed the damage. James barely glanced up as he barked, "Regulus, get in here. We need to stabilize before transport to Spell Damage."

Regulus stepped up beside him, ignoring the way his pulse jumped. This was muscle memory—saving lives, pushing everything else aside. Whatever personal history lay between them didn’t matter when there was a patient’s life in their hands.

"BP’s dropping," Regulus said, eyes scanning the enchanted monitor. "We need to secure his airway before he goes into shock."

James met his gaze for a split second, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he nodded. "I’ll levitate him—get the intubation charm ready."

Their movements were seamless, practiced. Feeling like they had done this a hundred times before, but something about working together again after the distance between them felt different. He could feel James’s presence beside him like a tangible force, and when their hands brushed—just for a moment—Regulus swore his breath caught.

He forced himself to focus. Feelings didn’t belong here. Not when there was a life on the line.

"We got him?" James asked, voice lower now, almost quiet.

Regulus secured the airway and stepped back, his wand lowering. "Yeah," he said, barely above a whisper. "We got him."

For a fraction of a second, neither of them moved. The tension between them thickened, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Then, as if snapping back to reality, James cleared his throat and turned away, calling for the transport team.

Regulus exhaled slowly, his fingers still tingling where they had touched.

By midday, Regulus had barely stopped moving. The influx of patients showed no sign of slowing, and the magical trauma ward was at full capacity. Spells clashed in unseen remnants of duels, lingering traces of dark magic resisting the diagnostic charms cast by the mediwizards. Cursed wounds pulsed with residual energy, resisting conventional healing spells, forcing Regulus to work through counter-curses with exacting precision. His robes smelled of antiseptic potions, of burnt spell residue, of too many hours spent under the harsh glow of enchanted orbs lighting the ward.

He was reviewing a chart when he felt it—a shift in the air, a familiar presence curling around him before he even turned around.

James.

"Hey," James said, voice carefully neutral. "How’s your patient from this morning?"

Regulus didn’t look up immediately, choosing instead to finish the notation he was making with a flick of his wand. When he did meet James’s gaze, his expression was unreadable. "Stable. The curse damage was localized, but it’ll take days to fully reverse. Spell Damage took over."

James nodded, arms crossed over his chest. "Good. You did good work in there."

Something sharp flickered in Regulus’s chest. James wasn’t one to offer praise lightly, and the sincerity in his voice made Regulus’s grip on his wand tighten. For a second, he thought of deflecting, of brushing it off like he always did, but the weight of the words settled somewhere deep, undeniable.

"You too," Regulus admitted, reluctant but honest. "You always do."

James held his gaze a beat too long. There it was again—that undercurrent, that pull, something neither of them was willing to name. The air between them felt thick, charged, like the remnants of a spell hanging in suspension, waiting to take effect.

Then, just as quickly, James huffed a breath and gestured vaguely down the corridor. "Come on. If we don’t eat now, we’re going to end up living off Pepper-Up Potions."

Regulus hesitated. He should say no. He should turn away, bury himself in work until exhaustion won over the restlessness curling in his chest. But instead, he found himself falling into step beside James, his heart beating just a little too fast, as if something had already been set in motion—something neither of them were ready to stop.

The cafeteria was a stark contrast to the urgency of the trauma ward. Though still bustling, the energy was different—slower, less frantic. Healers and mediwizards sat in small clusters, hunched over steaming bowls of soup and sturdy plates of food meant to sustain them through long shifts.

Regulus followed James through the line, plucking up a tray more out of obligation than actual hunger. His stomach was still twisted with lingering adrenaline, his mind unwilling to slow down, to settle into anything as mundane as a meal.

James, of course, seemed unaffected. He grabbed a plate without hesitation, piling it with food before glancing at Regulus with something just shy of amusement. "What, too posh for hospital food?"

Regulus rolled his eyes but took a small portion nonetheless. "I don’t trust anything that looks like it’s been transfigured from something else."

James huffed a laugh. "You might be onto something. I swear the stew looks suspiciously like yesterday’s pasties."

They found a table near the corner, away from the more crowded areas. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching between them—comfortable, yet charged in a way Regulus didn’t know how to navigate.

Regulus barely registers the weight of the coffee cup in his hands. The cafeteria hums around him, a mess of murmured conversations, the occasional scrape of chairs against the tile, the distant beeping of monitors filtering in from the hall. His fingers tighten around the ceramic, the heat pressing into his palms, grounding him. He tells himself that’s all it is—just a means of focus, not an anchor keeping him in place.

Not an excuse to avoid looking at James.

But he feels James’s presence like a tangible force beside him, radiating warmth, pressing in on his space without touching. It’s maddening. The way James settles into the chair across from him, so casual, so effortless, as if this is normal . As if they’re just colleagues grabbing a late-night coffee instead of two people held together by years of unresolved tension, frayed threads of history and betrayal wound too tight to unravel cleanly.

Regulus lifts the cup to his lips, more for something to do than anything else. The bitter taste curls over his tongue, sharp and scalding, but he doesn’t flinch. James exhales, a quiet sound, like he’s debating whether to speak.

Regulus braces himself.

“You look exhausted.”

The words shouldn’t feel like a blow, but they do. Not because of what’s said, but because of the way James says it—low, edged with something like concern. Unwelcome. Unbearable.

“I’m fine.” Regulus sets the cup down with a deliberate clink, refusing to meet James’s gaze. If he does, he might see it—might see the way James is studying him, the way his brows pull together, the way he notices things about Regulus that no one else does.

“Right,” James says, and Regulus hates how well he knows that tone. Flat. Unconvinced. Still James, still infuriatingly persistent even when Regulus wants him to let it go.

Especially when Regulus wants him to let it go.

A pause stretches between them, tension thick enough to choke on. James taps his fingers against the table once, twice, then stills. Regulus is hyperaware of every movement, every breath. He swallows against the discomfort clawing up his throat, feigning disinterest as he flicks his gaze to the clock on the wall.

“Long shift?” James asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

Regulus exhales slowly through his nose. “Aren’t they all?”

James makes a sound, something between a hum and a sigh. Then, before Regulus can prepare for it, James reaches out—just the briefest brush of his fingers against Regulus’s wrist, like he’s testing a boundary he has no right to test. Regulus goes rigid. He knows James feels it, the way his pulse kicks up beneath his skin, betraying him.

He should pull away. He wants to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

James lingers a second too long before retreating, the absence of his touch almost worse than the touch itself. Regulus forces himself to breathe evenly, to pretend none of it matters, that his skin isn’t still buzzing where James’s fingers had been.

“You should eat something,” James says eventually, like it’s an afterthought. Like he’s not watching Regulus with that unreadable expression, like he’s not waiting for a reaction.

Regulus scoffs, tilting his chin just enough to look James in the eye, daring him to keep pushing. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

Something flickers across James’s face, gone too fast to decipher. “Didn’t say you did.”

The air between them is charged, heavier than before. Regulus wonders if James can hear his heartbeat, if he sees through the carefully constructed walls Regulus has spent years perfecting. He hates that the answer is probably yes.

He stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the tension like a blade. “I have to get back to work.”

James doesn’t try to stop him. But as Regulus turns on his heel, he swears he hears James exhale another sigh—softer this time, almost resigned.

And for reasons he doesn’t dare name, that sound follows him long after he’s left the room.

Regulus had just closed his eyes—just for a moment, just long enough to take the edge off the exhaustion settling deep in his bones—when his pager flared to life at his hip. The sharp pulse of magic jolted him upright before the words registered.

Emergency Ward. Immediate Assistance Required.

He was already moving.

The hallways of St. Mungo’s blurred past as he strode toward the emergency wing, the remnants of fatigue burned away by the familiar rush of adrenaline. He tightened his grip on his wand as he neared the entrance, scanning for the source of the chaos.

And then he heard his brother’s voice.

“Oi! Get out of the way or bloody help, but don’t just stand there!” Sirius Black was in the thick of it, his healer’s robes smeared with something dark, pushing through the crowd of mediwizards and patients. His jaw was set in grim determination, but there was a wildness in his eyes that meant things were bad.

Regulus didn’t have time to process the sight of him before Sirius turned and spotted him. “Finally,” Sirius snapped, though there was relief beneath the irritation. “We need to stabilize a patient before we can move him—curse damage, internal bleeding, possible dark magic residue. Spell Damage is full, and we don’t have time to wait.”

Regulus nodded, pushing forward without hesitation. “Where is he?”

Sirius jerked his chin toward a nearby trauma bay. “Second bed. I’ll assist.”

Regulus barely suppressed a sigh. Of course he would.

Inside, the patient—a middle-aged wizard, his robes burned and tattered—was writhing against the restraints floating above the stretcher, his skin flushed with fever. Dark veins pulsed up his arms, the telltale remnants of a curse still latching onto him like a parasite.

Regulus flicked his wand, casting a diagnostic spell, and cursed under his breath. “Blood magic. His body’s rejecting standard healing spells.”

“No shit,” Sirius muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You think we can break it?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away, already calculating the risks. Blood magic was tricky—old, temperamental, unpredictable. If handled poorly, the backlash could kill the patient before the curse did.

But he and Sirius had always worked best under pressure.

“We’ll have to counteract it manually,” Regulus said, adjusting his grip on his wand. “If we don’t isolate the affected area, the spell will keep spreading. You keep his vitals steady—I’ll handle the counter-curse.”

Sirius nodded, stepping to the other side of the stretcher without question.

They worked in tandem, silent but synchronized. It felt strange, in a way. Regulus had spent so long keeping Sirius at a distance, but here—here, in the chaos of a crisis, they fell into old patterns with an ease that was almost instinctive. Sirius monitored the patient’s pulse, casting stabilizing charms while Regulus focused on the slow, delicate work of unraveling the curse.

Minutes passed in tense silence, the only sounds the patient’s labored breaths and the quiet hum of their spells.

Then, finally—a shift. The dark veins along the wizard’s arms began to fade, the residual magic losing its grip.

Regulus exhaled slowly, lowering his wand. “It’s done.”

Sirius checked the patient’s vitals one last time before stepping back, rolling his shoulders. “Not bad, little brother.”

Regulus shot him a withering look. “Don’t call me that.”

Sirius smirked, but it was tired, genuine. “Whatever you say, Healer Black.”

Regulus huffed, ignoring the way something in his chest loosened—just a little.

The moment was short-lived. The door swung open, and Marlene McKinnon stuck her head in. “We’ve got another incoming,” she called. “Both of you, let’s go.”

Regulus barely had time to catch his breath before he was moving again, Sirius falling into step beside him.

Some things never changed.

Regulus should have gone home hours ago.

The on-call room was dimly lit, the harsh hospital fluorescents replaced by the softer glow of the enchanted sconces on the walls. A half-empty cup of coffee sat on the table beside him, long gone cold. He leaned back against the worn couch, eyes closed, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. The weight of the day pressed against his skull—fractured bones, failing hearts, the ever-present stench of antiseptic and blood.

And James.

Always James.

He had spent the rest of the day avoiding him, refusing to acknowledge the weight of their earlier conversation, the way James had looked at him like he was something fragile. Like he was something worth worrying about.

The door swung open.

Regulus didn’t need to open his eyes to know who it was.

“Reg.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, willing himself not to react. “I’m off-duty.”

James ignored that, stepping further into the room. “You haven’t left.”

Regulus didn’t respond.

A beat of silence passed, thick and suffocating. Then James moved closer, the air between them shifting.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” James asked, voice quiet but edged with frustration.

Regulus cracked his eyes open, leveling him with a sharp glare. “Do what?”

James scoffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Pretend you’re fine when you’re clearly running yourself into the ground.”

Regulus sat up, his exhaustion replaced with something sharper. “I don’t pretend,” he said coldly. “I handle it. Not everyone gets the luxury of—”

He cut himself off before he could finish the sentence.

Of being you.

James’s expression darkened. “You think this is easy for me?”

Regulus clenched his jaw. “I think you don’t have to fight for every inch of respect you get.”

James stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, suddenly, he let out a humorless laugh.

“You still don’t get it, do you?”

Regulus’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Get what?”

“That you’re not alone in this.”

Regulus flinched before he could stop himself.

James took a step closer. “You keep everyone at arm’s length like it’s some kind of defense mechanism, but it’s not protecting you. It’s isolating you.”

Regulus exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “I don’t need this lecture.”

James scoffed, frustration bleeding into something dangerously close to anger. “Right, because you’re so good at taking care of yourself.”

“I do what I have to do.”

James shook his head. “You push yourself until you break. And I’m supposed to just watch that happen?”

Regulus swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“I don’t need you to save me, Potter.”

James’s jaw clenched. “I never said you did.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with tension and unsaid words.

Then, too quickly, James turned away, running a hand through his hair. “Forget it,” he muttered. “Go ahead, keep pretending you don’t give a damn.”

Regulus should have let him leave. Should have stayed silent and let James walk out, let this argument settle into another thing left unresolved.

But something in him snapped.

“You don’t get to act like you care now,” Regulus bit out, his voice sharper than he intended. “Not after—”

James turned back so fast Regulus barely had time to brace himself.

“Not after what?” James demanded, stepping closer, his eyes burning with something dangerous. “After you left? After you decided it was easier to disappear than to—”

He cut himself off, breathing heavily.

Regulus’s chest ached. “Don’t.”

James laughed, but it was bitter. “Right. Of course. We don’t talk about it.”

Regulus’s throat felt tight. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

James stared at him, his gaze searching. “Doesn’t it?”

Regulus couldn’t answer.

Because the truth sat heavy on his tongue, threatening to spill over, and he couldn’t afford that.

Not now.

Not ever.

James exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

Regulus forced a smirk, but it felt wrong on his lips. “Took you this long to figure that out?”

James didn’t laugh.

He just stared at Regulus for a second longer—like he was memorizing something, like he was searching for something Regulus refused to give him.

Then he turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him.

Regulus let out a slow, shuddering breath, pressing his fingers against his temple.

His hands were shaking.

Regulus ended up leaving the hospital after James had left, but not before waiting the appropriate amount of time so he wouldn’t run into the older man once again. Now Regulus sat alone in his apartment, the dim glow of the city lights spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The place was pristine, as always—too pristine. Not a single item was out of place, the furniture untouched, the surfaces gleaming. It was as if no one truly lived here.

Because no one did.

Regulus exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the glass of whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t even sure why he’d poured it. He wasn’t drunk—not even close—but the burn in his throat was grounding, something to focus on other than the gnawing emptiness curling inside his chest.

It had been a long day.

Too many patients, too little time, too many memories clawing at the edges of his mind.

And him.

James Potter.

The name shouldn’t mean anything. It was just another name, just another person drifting in and out of his life, someone he should be able to forget as easily as he did everyone else. A stranger, really.

But the weight of that night still clung to him.

He had meant for it to be nothing.

A moment of indulgence, a lapse in judgment. Something fleeting, nameless, insignificant.

Regulus had never been reckless—never allowed himself to be—but that night, he had been tired. Tired of being the perfect son, the composed professional, the controlled, untouchable version of himself that he presented to the world.

And James had been there.

Had been warm, persistent, maddeningly charming. Had met Regulus’s sharp edges with something easy, something confident, something that made Regulus’s pulse jump in ways it had no business doing.

He should have left before it happened. Should have walked away when James had leaned in too close, when their hands had brushed, when the air between them had turned charged and inevitable.

But he hadn’t.

And now, James wasn’t just a mistake Regulus could forget. He was a colleague. Someone Regulus would see at the hospital, in the halls, during long shifts when exhaustion made the air between them feel heavier than it should.

Someone who had looked at him today like he was still remembering the way Regulus had shuddered beneath his hands, the way Regulus had let himself want—just for a moment.

Regulus shut his eyes.

He had spent years perfecting the art of distance. Had built his life around control, around keeping things compartmentalized, manageable.

James Potter was not manageable.

Regulus exhaled sharply, setting the glass down with more force than necessary.

It didn’t matter.

It was nothing.

He had spent years surviving on nothing.

One night wasn’t going to change that