Chapter Text
Since getting married, James finds he thrives on domesticity.
Where he used to crave excitement, and change, and spontaneity, he now cherishes the familiarity of married life.
Every weekday, James wakes to his wife rising out of bed at exactly six thirty three am.
The dip in the bed as she stands always pulls him easily out of sleep. The warmth of her slipping from his arms. He watches through bleary eyes as Lily pads across to their en suite. The bathroom has been under refurbishment for the entire sixth months they’ve lived there, and James sleepily promises to finish the tiling today, just as he has done everyday, when Lily pokes her head back out of the door to ask him, toothbrush hanging from her lips.
James slowly wakes to the sounds of her moving through her morning routine.
He is reasonably compos-mentis as Lily exits the bathroom, but slips on his glasses just in time to watch her fasten the clasp of her bra, and button her blouse across her chest.
He sits up to zip her pencil skirt for her. The highest honour of husband privileges. One which leads to him bending his head forward and pressing a delicate kiss to the small of her freckled back. Skin warm and still smelling of sleep, and of him, and of their love that would transcend forever.
They share a smile as Lily runs her hands through his unruly hair and James melts under his wife’s touch. He waits for her to pull back first before rolling to lie on his stomach, burying his nose against the spot his wife has been sleeping in all night.
He pushes himself up onto his elbows as she collects her phone, her bag and kisses his head. And James cranes his head to the side as she leaves, making sure to properly admire her because, damn, that woman’s arse is to die for.
He times his wife’s movements downstairs.
The creaking of each stairs. The sound of the fridge door opening and closing. Lily always pre packs her lunch the night before so there isn’t a rush. A moment’s quiet tells him she’s drinking a glass of water, and James closes his eyes to imagine her throat tilted back. Her long hair draped lower, dusting the zip of her skirt.
A jangle of keys. Lily calls up the stairs and James can’t help but smile.
“I love you” she says.
“I love you too.” James replies.
“You going to finish that bathroom today?” She asks, and James grins into the pillow, always answering the same.
“Will do.”
James only ever rises from bed when he hears the door click shut. Then he throws the covers back and bounds across the room to peer out of the bedroom window like a well pampered housecat.
He smiles down as Lily exits onto the street below. She lifts the handle to click the door into place, not relocking it now James is awake, and looks up, smiling at the window. At James.
James blows his wife a kiss, and Lily rolls her eyes affectionately but ‘catches’ it nonetheless. Pocketing it, Lily turns, crosses the street in front of the number eighteen bus, and disappears to face her day at work.
James then finds himself pottering about.
Shitting first, coffee second; sweet, two sugars. A bowl of off brand honey hoops, he eats over the sink before logging onto his laptop and signing into his work portal, ready for the morning corporate meeting about marketing or email analytics or something equally as dull.
The two men seem nice, but James isn’t entirely sure why they’re in his living room.
One was tall and gangly, dressed like a badly stereotyped history teacher and stinking like cigarette smoke. He thumbs through a booklet.
The other, shorter, stockier, far louder. He has wild blue eyes and wilder hair, and has stomped all around the living room with obscenely large, skull crushing boots. James’ mother has always taught him to take his shoes off at the front door and James wants to tell the man to do the same, but supposes that isn’t the way with contractors so goes to make them a cup of tea instead.
“It’s a little small.” He hears the shorter one say from his spot by the kitchen sink. The taller one hums in reply.
“The upstairs bathroom needs sorting too.”
“Yeah. But we can get someone in.”
Lily doesn’t come home.
James has sat waiting by the bedroom window until it’s gotten dark. The number eighteen bus has come and gone again twice over and Lily has never gotten off any of them. James tries not to worry, but it appears an impossible task. He ought to phone her, he thinks, but he can’t quite remember where he’s left his mobile.
James heads back upstairs to check the bedroom for his phone again. The sun is high again, but James thought it was nearly dinner. Time has passed but he isn’t sure how much or why Lily still isn’t home.
He could have sworn he left his phone on the bedside table that morning. Or was it yesterday? The bed is bare, covers stripped back and empty, not that he remembers putting a wash on. He curses. If his phone’s in the washing machine alongside the sheets Lily really would kill him when she got home. He’s cracked the screen of that phone three times and they’re scraping by as it is.
His head turns at the sound of keys jingling in the door.
“Lils?” He shouts down out of the bedroom door, giving the bed a final once over just in case (thanks to some miracle) his phone has fallen to the floor, or behind a pillow, or under the bed when he stripped it. But there’s nothing. Not even a rogue sock. It’s barren.
There’s no reply from his wife, so James heads to the upstairs landing, peering over the banisters.
“Lily? Is that you?” He calls again, but frowns at the sound of male voices. Are those contractors back? What time is it? He can’t quite remember what they were even here to do, never mind why they might be back.
James slinks back into the shadows, away from the flooding hallway light. He looks around the landing for something he could use as a weapon, in case it’s actually a group of intruders that don’t know they should be stealthy when trying to rob, but there’s nothing to use. The lamp that normally sat on their small side table in the corner isn’t there but James can’t remember if perhaps he’s taken it to the shed to change the lightbulb, or maybe Lily decided she didn’t like the design. Did they return it?
The front door pushes fully open, and the same pair of obscenely large boots stomp through from the outside. The man tosses his wet hair over his shoulder with a single flick and huffs at the weight of the box in his arms. It must be raining.
“Leave it, Moony. I’ll bring it all in.” He calls impatiently behind him, stumbling quickly into the living room before darting back out for another box. He returns the second time with ‘Moony’, who only carries a couple of small cushions tucked under one arm, the other gripping a crutch.
“I told you to leave it all.” The Hair huffs out.
“And watch you do all the heavy lifting? I can hardly do that.” Moony replies but is promptly intercepted.
“You can and you will.” The Hair says as he steps close, snagging the two cushions and pauses. His grin flashes brighter than the bulb above them, and James feel his face pull into a frown because it isn’t at all usual for burglars to bring additional items into their targeted homes. Or perhaps these cushions were James and Lily’s. They had seemingly already nicked off with the lamp.
“Welcome home, Remus.” The Hair below whispers, raising a hand to Remus’ cheek and tugging the taller one down until their lips touch. They connect, the pillows promptly drop to the hallway floor with a soft flump and James feels a strange tugging somewhere deep in his chest.
Remus kissed back. Slow and soft and loving and the ache gets worse but before he can speak, Remus decides they’ve waited long enough and is pulling away, an expression of deep contentment on his face.
“Sirius, love, the boot’s still open.” He says, amusement like wind chimes on his voice and promptly breaking whatever spell that’s being cast between them. “And,” He adds, “it’s still raining.”
“Shit! Crap! Let me get the rest of the stuff in.” Sirius panics, dumping the boxes in his arms. “Then we’re absolutely breaking this house in. Good and proper.” Sirius winks playfully before he’s out the door again, rushing out into the rain with a steady clunk clunk clunk of his boots.
It’s Remus that James meets first.
He had every intention in confronting the two men that first night, but he hasn’t seen them since, until now.
Evidence of them has turned up, however.
Two new pairs of shoes where Lily’s and his should have been. A throw to join the cushions on the sofa. Coats, one long and brown, the other leather. Pictures appear on the walls that James once painted and definitely didn’t remember hanging these ones. And all in all, it’s really starting to piss him off actually.
It’s the mugs that does it, though. Those damn stupid mugs that break him as he’s heading into the kitchen that morning for his mid-morning coffee. He doesn’t remember if he’s taken his shit already, and Lily hasn’t been home for days. Honestly, James doesn’t even remember waking up, or going to bed, or what he had for dinner except he’s not hungry and he’s getting quite concerned, which is why the coffee is all the more important.
Lily’s oldest friend Mary bought their mugs as a matching set of corny wedding gifts. You & Me the cup said. You & Me forever, they implied.
“Am I ‘me’ or am I ‘you’?” James had called up the stairs each evening. It was the same every day, except for the last few. Lily was always the one to put the kettle on as she washed the dinner dishes. James always cooks, Lily washes the dishes. Lily always left the tea bags to brew as she slipped off upstairs to change into her pyjamas. Her laughter had tinkled down, sounding like music with James hanging off the end banister, smiling up at the sound.
“You’re ‘you’. I made them, so I’m ‘me’.” She called back, unable to stomach the heaped teaspoon of sugar James always adds to his tea. “Can you finish them off? I’ll be down now.”
You & Me are gone and instead some shitty chipped Metallica cup stares back at him. The other has a faded graphic of the periodic table. And James promptly loses it. Really, there’s only so much messing about a man can take in his own house before he brakes, and James thinks he’s done pretty well to get this far.
He doesn’t quite feel himself, though, as he reaches for the ratty Metallica cup and throws it full force at the wall. It shatters, because of course it does, porcelain and plasterboard aren’t notorious for getting along, and James decides that made him feel a little better so shards of the periodic table promptly join it.
They’ve left him no choice, really. This is all bullshit and James is pretty sure he’s never been angrier than he is right now. Especially as it isn’t Lily’s concerned calls that James gets, or her hands on his shoulders easing the tension from them. It’s a man.
It’s a man with a crutch and wide, scared eyes.
Remus.
Who stares first at the shattered mug.
Then at the entire kitchen, where each cabinet door has suddenly been flung wide.
Then at James, who is glaring in desperate confusion and pain at the stranger invading his world.
“Who-” Remus starts, but James has had enough.
“Get out!” He shouts, voice pulling with the effort and the lack of use.
“Get out of my house!”
Sirius pushes the front door open, huffing as it jams against the warping wood of the frame, and then again on Remus’ shoes. He mutters something under his breath, cursing their estate agent with a lifetime of warm pillows, and shoves it with all his might back into place. Dropping his work bag in a heap, Sirius notes the sound of his husband’s voice. Initially, Sirius assumes Remus is on just the phone. He’s been meaning to facetime his mother, show her around the place, though Sirius would have hoped it could have waited until they were a little more settled.
Except… There's another voice that answers him, one without the usual electronic ring that comes from his mobile.
Sirius rounds the corner, his head poking into the living room to see Remus there, sitting neatly on the sofa beside… another man.
“Hi.” Remus says, his smile tight as he meets Sirius’ eyes. Something’s up. Sirius isn’t a detective, but he doesn’t need to be one to realise that something is undoubtedly and definitely up.
“Hi.” He replies like the word is a question,, eyebrows pulling as his attention flickers to the new man. He and Remus can communicate a lot with their eyes, it’s one of Sirius’ favourite things about his husband. Running on that same wave length. Except for now, when Sirius’ eyes say:
I thought we were keeping a low profile?
And Remus’ say:
We are. This isn’t what you think.
And Sirius replies:
What the hell does that mean? I don’t want to meet the neighbours. I told you I don’t want to meet the neighbours. Who the fuckity fuck is this?
“Sirius, this is James.” Remus says out loud, his hand politely pulling from the undecorated mug in his hand (they never use those mugs, strike two for something being up) to indicate to the man beside him, where James cracks a smile.
Okay, and? What’s he doing inside my house, Sirius’ next look says, but his mouth offers a polite smile.
“Hi James.” Sirius replies.
“Hi.” James’ voice is bright and cheerful and blissfully unaware of the silent conversation going on around him.
“James is a ghost, darling.” Remus says with interest and just enough threat to instill a fear in Sirius far greater than any ghost could. His eyes bounce back from James to his husband, who is smiling tightly again, his eyes boring into Sirius' soul.
You bought me a fucking haunted house, Remus’ expression screams. He’s pissed and it makes Sirius’ quake.
How was I supposed to know it was bloody haunted? Sirius’ eyes reply, automatically defensive.
We were supposed to be getting away from this shit and yet! You! Bought! Me! A Haunted! House!
Sirius wants to say and how is this my fault? But instead he makes a noise of false ease.
“Ah. I see.”
James shuffles, pulling his feet up onto the couch and tucking them under him, innocently. He has a mug of tea on the coffee table too but it’s been left untouched, evidence of Remus’ polite nature. Brewing a cuppa for a spirit, Sirius expects nothing less really.
“I’m sensing a little bit of tension here.” James says insightfully. Oh, so he caught that then. His hands are lying politely in his lap as the ghost's eyes flicker between the pair of them. Remus swallows subtly before slowly turning his very forced smile back to James.
“No, no,” he tries to defuse. “We’re just… surprised is all. It’s not exactly the greatest time for us to, you know, be haunted.” It feels like a diplomatic answer for it all. Sorry, bad timing, could we reschedule for next week?
“I mean, being dead right now isn’t exactly the greatest timing for me either.” James points out, and Remus’ head bob says touché.
Sirius flops onto the chair opposite.
“This might sound a bit insensitive," Sirius doesn’t look at Remus as his husband's eyes start saying whatever it is you’re about to say, how about you don't. Sirius does anyway. “But… how do we actually know you’re a ghost? I just mean, you look pretty alive to me.” Remus narrows his eyes and Sirius raises both hands in defence. “What? I’m just saying. He’s got a healthy glow about him. He’s looking pretty solid. He’s sat in the couch for Christ sake. All the ghosts I’ve ever met before have been right morose bastards. All wispy and hardly there at all.” James doesn’t ask about the other ghosts bit. He’s not sure he even really wants to know. This is all a lot. Made more because Remus is glaring daggers again.
“Oh yes. Because I regularly just meet people off the street, invite them into our house assuming they’re dead.”
“I’m just checking, Moons. It’s getting to that time of the month and I know the pain-”
“Don’t you bloody dare, Sirius Black. This has nothing to do with that.” Remus cuts him off. “Give the air a whiff, huh?” Sirius does. “Does he smell alive?” Sirius shrugs.
“He doesn’t smell of anything-”
“Exactly!” Remus is wafting his hand animatedly once more. “He doesn’t smell of anything.”
“At least I don’t smell bad. I could smell bad. Or would smelling bad make me, like, a zombie?” James points out, offering the pair a lopsided grin because he’s always been a cup half full kind of guy. He gets their attention for about forty five femtoseconds before they’re right back at each other’s throats.
“I’m just not sure him not having a smell automatically means he’s some kind of poltergeist, Remus. There’s loads of explanations to why-”
“Would you mind showing him? I know it’s probably quite a private subject and you’ve had a busy day, but it might shut him up.” Remus asks James politely. There’s a pause between all of them as Sirius looks between Remus and James, and James looks between Sirius and Remus and Remus just looks expectantly at James, until he yields and turns around.
The back of his head gives Sirius a visceral reaction. Remus rolls his eyes.
“Really?” He says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“What? That’s fucking nasty.” Sirius defends himself, as he takes another peak.
There’s a bloody hole right in the base of James’ head, the hair around the wound forever dampened a deep red. It’s gory and hacks right into the brain stem, undeniably not the wound of a living person, Sirius could comprehend that much. No one normal and usual would be sitting upright, nursing a cup of tea with a chunk of their head missing like that, but James turns around easily, his fingertips moving up to brush at the back of his head, fiddling with it.
Sirius squirms.
“Don’t touch it! Christ, it’s wet!” He practically squeaks, eyes averting, much to his husband’s irritation.
“I swear to God,” Remus mutters, moving to place his empty tea mug down heavily on the coffee table. “Never in my life have I met a squeamish vampire. You know it’s ridiculous, right? You’re being ridiculous.” Like he has to establish to Sirius quite how idiotic he was being.
Sirius shakes his head, risking a peak and only relaxing when he sees James has turned back around. “Look, I can’t help it. That’s different anyway… it’s, you know, controlled. This is…not controlled. In the slightest. It’s…gloopy. And wet. And gross. How did it happen?”
James lets out a small sigh, though suspects he doesn’t need to keep up the illusion of breathing any longer.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“He doesn’t remember.” Remus says helpfully, as if they’ve already been through all of this.
“I mean, I only just found out I was dead.” James points out, his expression pulling into a deep frown. “But I guess I fell or something. Changing a lightbulb, maybe? Slipped down the stairs? My wife, Lily, she should be home soon from work. She should know. We can ask her.” James says, attention caught by the soft sigh Remus gives next to him. The man’s hand comes to his knee, but slides straight through it into the couch below before being retracted awkwardly.
“James,” Remus starts softly.
Sirius jumps in instead.
“Your wife hasn’t lived here for over a year, mate. She sold the house and moved.” He says. James’ head snaps across to him. The man’s eyes are blown wide in shocked question. The break is obvious. Like a shattering glass, cracking. Or porcelain on plasterboard.
Over a year?
But it was only yesterday. Or had it been today? That morning. Yesterday night. She left… she left… James doesn’t know when.
Sirius clears his throat, very much catching on the barrel of emotions rising like flood water through the man in front of him.
“The house has been on the market for six months. Rem and I have lived here for nearly two. Where've you been?” He askes carefully, voice soft.
Over a year.
James has been dead for over a year.
Where's he been?
He’s been alone.