James is always seeing red.
It is a fundamental truth; the anger boiling inside him, an ugly and twisted beast, has been there ever since he can remember. When someone looked down at others; when a kid got beat up at school. The urge to pick up a fight with anyone who wasn’t right isn’t something that got better over the years; the big guy, however, can’t afford to lose control, unlike James once could. So he avoids confrontations, he avoids fights, lets everyone think him a coward because he can’t prove them otherwise without someone ending up dead. And when the big guy takes over, someone always ends up dead. Usually more than someone. He learns to let it go the hard way, after a dozen casualties, sirens screeching, helicopters looming over their heads like huge birds in the sky—that's what the other guy had called them. Birds in the sky.
Sometimes, most of the time, anger is like fire in the way it needs water to subside, or else it will consume whole forests, burning and burning and burning, ignorant—or uncaring—of the screaming animals caught in it. The flames lick and caress the trees, but wood catches fire and before too long, the whole place is reduced to ashes. Water, on the other hand, can stand its ground against fire, can slither its way into small paths, creeping silently, just the faint hiss of splash echoing. A soothing noise, grounding in the way few things are, nowadays—but water could be terrifying, too, he thought. In all its glory, during a storm, it could render any human invention useless, force families into staying locked up for days in a row. Water was as dangerous as fire, because it lured you into a false sense of security, until a storm broke through.
James can’t allow himself to indulge the fire, the red in his vision every time someone bluntly disrespects him, or when Dumbledore bosses him around, or that one time Regulus’ brother had called, drunk and speech slurred, looking for a fight. It’s engraved in his memory, how Regulus’ lips had thinned, jaw set, something shuttering behind his eyes as if he’d cut off the world, tuned it out. A detachment not unusual for him—but that didn’t make it any better. Excusing himself, Regulus had gotten up, not meeting anyone’s eyes, and left the room, careful not to slam the door shut; instead, he’d closed it softly, and it had clicked, carefully, gently, and that was how James knew how pissed off Regulus was.
There was almost nothing gentle about Regulus, because he never allowed there to be. If James was fire, then Regulus was water. He was all sharp edges and lines: smooth and pleasant when the situation demanded it, brutal and ruthless when needed. In between, if you looked for it, and knew it would be there, you might have been able to get a glimpse of a broken boy, but that was it: a glimpse, a flash, a snippet here and there, a moment of vulnerability that Regulus would make you forget or at least question, when the next morning he’d smile and greet you as if nothing had happened. And so it was silently encouraged, that Regulus be left on his own devices—even though there were exceptions to the rule. Dorcas, for one, and Evan, maybe. While Regulus has always been kind to James, talking to him whenever the opportunity arises, James doesn't think of it until later. Oh, he knows he likes Regulus, but there is no way the feeling is mutual.
People walk on eggshells around James and it sets him off even more, has him feeling as if he stands out, or has a non-contagious sickness that makes others worried anyways, no matter how irrational it is. He finds himself unable to blame them; his self-hatred runs deep, so it is only natural that the rest feel the need to put distance between them, stay out of his way, not annoy him. James can work with that; he tries not to get into anyone’s way, either, makes sure not to be around in common areas when it’s crowded with S.H.I.E.L.D. 's employees. Their uneasiness is painfully obvious, apparent even though they try to be polite about it, and subjecting himself to that is unnecessary; he’s not a masochist. The fear they feel doesn’t go unnoticed, and he doesn’t have to bear witness to it to know it is true.
The exact point when he comes to the realisation Regulus likes him back is lost. He hates that he missed it, can’t pinpoint the moment his mind goes to the undeniable conclusion that, Oh. There’s something here. Oh. Maybe it’s every time Regulus strikes up a conversation with him even though they don’t have an assignment together. Maybe it’s when Regulus waits for him after an exhausting day working in the lab. Maybe it’s when James walks him to his room without even realising it because they’re deep in conversation, until they look up to see Regulus’ door. He flushes red, avoids Regulus’ eyes, even though he can feel him staring holes through his head. Regulus draws a breath, but James beats him to it.
“Well, I should head back, it’s getting late,” he says—mumbles, more like it, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt because he lost track of time and space and they’re standing outside his crush’s room. Meanwhile, Regulus slides a key into the keyhole and pushes the door open with his hip, looking at him, his expression inscrutable. James carefully doesn’t look at his pale hands, the way the light reflects on his black hair. His eyes glitter in the dark, the grey of silver, of steel, and James is, for a second, reminded of lightning striking during a storm, how the wind makes the windows rattle, and how the rain clatters against them in a rhythmic, violent and repetitive tempo of tap, tap, tap.
Nothing is more painful than the uncontrollable destruction a hurricane brings. Because that's what Regulus is: a storm, a hurricane, barging into James' life uninvited and unwanted, asking for the impossible, sneaking his way into his heart, stealing it like the thief he was, unashamed and unapologetic. He'd kiss him and ruin his heart for anyone but him, claiming the last remains of James' humanity. He'd leave James shattered whatever happened—this, he knows no matter what. He'd shower him with love but wouldn't be there in the years to come, and it wouldn't be his fault because he'd be dead, because the Hulk would keep on living and therefore so would James. He'd destroy James in the most heartbreaking way possible.
There is a reason storms are named after people.
“You could come inside, going all the way to the seventh floor sounds tiring,” Regulus shoots back, half-smiling. He beckons him to enter the flat, and James, against his will, against his better judgement and common sense, instead of running away and never looking back, trails after him, reluctantly. His mind whispers doubts as Regulus turns on the light on his desk, a small but brilliant golden that illuminates half the room, leaving James in the dark, near the door, where it can’t reach. He can’t seem able to cross the distance, but obliges when Regulus, rolling his eyes, gestures that he take a seat, and says Be with you in a minute, would you like anything to drink and James sits down on the couch, the cushion sinking under him, and says something incomprehensible.
From the soft couch, his eyes wander around the room, to the vintage desk on the corner, the old-fashioned lamp on it, the wooden library filled with books beside, a photograph on the shelf that he finds himself immediately enamoured with. It looks old, yellow-ish and a bit crumpled near the edges, but otherwise well maintained. Two boys stare at the camera, and with a flutter in the pit in his stomach, James comes to the realisation it’s Regulus and his brother. He averts his gaze, feeling like an intruder, as if he’d gotten the glimpse of something he wasn’t supposed to have seen—but then, Regulus had placed the picture there for anyone to see, so it wasn’t his fault, was it?
The image is imprinted on his mind. Regulus and his brother are carbon copies of each other, all pale and sharp, dark hair and silver eyes. In the photograph they're standing side by side, yet at an arm's length, and he can't help but wonder how back does their rivalry—for he knows not what to name it—and how long will it continue. Their expressions are frozen in time, two ghosts holding onto their fading childhood.
Unable to shake off the guilt that forms a lump in his throat, he relaxes into the couch, but the fabric is suddenly itchy under his skin, scratching. His hands tingle with an odd, unpleasant sensation and while the temperature seems to drop, James feels hot and sweaty, the floor spinning under his feet. He chews on his lip, then becomes aware of it and stops. Questions bombard his mind as he listens for Regulus, who’s walking around in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers—what is he doing here? He shouldn’t be here, can’t be here, what’s the point?
There is a reason storms are named after people, he thinks again, balls his fists so that his nails may dig into brown skin and draw blood, ground his mind to reality before he's lost to fantasy. This is a different kind of pain, and he'll take it over heartbreak any time. His stomach is a sweater of knots at this point. Nausea overcomes him and James feels light-headed, dizzy with the anxiety that thrums through his veins. His skin crawls and his breath is short, and the moment Regulus comes in, holding two glasses of something he can’t wrap his mind around to recognise, James gets up with a jolt, his feet almost unsteady as he whispers some excuse about having to finish some files and he’s sorry for the trouble, see you tomorrow! and leaves, heading towards he doesn’t even know where. There’s no one waiting for him, and the only person who wanted him around probably hates him right now, and so James runs away, as if it’s a sick retribution for chasing Regulus on the Helicarrier.
Regulus’ confusion remains in his mind for the rest of the night, and when, mere days later, James wakes up gasping out a certain name, the phantom feeling on pale hands on him, sweaty for an entirely other reason, he locks himself in the bathroom and cries out, a mix of pleasure and sorrow because—not this. He can’t have this. His body won’t take it, the Hulk won’t let him—he’s trapped in his own form, bound by a desire for a person that will never be his whether they both want each other or not. Water slides down his skin and James washes away his shame, his filth, his regrets, allows himself to go numb with its coolness, instead of drowning in it all. When he catches his reflection in the mirror, he studies his hazel eyes—puffy and red—and his skin—brown and calloused—and doesn’t think of green, green, green.
It hits him, then, that maybe there is something more to Regulus’ waiting and lingering glances, his smiles, his teasing, flirting tone. He’s just not sure what. Not sure if he wants to find out, either. Why do you want me? sits on the edge of his tongue, reluctance standing on the way. Why, why, why, but the question bounces right back at him. The whys don’t matter, in the long run. He can't have this. He can't, he can't, he won't.
But you want this, his heart mocks. You do, you do, youdo, and he thinks, I do, of course I do, because he'd be a fool to deny it. Because his desire for Regulus is hopeless, leaves him helpless, but is there, present and solid and so aching, aching like thorns tearing his ribs from the inside out, blood and gore splattering. Destruction has never been sweeter. This is irrational; it’s stupid of him to want someone so unattainable, unreachable, someone who'll one day leave. Then again, Regulus is everything but unattainable; he parades around James, overwhelms him with his insistence of flirting, charming his way through any of his barriers, disarming him, ripping his defences off. He makes sure James knows he wants him.
How can he say no to this? How can he not?
Maybe it’s when Regulus crouches down and approaches the big guy, even though he’s terrified—it’s the same look from their first meeting, after James had raised his voice; the same fear from that time when the Hulk had chased him around in the Helicarrier, Regulus bruised, scared and running. It’s a reoccurring nightmare his mind supplies him with every few days, making sure James remembers—as if he could ever forget how frail Regulus had seemed, utterly horrified as he struggled to lift up the rubble that had trapped him down, and how he’d barely managed to steady his voice, the undertones of it wavering, as he tried to reassure James. Or the moment their eyes had met in the dark of the Helicarrier, before James changed and Regulus ran, ran, ran.
The details of that day are lost to him, but he thinks he remembers Regulus whisper his name, before the other guy had turned at him and roared, and Regulus—trembling, breathless, in pain—had taken off, ascending the stairs, his boots clanging on the metal, not bothering to keep quiet because he couldn’t, didn’t have the time. Regulus had manoeuvred his way around the aircraft like a spider, crawling and then falling and hiding, and then jumping again and again, with a frantic energy that lacked his usual grace. Remembers chasing him down a corridor, fire behind them, the Hulk throwing Regulus into the wall, his back hitting it, a small form sliding down, gasping for breath, until Evan had helped him.
Would the other guy have killed Regulus? He will never know now.
He doesn’t know when he knows, until it is a general awareness, common knowledge, until even Evan tries to talk to him about it, but James doesn't listen, won’t, refuses to, because he is scared of this new-found thing fluttering in his chest, a newborn phoenix, wanting to be left out, until his love for Regulus becomes more like a tree with whole branches scratching his ribs from the inside out, ripping him slowly apart. It’s a self-inflicted torture, though, his own fault for experiencing this pain. And yet, James doesn’t care, and keeps holding back because not this, he cannot have this, he will never be able to have this so why try? But his heart wants and his body wants and he can control his actions but not his heart and his body, and those bathroom sessions become more and more common, until he finds he can’t look Regulus in the eye.
Had he really thought Regulus was water? Regulus was nothing like water, because he was ice, cold and unforgiving unless you could get him to melt, and when you did and betrayed his trust, when he’d let his guard down and yet you did nothing, Regulus would freeze again, and build walls around him, higher than ever before. And, oh, how could James have ever deserved this? It seems impossible for the others not to get it, that Regulus can never be his because even James isn’t James’, he’s also Hulk’s, and sharing may be caring, but James doesn’t want to burden anyone with the big guy, no matter how willing they are. How could he sit down and patiently explain to Dorcas and Evan and—on a very special occasion—Minerva McGonagall that, no, this wasn’t something he was willing to consider?
He says no to this, and lives to regret it.
The Quinjet lands outside a large farmhouse and they all walk towards the house, defeated by their own demons and skeletons in the closet, staggering. James carefully doesn't make eye contact with anyone; shame sits on his belly for losing control after the witch, Lily Evans, meddled with his brain and triggered the other guy. Instead, his gaze trails away, tracing the rolling fields, the silence, the tranquillity of the landscape. Time doesn't affect, doesn't reach this place, this safe haven, away from the noise of the city, the hostile neighbours with their sneers, away from their prying eyes. It's beautiful and it's quiet and it’s what they all need, the wind softly ruffling the grass, birds chirping in the distance.
The house’s roof is made of grey tiles, two red chimneys standing, a column of thin smoke mounting slowly upon the air. Movements behind the curtains of the windows catch his attention as they all walk towards the house, battered and broken and barely holding themselves together. Dorcas—the only one unaffected by the witch—has a dishevelled Marlene by their side, who’s gripping their hand like her life depends on it. Regulus has fallen behind, eyes staring ahead, eerily blank; he walks alone, and James resists the urge to rush to his aid. A few steps ahead, Barty holds Evan’s hand, shaking him gently; Evan, too, appears absent, expression vacant in a dreamy way of a man lost to another place. A man out of time, they’d called him; out of time, and out of place, he thinks.
Broken people go in packs. They don’t really fit together, because their pieces aren’t cut neatly, like a puzzle’s pieces meant to complete each other. Instead, they are splinters of wood, shards of glass, and they hurt each other, step on their shattered parts. There was an idea, Dumbledore had admitted a couple of years ago, to bring together a group of remarkable individuals, and see if they can become something more. He thinks back to the words Dumbledore had used: a group of remarkable individuals. And they are, in their own brilliant way, remarkable. Regulus with his charming and secretive ways, the warmth he so desperately tries to hide; Dorcas with their fierce love for their people, the care they feel; Marlene, arrogant and their protectiveness, coming off as possessive many times; Evan with his kind heart and wise words, an inherent shyness that his fame hadn’t robbed him of; Barty and his stubbornness, his unwillingness to give up on anyone.
How could he ever deserve to be around these people? How could he ever dream of being worthy of them, when his presence in anyone’s life has been nothing but poison ever since the Hulk? His parents died because they couldn’t take it, seeing their own son as an outcast, doomed to a life on the run, never finding a place to rest, never finding peace, condemned to belong nowhere. And yet here he is, standing among them, living the life of a better man, feeling like a fraud, a thief of opportunities, and regretting that he doesn’t feel sorry for it at all. He wouldn’t change a single thing, even though he should want to. Ought to feel bad for burdening them with the monster, but doesn’t.
Dorcas and Marlene show the way, ascending the three or four steps of stairs that lead to the front door. The old wood creaks under their weight, and James shuffles his feet as they gather around the entrance; Marlene sends him a half-hearted glare, her jaw resting on the crook of Dorcas’ neck, and he stops, biting the inside of his cheek instead. She rolls her eyes at him, but it doesn’t contain the usual force of exasperation; meanwhile, Dorcas fiddles with a set of a large number of keys. As they search for the right one, the keys dangling, clinking against each other, his ears pick up a barely audible sound: hushed, squeaky, excited voices—children’s voices.
His eyes widen, and he feels Marlene’s eyes on him, processing, calculating, thinking. Regulus seems to snap out of his dazed state and manages to crack a weak smile that has no right warming James’ chest like that. Dorcas slips the key into the keyhole; the door opens without resistance, and they push it ajar with their hips as they enter the house. Retreating steps and giggles echo, muffled, and James tries not to appear too perplexed. A look at Evan and Barty reveals the bewilderment that’s probably reflected upon his face, though Regulus is the epitome of comfortable—shaky though he still may be—as if he’s been here before. Then again, that shouldn’t be too shocking; Dorcas is his closest friend, and Marlene usually tolerates him for their sake. Regulus must have paid them visits many times.
The jab of envy catches him off guard, and guilt immediately swallows him whole. As a friend to Dorcas and Marlene, being envious of this safe haven is ridiculous. But the fact that they get to have this other, normal life remains, and so does the fact that Regulus is allowed to witness it, maybe even be a part of it. Jealousy, too, poisons his thoughts, jealousy because he wants to take Regulus somewhere too, a place they can have for their own. It’s difficult not to miss how his posture loosens, and his shoulders relax, and the serenity that settles over his face. The reassurance that though he might not be okay, this is a place where he can show it, can let down his guard, even for a few seconds. Is this how he looks when he’s around James? He’s a cold one, but with you he seems at ease, Evan’s words echo.
The hall is dark, as the door closes behind them with a soft click. Evan looks around for the switch, but Barty beats him to it, turning the lamp on. His eyes sting at the sudden intrusion of bright yellow light, and he blinks, to adjust his eyesight. While Regulus follows Marlene and Dorcas to another room, looking unconcerned, James takes a few seconds to casually observe their surroundings, along with Evan and Barty, who stick close to each other.
The walls are painted a soft lavender. His eyes land on the shoes beside the door: kid's shoes, bright green and pink and red. There's a black umbrella in a purple stand, another one with a picture of SpongeBob on it, and one with Maqueen from Cars—James smiles at this; Cars was his favourite movie as a child. A thick red carpet stretches along the floor; looking up, he catches his reflection in a mirror at the end of the corridor, and averts his eyes. He looks terrible, clothes worn out and dirty and ripped at the edges, his hair practically a nest of unruly birds, glasses smudged with mud. With a sigh, he trails after Evan and Barty, who head to the room Regulus entered.
Once they've gathered around the table, James notices two kids, all toothy smiles and big excited eyes. They must be around the age of seven or eight, feet bouncing on the floor betraying their nervousness. His lips turn upwards in something he hopes is a smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace. Regulus, who's sitting on the other side of the table, shoots him an encouraging look. Marlene and Dorcas sit close to each other, their children—their children, he still can't believe it; he knew they were about a decade older from the rest of them, but still, their children—on their laps. Marlene and Dorcas lace their hands together and hesitantly look up. Evan and Barty show signs of discomfort at the domesticity of it, but really, it's a heartwarming sight.
Of course, trust two of the most dangerous men the world has to offer to be terrified of kids. Then again, he can't argue with their hesitation. Do they also feel their mere presence endangers those children? James wants to reassure them it does not; he is the monster here.
"Err…" Evan awkwardly clears his throat. "What's happening, exactly?"
Regulus chuckles, marks Marlene's thunderous expression, and wisely says nothing. Barty shakes his head, disbelieving.
"I'd say it's pretty obvious," Barty says, "you guys have kids. The question is, since when?"
Dorcas and Marlene exchange looks of apprehension. "Well," says Dorcas, "since they were born, actually."
"Really? And you didn't think to say anything? Like, 'oh, by the way, if we fucking die, take care of them?' Who's been keeping them all this time?"
"Don't swear in front of my kids, Barty Crouch, or you'll regret it," Marlene, who'd covered the children's ears, hisses from across the table. If looks could kill, Barty would be a goner.
A semi-hysterical laugh comes out of Barty, who erupts into giggles. "Oh god," he wheezes, slapping his hand to the table while Regulus flinches, "oh god, is this McKinnon's mom-mode?"
James can't blame him for his incredibility; he's also bewildered. "Barty," he tries, however, sensing Regulus' wariness at the sudden noise, "please keep it down, there are children in this room."
Barty whirls around to glare at him. "Keepit down, huh? Like you did back there, is that it? I'm sorry I can't be calm about whatever the fu—argh, whatever's going on, but I'm a bit upset here."
"You're upset? We're all here upset, you're not the only one who was messed up, okay?" he fires back angrily.
"Oh, really? Don't expect me to feel sorry for you, doc—last thing I heard, when you got upset , you flattened the nearest city! What was that?"
"That was the other guy, not me—!"
"Guys, keep it down—"
They pay Dorcas no mind.
"Oh, yeah right, how could I forget? Where was your control, doctor? How can we count on you?"
"How dare you—"
Evan, this time: "Hey, both of you, please—" but they ignore him—
"How dare you endanger your team?"
"Endanger?"
"That's ENOUGH," Marlene yells suddenly, slamming her fist on the table; it vibrates, the glasses on it jumping. "Both of you, be quiet, now."
James blinks, feels how his heartbeat has accelerated, how his blood boils, how his breaths come out ragged and uneven, how he shakes with barely controllable fury. For the first time, he notices the kids have been ushered away, and with Dorcas and Evan nowhere to be found, he assumes they escorted them to bed. Or maybe they wanted to get them away from James. The thought makes his heart drop in his stomach, and he swallows heavily the lump in his throat. Breathing seems a lot harder now, and he blinks rapidly again, as if to chase away tears that don't come; he has no left energy to cry.
Weariness that has been slowly making itself known suddenly seems massive, an unliftable weight on his shoulders. His eyelids are heavy, threatening to close, and the light feels too bright, blinding. Tired isn’t quite the word he’s looking for—James is exhausted, physically and mentally. The floor is spinning, the faces around him blurry, and James blinks again, to clear his sight. With a prolonged sigh that drains all the fight from him, he forces himself to pay attention to the conversation and form a coherent apology. But the words get stuck in his throat and the wish to sleep, to give in the wonderful rest of it is so great that he struggles to keep his head upright. His posture slumps, his shoulders sag.
"I'm so sorry, Marlene," he says at last, ducking his head as his face burns with hot shame. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "It won't happen again."
"It'd better not," she growls, "otherwise you're sleeping in the farm. I'm not having the big guy around my kids. We’ve had a shitty day and I, personally, am not above murder right now, so don’t test my patience."
"Oh, so now we're okay, aren't we?" Barty persists, his voice trembling with rage, eyes narrowed. Why can’t he let it go? James wonders helplessly, though he thinks he knows why. Fighting gives Barty a semblance of control, control that was ripped away after Lily Evans had meddled with their brains. Briefly, he wants to know what she showed him. "Everything's good, isn't it? We need to address this, immediately."
Marlene buries her face in her hands, dragging them over her eyes, massaging her temples. "I don’t know what the fuck you want me to say, Crouch. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? You've reached a whole new level of stupid today, I swear. What I need is a whiskey, a bath, and a nap. Not necessarily in that order."
"Well, I'm just saying what we're all thinking; if anything like that happens again, who'll be there to calm Potter down? Regulus got fucked over too, today, so he wasn’t in any state to help with the lullaby."
“Come on, man, don’t blame this on him.”
“I don’t, I’m just saying—”
"Look, I'm sure Regulus will be fine the next—"
"LOOK AT HIM," Marlene shouts, then inhales loudly, says with a forcibly calm tone, "look at him," and both James and Barty jump at her raised voice, then turn towards Regulus and—oh. Oh. She has a point, he thinks faintly. Because, Regulus—well. He's silent, as still as a statue, expression ashen, eyes empty and dazed. It fills James with an unexplainable fear, for just a millisecond, that he is dead—but no, that's not quite it. It's the look of being lost somewhere that is a punch to the gut. Had they done that, unconsciously, with their shouting and arguing and raised voices and sharp gestures? Had they led Regulus to this—state?
He's read all about dissociative disorders. How the mind stops handling information. How one loses sense of self and reality, time and space and identity—thoughts become distant lights in a far away city; facts are unapproachable, untouchable little stars. How dissociation is triggered during a traumatic experience; how it is activated as a means of protection. How anything can bring it forward, after one has had traumatic experiences over and over. It makes him sick because how is Regulus cleared for the field? How is he allowed to continue working as an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D. when he is clearly not okay? The only potential answer is that they need him so much they're willing to overlook the signs. And maybe Regulus encourages them to.
All S.H.I.E.L.D. agents have to be evaluated by a psychiatrist before they’re considered ready to go back to the action. He doesn’t think Regulus is above lying to get cleared for the field. Regulus loves this job—he’s said so many, many times—but maybe there is another, deeper reason he is so attached to it. Maybe he doesn’t know how to stop being in action—maybe he doesn’t want to stop being in action. James knows next to nothing about Regulus’ life outside of work, but his limited knowledge supplies him with the fact Regulus has no biological family other than his brother. And he doesn’t try to hide how little he gets along with Sirius, that’s for sure. His brain throws at him the photograph of the two unhappy boys and James shakes his head. No matter if it was on display, he shouldn't have seen that picture.
"I'm not qualified for this," Marlene murmurs as she closes her eyes tightly. She carefully leans towards Regulus, hesitates, places a hand on his shoulder; he doesn’t appear to notice. “Black. Hey, Black.” She gives him a gentle shake and like a limpless puppet, he doesn’t protest, goes along with it, his neck slack, head bobbing. Marlene meets James’ and Barty’s eyes, purses her lips into a thin, white line. “Someone go fetch Dorcas, now.”
“On it,” Barty blurts out, pushing his chair away from the table and scrabbling to his feet, throwing a guilty look towards their direction before hastily disappearing from the room. The door shuts softly behind him and James turns to Marlene again; she holds his gaze with an inscrutable expression painted upon her face, then nods, as if she’s come to a silent understanding he’s not part of. He wants to ask her what conclusion she arrived at but can’t find the strength, and so they both quietly wait until Barty re-enters the room with a frowning Dorcas in tow. Their eyes immediately land on Regulus and they curse softly under their breath, before slipping into the chair next to him.
“What happened?” they ask Marlene quietly, not lifting their gaze from Regulus, who is as unmoving as ever, expression unaltered. Something has shuttered behind his eyes and in a way he looks cut off from the world, and James wants to throw up because Regulus doesn’t see them, doesn’t recognise them, like he has removed himself from the picture and has left behind a doll: beautiful and stunning, but a doll, nonetheless, lifeless as a severed limb no one can connect to. It's frightening how much his pain drives James' heart into being an aching, hurting thing, twisting like the vines of a rose.
Marlene opens her mouth to answer but Barty interrupts her, says, “I… James—we were arguing, the three of us, and…I don’t know, I don’t know, we turned around and he’s like that—” he gestures violently at Regulus, a frantic, desperate energy in his movements and a present-Regulus might have flinched but this caricature doesn't— “all blank and gone, like he’s not here, and—”
He looks about to burst into ugly tears and James can’t help but agree with the sentiment. There is something so vulnerable in witnessing someone so private break into fractions, losing their identity—and the worst, he can't control who sees him now. Marlene nods to confirm what happened and Dorcas’ lips form a thin line, displeasure evident.
“I think you need to leave,” they say, tensely but without raising their voice and, damn, James admires their self-restraint. “All of you,” they add pointedly, when Marlene begins to say something. Barty storms out of the room with relief, his body wracked by sobs, and Marlene hesitantly follows. James hovers at the door, unsure of what to do.
No, not unsure, that is not it—conflicted. He wants to stay by Regulus' side, hold his hand, rub soothing circles on the small of his back, kiss his forehead, pull him closer and never let go. Oh, James is a weak, weak man. But he wants to get away from this stranger that looks through Regulus' eyes, too; to stay as far away as possible until his whole body and soul won't have to long for someone forbidden. It's unfair; if he were to initiate anything with Regulus, he knows he'd have to accept all the sides of him. It's just…they're so used to a strong and reliable and stoic Regulus that him needing their help is unnerving.
“You too, James,” Dorcas says, though their tone may be somewhat softer. James doesn’t dwell on the why. Instead—
“Are you sure?” he asks.
Dorcas doesn’t look up from where they are by Regulus’ side. They’ve taken his hand on theirs—dark brown skin in great contrast with Regulus’ pale complexion and yet fitting—rubbing circles over his knuckles with their thumb. Childishly, James’ eyes travel to Regulus’ vacant ones—please, recognise me, they say. Please come back to me. Come back. As if he has any right to ask him that. As if he has any right to ask Regulus for anything. Were he a better man, perhaps braver, he'd have removed himself from the picture years ago—not just for Regulus' sake, but for all of them.
“Regulus wouldn’t want you here,” Dorcas tells him firmly, but not unkindly, and he swallows, turns on his heels and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. The last picture he gets is of Dorcas leaning close to Regulus, whispering comforts to his ear. Regulus' gaze is locked somewhere far, far away, and James doesn't think he's listening.
The pain in his ribs intensifies.
He doesn't come off it for a few days, and when he does, Regulus confronts James and they fight as if they're a couple which is ridiculous—they are not, they are not, can never be. They talk about all the things they can't have—kids and a house and alifetogether—and James says things he will regret and watches Regulus' expression twist with anger and hurt behind his eyes and it pains him that he's the cause of it, but can't you see, this is for you, he thinks—no, it wasn't, Dorcas tells him later, it was for you, James, for your own sake and don't deny it, they say, turn on their heel and storm out of the room.
Regulus treats him with civility but there is a newfound coldness in his temperament that he never used to show around James. He thinks he understands now what Evan had been trying to say. He’s a cold one, but with you he seems at ease.
The very first question Regulus asks is Who was keeping the kids, Cas?
Dorcas offers him a shaky smile, says how their nanny didn't have the time and so they had to call Sirius and Regulus perks up, something unreadable in his expression and asks Sirius is here? and Dorcas nods, apprehension clear as day in their face. James just wonders how much are their lives interwoven at this point and tries not to feel jealous or envious—he turned down Regulus. He has no right to feel anything concerning him.
(He meets Regulus' brother on a day he stumbles in the kitchen in the dead of the night. He's sprawled over a chair, a bottle of vodka near him; his eyes glitter in the dark, not unlike a cat's. Sirius Black is a strange man, and James doesn't know what to make of him. The fact that his eyes are as piercing silver as his brother's doesn't help. Through long dark eyelashes, Sirius watches James impassively, silent.
"Er, hi," James says, feeling awkward under the scrutiny. He rubs the back of his neck.
Sirius raises an eyebrow, the gesture so much alike to Regulus' haughtiness that James wants to scream. He takes a sip directly from the bottle and regards James with something unnameable. Then, unexpectedly, he grins, crookedly. His teeth are as white as a model's. James, unsure of what's going on, offers a small smile in return.
"So," says Sirius, leaning his chair on its back legs, his so balance precarious that James wants to reach out and steady him. He doesn't, because he thinks that's exactly what Sirius would want him to do.
"So?" he repeats in the end.
"You're the guy who rejected Regulus." Sirius' gaze is like a fathomless sky about to rage a storm. He gets up; he's surprisingly short, like his brother, and yet manages to loom over the kitchen, his presence almost menacing. Sirius has learnt how to command a room, that's obvious. He paces around and James watches, feeling like prey. "I've gotta say, I didn't think you would."
"Is that so?" James murmurs between gritted teeth. He allows himself the luxury to sit down; Sirius Black may want to play power games but he won't have it.
"Yes." His gaze pins him down and James regrets taking a seat. "Now, doc, if you ever feel like hurting my brother like that ever again, I'll make sure your life becomes very miserable in a short amount of time."
"Is that a threat?"
Sirius shrugs. In the dark, his expression is undecipherable. "By all means, feel threatened. I don't care.")
In the end, James lives to regret everything. But he lives.
They lose. And they lose everything, and among everything is James’ chance, which he'd ruined for himself anyway a long time ago, because now Sirius is dead and Regulus is worse than dead; he’s a ghost of himself, slipping through the cracks of dark corridors in the Avengers Compound, and Evan is gone, too, his mind absent, lost to other, older, simpler, better times, and Dorcas is nowhere to be found other than the few unsolved murder cases in every dark and looming corner of the world.
But then, he thinks, there might be a way. It’s not his area of expertise, and he feels a bang of grief for Marlene, like a kick to his stomach, ribs cracking and bruising his insides, leaving them purple and blue, but he figures it out, eventually. It takes him years, mind you, but he does. Time travel. He becomes obsessed, but he manages it, and then Regulus is smiling at Evan, not even bothering to look at James, and he says See you in a minute, and when James gets back, and they all get back, and Regulus doesn’t, they look at Dorcas.
Se you in a minute. He'd promised. He'd promised.
Fear, fear, fear. His mind is static.
“Where’s Regulus?”
Dorcas is sobbing, but James just feels empty.
He tries to bring him back—of course he does—but Regulus stays dead. James, through his grief, gets it; he gave his life for the Stone, and so they can’t have him back. There is always a price to winning. There is always a price in happiness. There is a price in not trying for what he wants.
After the funeral, he heads for the table, slips into the chair next to Sirius Black. James remembers wishing to meet Sirius—someone so important to Regulus, even though their relationship was so complicated—and remembers meeting Sirius for the first time. If you ever feel like hurting my brother like that ever again, I'll make sure your life becomes very miserable in a short amount of time. Even now, he's not sure that meeting in the dark actually took place. The details are blurry but for the short flashes of glittering eyes and an impassive voice and a steady gaze. Sirius hadn't been threatening him, he'd been stating a fact. Short. Simple.
Every time James had thought about how a meeting with Regulus' relatives would go, he hadn't imagined they'd be angry of his rejection of Regulus. They were supposed to be glad an abomination was out of Regulus' life. In a way, meeting Sirius Black had been a myth coming true, alive, and so different than his expectations. But maybe Sirius wasn't someone you were supposed to predict the actions of. His temperament had been smooth and confident, both similar and not in the way he'd dealt with someone. And this man, the man beside James, he's nothing like that. Oh sure, he can see the traces of Sirius Black. But a strange, chilling emptiness seems to have overcome him; Sirius doesn't react to his arrival.
Grief reveals us, James thinks, idly, the coldness in the atmosphere evident, the air sharp as a knife, chilling as a blade's metal against his cheek. But then again, maybe grief unites. His gaze falls to Marlene McKinnon, her expression heavy with an undecipherable emotion. For all her exclaims that she hated Regulus, she showed up for the funeral. Maybe she did it for Dorcas, he muses, as he watches them. Dorcas is inconsolable, their face a grimace of an ancient Greek tragedy, tracks of tears trailing down their chin. They're clinging to Marlene's arm, knuckles white, but she doesn't complain. She locks eyes with James and gives him a nod: an acknowledgement.
Grief is the storm brewing after days of sun. It is the stab wound that healed a few weeks ago but starts aching again. The gash someone forgot to stitch up. The bruise on your ribs that hurts every time you move. The constant pain of they're gone they're gone they're gone; the pain at times you forget they're gone; the pain of forgetting what their voice sounded like, or how they laughed, how their face brightened up, how it shone with years of mirth. Grief is sneaky like that, he thinks. All the small things they did that fade away with time: how they moved, their presence around you, their scent.
He wants to look at a picture of Regulus so that he might not forget him. Even better, he wants to paint Regulus over and over again—even though art has never been his forte, he wants to try—so that he may commit him to memory: every little detail, every freckle on his nose and cheeks, connect them and make constellations. He wants to trace their interwoven hands in his dreams—that's where he can only hope to find Regulus now. In dreams and nightmares. Another thing he lost. Another regret to add on his pile.
It hits him, then. He's an artist, Regulus had eventually said, when they'd asked him on a movie night before everything went to hell. Marlene had raised an eyebrow; "Is he any good?" Evan had asked, instead. He drew, too, James remembered.
Regulus had frowned, an expression he'd always found particularly adorable. "Yeah, I mean..." He'd trailed off. A shrug. "He used to, anyway."
James turns to Sirius. Says, "Can you draw him for me, whenever you find time to? I'd...". he swallows, tries again. "I'd like to have a drawing of him." Waits for Sirius' answer.
His eyes are blank. "I don't know if I can draw anymore," Sirius says, in the end. He has the same nonchalant tone his brother would adopt when admitting anything close to weakness.
"I..." James feels his face go hot, closes his eyes, tastes the salt of his tears. "I'd appreciate it, but it's okay."
A pause. Sirius' gaze pierces holes through him, like all those years ago. "No, I'll do it. I'll do it."
Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, searches Sirius' face. "You will?"
"Fuck, yeah, I'll do it. I can do it. I can do it."
"Oh. Oh. Okay, thank you. Really, thank you."
"It's alright," Sirius says, something close to light returning in his eyes for a moment. "I'll send you a copy, or—no, I'll meet you somewhere, is that okay?"
He wants to meet with me? James wonders. He goes back to his previous thought: grief unites.
"Yeah," he hears himself say, "yeah, it's okay."
There is a reason storms are named after people, because not pursuing a future with Regulus, not seizing the opportunity when it was presented to him, when it was available, doesn't spare him the pain, the heartbreak when Regulus dies. There is a reason storms are named after people, and James thinks he gets it now.
Every oak tree started out as a couple of nuts who stood their ground.
Henry David Thoreau