Time To Go
James couldn’t sleep that night—again. The stillness outside felt oppressive, unnatural, like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to break. Every creak of the floorboards or faint rustle of wind sent a jolt of tension through his body, but it wasn’t the noise that kept him awake. It was the silence. The eerie quiet that had settled in after the chaos of those first days. No more screams. No more cars speeding by in desperate escape. Just… nothing.
But inside, his mind raced, thoughts spinning out of control. It’s been too long. Each passing day felt like another brick in the wall closing in around him, suffocating any hope that things might get better. Nothing is getting better, he thought bitterly. And it likely won’t. Not until he has his son in his arms again.
Harry. His chest tightened at the thought of him, of those big green eyes and messy hair. He wanted to believe that they were safe, that Lily had found some way to protect him. She was smart, resourceful, always a step ahead. But how long could anyone stay ahead in a world like this? A world that was literally tearing itself apart?
He wants to leave. He needs to. The days feel endless. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to get up, to push open the door and start running, tearing through streets, houses, anything that stood between him and his son. But running meant leaving what little safety they’d found here. For James, this is a small price to pay. But running also meant facing the dead, the unknown, and possibly finding… no, he couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t think about what he might find if he was too late.
Harry needs him too. That was the only thing that mattered. He pictured Harry’s small hands, clinging to him in the way he always did when he was tired or scared. What if Harry was crying right now, calling for him? What if Lily couldn’t—?
James forced himself to sit up rubbing his hands over his face, shaking the thought away before it could spiral into panic. Lily has kept him safe. She has to have kept him safe. He clung to that thought like a lifeline, even though doubt gnawed at the edges of it. He imagined her now, holding Harry close, whispering to him, telling him it would be okay. But for how long?
James is his father. He’s supposed to be there, to protect him. It’s what a father does. And he isn’t there to do it.
James ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it slightly as if the sharp sensation might distract him from the ache in his chest. He looked around the room—dark, empty, aside from the bags Remus was packing yesterday.
Remus, Sirius, and even Regulus. They were all in the same place, weren’t they? Desperate. Helpless. Waiting, hoping, for something to change. And judging by the packed bags, they finally agreed with him.
They weren’t just sitting around anymore, hoping the world would right itself. The bags were a quiet admission that there was nothing left here for them, that they couldn’t wait any longer. Waiting meant risking more than just the unknown; it meant risking their chance to survive, to save the ones they loved.
But that wasn’t comforting. It only heightened James’s anxiety. If even the others—Remus, Regulus, the ones who had been rational, careful from the start—if even they thought it was time to move on, then things were worse than they’d admitted, than he’d admitted. Far worse.
With a sigh, he laid back down, willing the thoughts away. If he wanted time to go quicker, he should sleep.
But he can’t. He tossed and turned for hours but he couldn’t get his brain to stop working. His leg to stop bouncing.
He rolled over again, trying to get comfortable. To no avail. He let out a frustrated groan as he sat up again.
James is too warm even if his mind wasn’t racing. After that first morning, he had been sleeping with his clothes on. Which was terrible. How does anyone sleep like that? It doesn’t help that James was starting to smell—Remus had lent him clothes, as well as Sirius, but the water was off.
Accepting that he won’t get any sleep, James decides to take a walk. And it really shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone when he finds himself walking up the stairs to the roof.
The city below was a hollow shell—ironic, given its namesake—its lights extinguished, buildings skeletal against the backdrop of a dark, endless sky. Even the air felt heavy, stagnant, as if the world itself had given up on breathing.
Regulus isn’t there, James didn’t expect him to be, but he remembers the way the sunset had looked on him anyway. Wonders about how the moonlight might look on him.
Regulus is pretty. Beautiful. This is a known fact. One can’t look at Regulus and not recognize he has good looks. Maybe that’s why he can’t place all the blame on the alcohol.
Remus’s birthday was.. eventful. To say the least. He had never seen Regulus like that before. He hadn’t seen much of him to begin with, until that night—when he had seen all of him. Although, he apparently was too drunk to process all of him. Or else those scars would’ve been burned into his memory long before the other night. Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to stop thinking about it.
Sirius would be pissed. Maybe that’s why James is so curious. Why he has to get to know Regulus. Why he wants them to make up so bad. So maybe Sirius won’t be as pissed if he ever finds out.
Maybe that’s also why his head snaps toward the door when it creaks open. Why his heart races in anticipation. Why he grins like a fool when he sees Regulus slink through the entryway. Why his breath is stolen when the moonlight dances across his skin.
He’s dressed in black silk pyjamas—a heavy contrast to his combat boots. Which is both so unlike Regulus and so much like him. Because he is always dressed so.. perfectly. But now that he’s taken a midnight stroll to the roof in a apocalypse? Either his fashion sense is failing him, or he couldn’t be bothered to get properly dressed. But then, he could’ve just worn slippers. James has seen him wearing them around the house.
Maybe he just wanted to be prepared.
Either way, Regulus is adorable like this. His hair was the slightest bit messy. The quick rising and falling of his chest, as if he was in a hurry. His face was a sleepy frown instead of a scowl. James wished he’d smile. With the way the light is shining on him he could take a picture, call it art, and sell it for millions.
His scowl would sell too, James thought, as his features settled into that familiar mask of disdain.
“Go away.”
“I think I’ll stay.” Regulus’s brow twitches.
“The fuck are you doing up here anyway?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“I could knock you out.” He was so serious in saying it, and likely was, that James couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe he’s being mean to James. Maybe he likes it when Regulus is mean to him.
And isn’t that just?
“I bet you could,” he says with a smirk.
“Fuck off.” Regulus turns away, leaning on the roof railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
He moves closer, though he knows he shouldn’t. There’s something magnetic about Regulus, something that draws him in despite the hostility. Or maybe because of it.
“You always want people to fuck off, but you never go anywhere, do you?” James’s voice is quieter now, softer, almost teasing but with an undercurrent of something else. Something raw.
Regulus scoffs, the sound low and dismissive. “Maybe I like watching people suffer.”
James raises an eyebrow. “Does that include yourself?”
For a second, James swears he sees something flash in Regulus’s eyes. But it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by that familiar coldness. Regulus doesn’t answer, just stares back out at the night and lights a cigarette like James isn’t even there.
“You can’t sleep either, can you?” James presses, his voice almost a whisper now. “You’re too scared. Like the rest of us.”
Regulus scoffs. “I’m not scared.”
“Yeah?” James steps forward again, his body close enough now that he can feel the heat radiating off of Regulus, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. “What do you call it then? Staying up here every night, pretending you’re not just as worried about what’s going to happen next as the rest of us?”
Regulus finally turns to face him, his expression hard, eyes flashing with fire—anger or something else? “I don’t need you psychoanalysing me, Potter.”
James grins, though his pulse quickens. “Could’ve fooled me.”
For a beat, they just stand there, locked in this strange, tense silence, as James watches him smoke. Maybe James has a thing for people who smoke.
“You don’t have to act like this, you know,” James says, his voice softer now. “I get it. Things are fucked up, and none of us imagined ourselves here—like this. But you don’t have to keep pushing everyone away. You’re not alone, Regulus. We’re all here. And whether you like it or not, I’m here.”
Regulus doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting back to the horizon, his face unreadable. But James doesn’t miss the way his shoulders tense, the way his breath seems to hitch for just a moment.
And then, Regulus speaks, his voice low and clipped. “You don’t know me, Potter. You don’t know anything about me. Not really.”
James shrugs, leaning casually on the railing beside him. “Maybe not. But I’d like to.”
Regulus lets out a soft, bitter laugh, his eyes narrowing in the moonlight. “You’re a fool if you think you’ll find anything good.”
James studies him, his grin fading slightly as he catches the flicker of something in Regulus’s expression. “I don’t think you believe that. Not really.”
Regulus is silent for a long moment, his hands gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t matter.”
James watches him, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say, what he’s supposed to say in a moment like this. But he can’t leave it alone. Not now.
“It matters to me.”
Regulus’s head snaps toward him, his eyes blazing with fury. “Why? Why the hell would it matter to you? You don’t owe me anything. You don’t even like me.”
James opens his mouth to respond but hesitates, the words caught in his throat. He could deny it, could lie and say that none of it mattered, that Regulus was just Sirius’s little brother, and that’s the only reason he’s even up here. But that wouldn’t be true.
Instead, he takes a breath, stepping just a little closer. “What if I do? Maybe I care about you.”
Regulus freezes, his breath catching in his throat as he stares at James, wide-eyed and silent. For a moment, the world around them seems to fall away, leaving just the two of them on this rooftop, bathed in moonlight, the weight of everything hanging between them.
James swallowed hard, his throat dry, the taste of smoke and night air thick in his mouth. His pulse pounded in his ears, and he was suddenly aware of just how close he stood to Regulus—too close, or not close enough.
And then, just as quickly, Regulus’s expression hardens again, and he turns away with a snarl. “I told you to fuck off, Potter.”
James watches him for a long moment, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. And maybe, just maybe, James sees a crack in the armour Regulus wears so carefully.
But he doesn’t push. Not yet. Part of him wants too—to cross one of the lines so clearly laid, though he isn’t sure which. He also wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of crossing or pulling back.
“Yeah,” James says softly, turning to leave. “I’ll see you around, Regulus.”
As he walks away, he glances over his shoulder one last time. Regulus is still standing there, staring out at the horizon, his shoulders tense, his face unreadable. And James thinks again of how a picture like this could sell too. But it wouldn’t, James wouldn’t want it too—wouldn’t let it. This moment is private. His to keep.
~•~
Sirius watches Regulus closely. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it—he just does. Has since they were little, a habit born out of years of trying to figure out what was going on behind those unreadable eyes, in that quiet mind. Sirius had always been the louder one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve, while Regulus kept everything locked away, behind a face that gave nothing.
One has to pay a lot of attention to notice the changes in him. To look for the slightest twitch in his eyebrow, or the smallest flicker in his eyes. To know whether he’s annoyed, sad, happy, or even in pain. Sirius did. He does.
It’s instinct now. Even when he doesn’t want to look, he does. It’s always been this way, whether he admits it or not—this need to know what Regulus is thinking, feeling, hiding. It’s something he can’t turn off.
And so he notices.
There’s something different in Regulus today.
Something that pulls at Sirius’s attention more than usual. He can’t quite place it—maybe it’s the way Regulus’s shoulders are more tense than normal, or the way his hands grip the bags—which there aren’t very many, apparently they didn’t have much that was actually worth keeping—with a little too much force, his knuckles white.
Or maybe it’s just because, for once, there may be a sliver of hope. Sirius finds himself searching for it, almost without thinking, his eyes flicking to Regulus every few seconds, looking for a sign. Something to tell him that Remus is right—that his little brother is still somewhere behind the mask.
Sirius has been telling himself for years that Regulus is lost, that the brother he knew was buried under the weight of their parents’ expectations and the twisted beliefs that had been drilled into him. But now… now he isn’t so sure. Maybe he’s always been watching for that sign, even when he didn’t want to. Maybe he’s always been hoping that he was wrong about Regulus, that somewhere, beneath all that quiet anger and ice, the kid he grew up with was still there, waiting for a way out.
They don’t talk about it. They never have. Not really. Sirius left. Regulus stayed. That was the beginning and the end of it, as far as they were concerned. Except.. maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just easier to pretend it was.
As they make their final preparations to leave, Sirius realises he’s still looking. Still hoping.
It’s not a big moment. There’s no dramatic gesture, no heartfelt conversation. Just Regulus, quietly handing Sirius his lacrosse stick because he doesn’t have anything else for a weapon. It’s an old, familiar one—battered from years of use but still sturdy. Regulus says nothing as he gives it to him, just holds it out without meeting his gaze, his jaw set in that familiar way that says more than words ever could. Take it. It’s practical. Necessary. But to Sirius, it’s more than that. It’s a small olive branch, a moment that speaks volumes, a piece of the past they both left behind but maybe, just maybe, could still reclaim.
It’s his brother. Offering a way of protection. Even if it’s late, maybe it’s not too late. But with a pang in his heart, Sirius is reminded that it is late. He didn’t protect him then, so why now? Because he needs Sirius alive? To keep protecting him? Or because he’s dating his best friend? Or because he wants him alive?
“Thanks,” Sirius says, his voice softer than he means for it to be, his hand brushing against Regulus’s as he takes the stick. He’s careful not to make a big deal out of it, not wanting to break whatever fragile truce this is between them. But inside, there’s a small spark of hope, a flame flickering back to life. Maybe this was it—the sign he’d been looking for, waiting for all this time.
Remus hugs Sirius from behind, pulling him in and placing a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. He melts in his arms, reaching a hand up into his hair as he stares into his eyes. This—this is what keeps him grounded, keeps him sane.
“I have one too,” he says quietly, almost a whisper.
Sirius’s face scrunches in confusion, “Huh?”
Remus doesn’t answer immediately. But he shuffles a bit, one of his hands regrettably leaving Sirius’s waist, as he pulls something out. A knife. One Sirius recognizes instantly, with a clench of his heart. Black with a green jewel in it’s hilt. Regulus has had it for years. Sirius had almost forgotten about it, but now it feels like a punch to the gut.
“He gave it to me on my birthday last year, though I didn't think I’d ever need it.”
“Your birthday?” Sirius rolls his eyes, “What kind of gift is that? Do you even know how to use it?”
Remus smirks, “I do actually, quite good too. And I’ll have you know I appreciated it as a gift, this was one of his favourites.”
Sirius hums, his eyes flicking back to Regulus. “I know.. It was his first.”
They got into a spat when Sirius had taken it, worried Regulus would hurt himself. Sirius had only given it back when Regulus promised to be careful, so adamant about keeping it. And of course, Regulus had hurt himself. A couple of times. But he learned. Sirius remembers how Regulus had smiled—really smiled—when he showed Sirius his newfound skills with the knife. He was proud, and so was Sirius. That memory feels like a lifetime ago now.
When they finally leave, that hope falters a little. It’s small things at first—Regulus walking ahead, keeping his distance, never quite falling into step with the rest of them. But Sirius doesn’t push. They’ll get there. They have to.
Then they reach the street, and Sirius’s heart sinks. His motorcycle is gone. Stolen. His fingers itch at the absence of the handlebars, the familiar weight of it beneath him. He had saved up for it, after he left, and he got it as soon as he could. He’d race down the road and feel the wind in his hair. Riding that bike felt like freedom. And now it’s just… gone.
“Damn it,” Sirius mutters under his breath, kicking a stray rock on the ground. He clenches his fists, trying to keep his frustration in check. It’s stupid to care about a bike right now—there are bigger things at stake. But still, it stings.
Remus steps up beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get you another one.”
Sirius huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Not the same, though.”
“No,” Remus agrees quietly. “But you’re riding with me anyway.”
That earns a small smirk from Sirius. “Right. Can’t let you drive off without me.” He tries to keep it light, but there’s something grounding in Remus’s presence, something steady that pulls him out of his frustration and back to the task at hand.
“Damn right,” Remus says, a grin tugging at his lips.
“And I call shotgun.”
As much as he loved his bike, he’s not sure he wants to be alone right now. He glances at Regulus one last time before climbing into the car, watching the way he moves with the same quiet efficiency he always has, his face a mask of indifference. But for the first time in years, Sirius wonders if maybe—just maybe—there’s something else beneath it. Something he can still reach.
Maybe Remus is right after all.
Sirius immediately reaches for the radio when they all get in. None of the stations are playing anything, but Remus has CDs. And who would he be if he didn’t put David Bowie on?
He grins at Remus, who shakes his head but not without his own grin, and James leans forward as he moves over slightly so he’s between their seats. Regulus merely scoffs and turns to look out his window. He can suffer, it’s not his fault if the little shit has bad taste in music.