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There are many things that James Potter personally attributes to being a fantastic, model romantic partner. Some things—most things—require the minimum amount of effort needed in order to thrive in any social relationship and most often is associated with common bloody decency.
James likes to think that he has managed to vault his way about a hundred yards or so past the border of minimum effort, safely having landed himself in the Nice Lad side of things. Particularly when it comes to his romantic affiliations. James Potter, before he was grappled down into domestic bliss, used to be somewhat of a playboy—an account that is jealously and vehemently denied by his closest friends and acquaintances, but James gives them the leeway of not having achieved as many milestones as he in the realm of fancy (this label is, of course, given, not counting Sirius’ harlot-y way of going about kissing anything that walks on two legs.)
Not to digress, the point of his earlier ventures into the frankly ridiculous realm of sex and shagging activity are to emphasize on the fact that James Potter is an amicable gentleman. He always tries his best. Holding doors and shrugging off coats, anyone can do. James Potter, is a creature of a peculiar caliber; what his dearest friend, Remus Lupin, would call politely ‘one of ‘em barmy sap suckers.’ Unrealistically inclined to enable the comfort and happiness of those he intends to please, even when, on occasion, doing so, will mean to titillate over the edge of insanity.
There is no need for the long list of examples that Remus has kept handy to smack over his head with over the years, but there is the urgent desire for him at every turn, to recount one particular example that adequately explains this tendency he has—which of course, he does. Mama raised a man not a slugger—that others consider a tragic, neurotic character flaw:
James Potter, at the ripe age of seventeen and about two weeks into dating whom he’d assumed was the woman of his dreams—Lily yet remains a very good friend—spent a meagre thirty hours rewriting his then girlfriend’s class notes by hand, since she’d had a fall near the lake and dropped her open, upturned bag into the most muddy puddle of dirt to ever exist. James gingerly cleaned up each piece of parchment and patiently, and somewhat manically, spent the following thirty hours transferring everything over by hand, against Lily’s and everyone’s fervent desires for him not to do such a thing. This is to say, James Potter knows how to make life easy and enjoyable for those that he loves. Often needing no prompt. Yes, James Potter goes above and beyond.
All of this to say, that James Potter, in his very new and hopefully ever-lasting bit of domestic bliss, would chop off a limb, make the clouds weep, and splice the sun, if needed to keep his beautiful, intelligent husband peppy.
All of this to say, that James is already horrified that it takes him about three hours into the day to realise that his husband—as of a week ago—is sick.
They’re in the kitchen. James is going over the Daily Prophet as he usually does in the morning, idly picking at his eggs as he waits for his beautiful, intelligent, unique husband—of a week—to finally wake up and join him for breakfast. Regulus often tends to sleep in, and often partakes in activities that are traditionally enjoyed in solitude in his spare time. And so James finds himself in this predicament quite often:
Killing time and doing nothing until Regulus arrives.
And the man does. He enters the kitchen, having freshly showered and dressed up for the day. James allows himself the perverse urge to sneak a wanton and appreciative glance at his husband—yes, since last week—over his crinkling papers. Merlin, he thinks to himself at least twice daily: he is the luckiest bloody chap in this whole goddamn world. He gets to sleep next to the literal embodiment of perfection every night, and he gets to wake up next to him, and speak with him, and hold him, and kiss him, and smooch him, and occasionally, shag the ever-loving brains out of him.
“‘Morning.” Regulus grumbles with lidded eyes, his voice scratchy and unused. Nothing abnormal, he’d just woken up after all.
Or so James thought.
“Good morning.” James chirps back with a grin. There’s a tug on Reggie’s lips and James hums when the man’s hand settles over his bird nest of a head in passing as he makes his way to the stove.
James contains the ever-present urge to shoot out of his seat and snog his husband—yes, husband—on their crowded kitchen table and see where the rest of the day takes them—back to bed, hopefully but James is open to options—but he allows Regulus to take his own seat and start on the hearty breakfast that James had already prepared and plated and set under a warming spell for him.
Their mornings are usually quiet. Most days they talk about nothing in particular. Most mornings, James swiftly slides the Daily Prophet over to Reggie with the unsolved crossword puzzle of the day untouched, and watches in awe as Regulus makes quick work of it—their record is three minutes—while drinking his morning tea.
This morning is the same. Regulus closes his eyes as he holds the steaming tea over his face and breathes in the gentle hot air. James watches him as he slides the folded paper over with the pen they keep on the table just for this purpose.
Regulus smirks at him with his eyes still closed, “One of your limited chocolate frog cards and I’ll solve it in under a minute today.”
James’ smitten grin widens and he hurries to fetch his wand from his pocket, “Deal. If you don’t though—” we will retreat back to bed for a session of debauchery.
“Do you doubt me?”
“Not even for a moment.” James doesn’t have to think before responding.
Regulus opens his eyes and gently lowers his cup back on its flowery saucer. He cracks his knuckles elegantly—yes, his husband does everything elegantly—and reaches for the paper with a set sort of determination.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Alright, darling—” Regulus picks up the pen, “Start the clock.”
And that about sums up their peaceful mornings.
James lets Regulus choose his chocolate frog card even though since they are married now—wedded, having partaken in nuptials, yes—anything that belongs to James belongs to him anyway. Reggie chooses a Flammell card with a winning smirk and teases James by removing it from its folder only to add it to the end of another album they keep for their collections.
James finds it utterly hilarious that they have this same arrangement with money. They make monetary bets quite often; the spoils are paid from their joint vault, back into the joint vault.
Their weekends are usually spent in leisure like this. James has to go to the Ministry otherwise about three days a week and Regulus handles the potion orders he receives in large stacks in the meantime in his own lab. It is absurd, the rhythm that they have found and maintained for years prior to their marriage.
It is this exact gullible fact that tricks James into assuming that this weekend, like the others, is an utterly normal one—with the exception of last weekend and their wedding ceremony of course.
James makes lunch and Reggie answers some letters. They have a wonderful lunch—James adores making chicken pie and Regulus adores eating his chicken pies—and they are about to retreat to the sitting room and discuss date plans.
James wants to take them to a nearby pub that just opened by their flat for dinner, though he suspects Regulus has a romantic, indoor date in mind that somehow involves their bathtub—the man seems to love steam of any kind today.
So they are about to retreat to the sitting room, and James casually reaches for the man’s hand to hold it as they walk the small distance before he has to flinch back in shock. Regulus’ hand is burning up.
“Are you okay?” Regulus asks him, his eyes wide in concern.
“Are you!? You’re burning up!” James clasps the back of his hand over the man’s forehead and has to suppress another flinch. That is definitely, without a singular doubt, a fever. A raging fever. And now that he takes him in, James notices the flushed cheeks, the slight exhaustion in his husband’s eyes.
“I’m alright.” Regulus tries to brush him off, “I’m guessing it’s just a head cold.”
“A head cold?” James sputters, “Are you crazy!? We’re getting you back in bed—”
“But, James—”
James is not hearing the man. The panic sets off quite a few alarms in his head and he finds his own hands shaking as he reaches to take the man—who by no means is a small person—in his arms to rush to their bedroom before his husband can so much as protest.
Regulus wriggles in James' arms and looks indignantly aghast once he is lowered on their made bed with urgency.
“James—"
“We need wet cloths, hydration, a fever reducer, do we even have any in the house—"
“But it's just a head cold." Regulus says warily, slowly reaching to peel back the heavy comforter James drops on him.
“Don't touch that!" James readjusts the covers, “We need to sweat out the fever. Do you have other symptoms?"
Regulus looks concerned for him but obliges, “Just a slight headache and fatigue, I guess my stomach is upset too—"
“When did it start?" James can't help running ten things in his mind concurrently. From recipes to solutions to worst case scenarios and most importantly a chewing guilt that he didn't notice something was amiss sooner.
“Only yesterday." Regulus says, “But I really do mean it, love. I'm fine—"
“Stay here and don't move."
James whirls and rushes to their bathroom in thunderous steps that nearly drown out Reggie's protests back in their room. He pants in the bathroom, pulling out drawers and checking their vanity for any spare potion vials they may have running around.
Regulus usually has a lot of foresight when things like these are involved. Really, anything but his own health and well-being.
Yesterday. It started yesterday and James did not notice? Did the fever start then too? Surely James would've been able to tell when they slept together last night.
Stupid, James keeps repeating the word over and over in his head as he shuffles in their bathroom drawers. Nothing. He does find a pepper-up but the vial is only half full. This will not do.
He clammers out of the bathroom and rushes towards the bedroom again where Regulus is silently sitting and presumably waiting for him to come back.
“I have to run to Diagon Alley. We don't have potions—" James tries not to sound out of breath, “Or maybe we should take you to the hospital or call your brother—"
“It's just and I cannot stress this enough, a simple head cold, James. For the love of—"
"Fever cloth in the meantime.” James muses and turns to rush out of the room again, wand in hand.
He's never nursed anyone to health before—though he did dabble in caretaking for Remus a few times—but he himself knows exactly how crummy being sick feels.
Even the mere thought that his husband has had to live with the inconvenience for two days now seems agonising to him.
He feels up a bowl with water, lashes his wand at a few kitchen rags to transfigure them into soft cloth and rushes back to the room, not even mindful of the water sloshing out of the bowl, onto their floor as he tries to hurry back.
Regulus is meticulously in the process of remaking their disturbed bed again and James clicks his tongue, “What are you doing? Get back in there!"
“I am not on my deathbed." Regulus rolls his eyes, “Are those for me?"
“Yes. We need cold compressions on your forehead and pits to get the fever down and—"
“I can just take a bath." Regulus suggests and James narrows his eyes at him.
“A bath? Do you want to die?"
“You are a drama queen—"
“Get that blanket, we're nesting on the couch if you don't want the bed."
Regulus opens his mouth to argue but then seems to think better of it and something about choosing one's battles. James hawkishly guides him towards their sitting room and makes a cot out of their displaced beddings, while Regulus stands to the side with an aura of disbelief emanating from him.
James is too panicked to care. He lowers Regulus on the cot and dunks a cloth into the water bowl. “Lie back down—"
“I want to read a book—"
“This is serious, Reggie." He pushes the man back down on the cot and gingerly wipes the feverish skin with the cloth. Regulus, for all his protests, sags in relief under the cool touch.
A soft hum. James feels like a bird is trapped in his fucking chest. What an incompetent husband he is, he thinks.
He thinks to charm the fever cloths to rotate and replace themselves while he quickly eases himself from the floor, “You just take a nap," He pecks the man's cheek. “I have to run, get potions or a healer or soup or something—"
Actually he feels entirely too unwilling to leave Regulus all by himself. Mostly because he knows the man has a severe disregard for his own care and may end up running himself to the ground in James'—however brief—absence.
So he does what any logical man does first. Fire-calls Remus and asks him to come over in a frenzy. He is quite lucky that Sirius is off to the Mechanic's with his bike or else he would've panicked alongside James like a headless chicken.
Remus arrives as calmly as Regulus would behave, with a sort of dry, yet humouring amusement.
“I'll be back soon," James pushes Remus and his stack of books towards the living room where Regulus is—pretending—to be taking a nap.
“Should I jot down any last words?" Remus cackles and James nearly jinxes the man with his wand.
“This is serious—”
"Not croaking yet,” Regulus interjects with his eyes still closed. "Hi, Remus.”
"Having a spa day?”
"Evidently.” Regulus snorts.
James glowers at Remus once the man settles on the couch and then figures that he doesn't have time for this. He really doesn't. Who knows how soon Reggie's condition will get worse?
“Take care of him or I'll make a fur coat out of you.” Is the only threatening thing he can come up with in his anxious fit. He hears both Remus and Regulus chuckling before he Apparates.
He takes on the bustling beast of an alley on a weekend like a man trying to fight a lion. In that he leaves all inhibitions to the wind; people that he knows, colleagues, friends, strangers, they're all trampled or pushed aside savagely by the desperate man.
His chest heaves with the need to be back home as fast as bloody possible and the condensed crowd is just not letting him! He has to push and shove his way past quite a few people and trample a few kids to make it to the apothecary in record time. Which is to say about five minutes.
But of course, there is a damn line in the store itself. James digs his way past the protesting crowd in a hurry and slams his hands on the clerk's counter. The potion master's mouth falls open, “Sir—"
“I need fever reducers and anything else that might help with a head cold and an upset stomach—"
“There's a queue, sir. You need to get back in line."
And then he hears other voices complaining and yelling the same thing, “Get in line!"
“Line starts back here, mate!"
“Listen—" James leans over the counter, “My husband is sick and I'll pay you double. He's a colleague of yours so—"
The potion master heaves a great sigh and pinches the tip of his nose, “Fever reducers you said?"
“Yeah. Anything else you have that might—"
The clerk posits six vials on the counter before James can even finish and holds out a palm, “That'll be ten Galleons."
Right. Relieved, James reaches for his pocket only to realise, he's wearing his house clothes. Without his wallet or pouch of money. He pats his sleep trousers sheepishly and then curses in his head, “I…forgot my money.”
The clerk raises an unimpressed brow and the customers behind James revolt again. James makes a face but the clerk remains unmoved.
"Ten Galleons, sir.”
“Can’t I just take these and pay later—"
And he's out of the store and stomping his way to Gringotts with a curled mouth. Fucking potion masters. He knew that he hated them for a reason.
What has happened to trust? To basic empathy? To community?
The Goblins give him the same look as the clerk once he breaks out of line and drops into a booth. “I need access to my vault and it's an emergency—"
“Vault key?"
James wants to cry. He squirms on the leather seat and cringes at the sound it makes. “I kind of—listen I have my wand, that should be enough."
“Sir, either you provide a vault key or we are done with this…” the Goblin pauses, "Impromptu appointment.”
"I know Grodbik, is he around? He can confirm I'm James Potter. My husband is sick and—”
The Goblins are at least more cordial when they escort him off the premises of the building. James stands in the busy street, filled to the brim with a sense of bleak helplessness.
When it comes to going above and beyond, to helping others, to making life better instantaneously, he is the guy. The man.
But for some reason when it comes to Regulus, he loses his head and nerve to such an extent that he feels like a fumbling fool and never gets anything done.
He kicks the cobblestones in his home slippers and curses himself again. He tugs at his hair and genuinely considers busking in the street for money and wonders whether that would take less time than going back to the house to fetch his wallet and…clothes.
He anticipates the reactions he'll receive to range from a dimmed realistic disappointment, and a highly unrealistic contempt.
Regulus would laugh it off surely, and insist he's fine. But James thinks that the man may wonder, deep down in his heart, whether James just didn't put in enough effort.
His husband is sick at home with a fever and here James is, fumbling like a buffoon with no money.
He looks down at his wand and sighs and then runs to Ollivanders with desperation pumping in his blood.
Thankfully, and by sheer miracle the store is empty of customers. The old man is perched on his stool and perks up when he sees James' haggard face.
“Can I help you?"
“I need to sell my wand." James slams his wand on the tabletop, “I bought it from you. It's good quality—"
“Unicorn hair core, oak wood…Ah, Mister Potter!"
“Right right. Money. Now."
The old man weighs the wand in his hands thoughtfully, looking between him and the weapon. “Are you quite sure, sir? This is the perfect wand for you—"
“I'll buy it back in a few hours. I just need money. Please for the love of Merlin himself give me money—”
Ollivanders gives him thirty Galleons for the wand, and James can't decide whether the old man gave him too much or too little in exchange for the wand. He can't care. He tears his way out of the shop and runs all the way to the apothecary again.
The door slams back and the bells chime violently. The clerk groans and hangs his head, as do a few customers in the line.
"Sir—”
"I have it! Give me my husband's medicine, you urchin!”
He drops the coins on the counter and then takes a deep breath. He flashes the clerk a toothy smile, his chest still heaves with the lack of air. “I'm sorry. You're not an urchin. You actually look quite dashing for your age of…I wanna say thirty—”
"Just leave.” The clerk shoves a bundle into his arms, "I am begging you.”
James needs no further prompting. He dashes out of the apothecary and runs to the Leaky Cauldron and prays that they have any meals left in terms of soup and healing liquids. He considers dropping by the hospital to fetch a healer as well, but then figures that bringing Reggie via the floo would be easier.
“Tom—" he gasps, hanging onto the wooden benches by the bar. “Tell me you have soup."
He cannot fathom walking into Muggle London looking for soup like this. Regulus needs him now. He's already too late.
The innkeeper throws him a worried glance and then stutters, “Uh…what?”
"Soup! I'll take soup. Any soup! My husband is sick—”
And he doesn't think he'll have enough time to make him anything at home. Or maybe he's just too panicked out of his mind to think rationally about this. He doesn't care.
Tom throws him a longer look and then nods slowly, "Alright, mate. Soup. We've got leeks and—”
"I want a tub.”
"A tub?”
James slams the remaining money on the bar. "The tub.”
Tom kindly sends him off with a muggle container full of the magic liquid. James wishes he could say he doesn't waste any time when returning back home. But that's a lie. He has to use the fireplace in the inn to floo back home. And by then, he knows an hour has already passed.
Their house is quiet once he steps out of the fireplace. He quickly deposits the goods on their kitchen table and rushes out to the living room. Regulus and Remus's heads snap up to him from the couch.
Regulus has a mug of steaming tea in one hand and a book in another. Remus is sitting with his hands clasped with an entertained grin on his face.
"How was your quest?”
James rushes to kneel in front of Regulus and cup the man's slightly cooler face in his hands. "Are you okay? Are you better—”
"He threw up.”
James's heart drops, "You threw up!?”
They need to get him to the hospital. St. Mungo's. If James can carry him through the floo and get his wallet this time—
Regulus lowers his mug to smile at him, “I did throw up."
James' throat closes up, and he turns to Remus, “Why is he sitting here!? You should've called Sirius and taken him to the hospital immediately—"
“He did help." Regulus interrupts him. With the same soft smile.
“We need to get you to the hospital—"
“I'll put the kettle on." Remus says mildly and pushes himself off the seat. James looks back at Reggie confused and aching.
“I got you soup, and potions.”
"I love you.” Regulus leans forward. James feels the man's soft lips on his clammy forehead. "You are utterly ridiculous but I love you. How did you even buy those you left your wallet at home—”
"Reggie—”
"Remus and I had a talk.” Regulus continues in the same hushed, soft croon. "I had him drop by the Muggle drugstore for a stitch.”
"He got you Muggle medicine?”
Regulus purses his lips and Remus can be heard, laughing loudly in the kitchen as he bangs their cabinets like he's looking for their nice china.
"Of sorts.” Regulus flushes. The fever must be getting worse. James clicks his tongue and pushes himself off the ground.
"Okay that's not proper medicine though, we need to have you checked by a healer. Did you know fevers are indicators of infection?? So—"
“An infection!" Remus gasps, laughing maniacally in the other room. James turns, angry and confused by the reaction.
Regulus grabs his hands. "I don't think it's going anywhere for a long time.”
"What do you mean?”
Regulus's face turns a dark shade of beet root red. He clasps James’ hands more tightly and takes a deep breath.
“I mean…” he takes another breath, "How do you feel about baby carrots?”
"Huh?”
James' mind draws a blank.
Regulus hangs his head and purses his lips again, "Or um…gosh I just forgot every metaphor out there—"
“Bun in an oven!" Remus shouts unhelpfully from the kitchen. And Regulus smacks his forehead.
James stands with his mouth hanging open, “What are you talking about?"
“Well, James." He huffs, “There is no better way to say it. So I might as well." Regulus rolls his eyes at himself and even still he can't help the stubborn tugging of his lips into a bashful smile.
“We're kinda maybe about to have a kid. Actually almost certainly—”
“Huh!?"
“Well with all the fun we've been having recently and the honeymoon—"
“Did you just say…"
“Baby. Maybe. Actually. Yes. Maybe we should go to the hospital." Regulus snorts and leans in to kiss him on the cheek again, “That is if you haven't burned down half the Alley—"
“Baby—"
“Quite possibly—"
“A baby!?"
Regulus laughs, looping his arms around James' neck, "Yes. A baby. Merlin I can't believe you went through this whole thing and you didn't even know I was pregnant—"
“You're—"
“You're about to be a wonderful father." Regulus clears his throat and then straightens his shoulders. “Right. Enough of that sap. Shall we drop a visit at the hospital then?"
Regulus leads him back to the kitchen, dumbfounded and stuttering.
The day James Potter learns that there are many things yet to learn when it comes to being a fantastic, model husband and Father.