Archive of Our Own ^beta

The traffic light shifts to a vibrant green, and the queue of cars begins to inch forward. Just as James prepares to release the clutch, someone yanks open the back  door and slides into the seat.

Just like that. Just… takes a seat. In James’s car.

"Drive, you're holding up the line," the man urges, fastening his seatbelt, like this is— normal. James gawks at him, mouth agape, while the cacophony of horns blares in the background.

“Drive?”

The man makes a frustrated sound.

“Drive, please.”

The light flickers back to red, and James hasn’t moved. His eyes are locked on the rearview mirror, taking in the stranger in his car. The man is made out of curly brown hair and panicked eyes that dart around nervously. He doesn’t look like someone who’s about to hijack a car. And yet.

“I’m not a taxi?” James says, because that’s all he can think of saying at the moment.

“Not, but you’re about to save my life, so please go. Go, go, go.”

The thing is, James is a genuinely nice person. He can recognize urgency when it's staring him in the face, and it most certainly is, with this impeccably dressed stranger in his backseat. James rolls over the curb and slams the pedal to the metal.

“Hey, that’s illegal—”

“Do you want me to go, or do you want me to wait for the light to turn green?”

The man falls silent, which is good enough for James.

The man doesn’t really need to say anything else. In all honesty, he looks a little out of it. Like he’s out. Out, out.

James makes a sharp left, then a right. Somehow, he finds himself on the interstate. This isn't the direction he intended to take, but then again, this day wasn't exactly going in the direction he expected either.

In the backseat, the man hunches over, head buried in his hands. James assumes he's in the midst of a crisis and opts not to interrupt. So, he's caught off guard when the man abruptly lifts his head, eyes wide with panic, and gasps, "I left the wedding.”

That piques James's interest. James loves weddings.

"Whose wedding?" he asks.

"Mine."

James chokes on air. "Yours. As in, you're the groom?"

"Used to be."

"Okay—Why did you escape your own wedding?"

"Leave. I don't escape places. And why does one leave a wedding?" The man tugs at his hair, as if he's struggling to remain composed while simultaneously falling apart. 

"How would I know?" James asks, defensively.

"Obviously, I didn't want to get married."

"Why did you propose, then?" James asks.

"I didn't," the man states flatly.

James continues driving, his brow furrowing in confusion. "She did?"

"What?"

"Propose?" James clarifies.

"What?"

"What?"

"What are you even suggesting? In what world do people propose to people they don't love?" the man asks, clearly confused.

"I don't know, in what world do people flee their own weddings?" James shoots back. The man opens his mouth, then closes it. He drags a hand across his face but remains silent, which James interprets as an invitation to suggest their next move. "So, where am I dropping you off?”

The man glances up. "Um, anywhere will do." He pauses, then adds, "A train station, maybe. An airport?"

As the man speaks, James studies him in the rearview mirror.

“Ah, you had no specific post-escape plan, did you?”

The man emits a short, strained laugh. "I was actually fully planning on going through with it," he admits, then erupts into laughter. It’s not a healthy laugh. If James had to pinpoint it, it would land right between relieved and frightened.

And James— takes matters into his own hands. He doesn’t think the man is in any state to make decisions right now.

“Waffles or alcohol?”

“What?”

"Well, you hijacked my car, and I successfully helped you escape a situation you clearly weren't prepared for. So, either we're having waffles smothered in maple syrup, or we're downing a lot of alcohol. Your pick. You don't seem like—”

“Both.”

James’s reality rearranges around this. Very quickly. Because, really, there isn’t a world where James doesn’t ever want both.

"Great. Yep. We can do both.” They both fall silent, decision seemingly made. James steals another glance in the rearview mirror, and the man is still fidgeting in the backseat.

After a moment, the man looks up at James curiously and asks, “Are you from around here?”

"Um. No. I'm sort of meeting my best friend’s boyfriend for the first time, but they had a prior family commitment today, so I thought I'd enjoy the day and explore the town a bit, help a complete stranger escape his wedding, you know, the usual.”

“You’re honestly taking this a lot better than I thought you might.”

“I adapt pretty quickly.”

“Ah.” The man points to himself. “Clearly, a skill I thought I had, but turns out…” He lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air, as James doesn't need to hear the rest.

“Cold feet happens to everyone.”

“Ah, not cold feet,” the man says awkwardly, and James’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh?”

“Maybe— after some wine?”

James scoffs. “Wine? You just staged a dramatic exit from your own wedding, and you want wine?”

“Yes?”

“We’re going for stronger stuff.”

“We are?”

“Yes.”

“Um, I don’t know about that.”

"Is that a tender palate issue, or an 'I'm in a car with a total stranger who might murder me' kind of 'I don't know'?" James asks, and the man takes a moment to reply.

“I don’t— was that an insult? A threat? I can’t actually tell. It feels like it might be both?” the man asks, and James lets out a genuine laugh.

“Neither, really? It’s just,” he adjusts the rearview mirror again and takes a longer look at the man slouched on his backseat. “You look very expensive.”

The man visibly stiffens, and James tries to backpedal. "Not in a creepy way, it's just— you— well, you look expensive. The suit, the hair, the face. You look like you could be a prince, or the son of— oh shit. Oh shit, you are, aren't you?" James gasps, because he's right. The man's expression twists with each of James's words, and James wants to stop the car, put it in reverse, and return the expensive man to wherever he came from.

“It’s all right,” the man says, and James struggles to believe it.

“Is it really?”

The man’s lips twist. “Can we, ah, pretend that it is?”

That doesn't reassure James at all. Quite the opposite, really. So James makes a bold, illegal maneuver and pulls the car over onto the shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Panic tinges the man's voice, and James can't tell if it's from fear of James himself or fear of what he just did with the car. After all, the man doesn’t know James at all. James doesn’t know the man at all. This all feels like a strange gamble. James could be hiding a gun in the center console. The man could have a knife on his person. Someone could die.

It’s unlikely. But this is America. Stranger things have happened.

He turns around, bringing his shoulder back to drape his arm over the headrest.

“Ok, so. We’re going to introduce ourselves, and you’re going to promise me that the police aren't going to start chasing me. This is a rental car. I have the lowest possible  insurance policy. I don’t need gunshots in the windows.”

"They won't dare shoot if they know I'm in the vehicle," the man replies grudgingly, and it doesn't reassure James one bit.

"Look, I'm a nice guy, I am, but you're going to need to tell me who you are, or I'm turning the car around.”

And suddenly, the man is very serious.

“You turn around, and I swear I’m opening the back door and jumping out on the highway.”

James opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He tries again. “You—” He stops. Shakes his head. Decides to ignore the entire thing. “I’m James Potter,” he offers instead, because at this point, what else is he supposed to say?

The man hesitates. Then just— lies. Straight to James’s face.

“R— Rab.”

James doesn’t know how he knows. All he knows is that Rab’s name isn’t Rab.

“Are you sure?” James prods. “You don’t sound sure.”

Rab nods, once. “I’m sure.”

James bites the inside of his lip. “Do you have a last name, Rab?”

“I do.”

James raises his eyebrows encouragingly. “And it is…?”

“Not for you to know. I don’t really want to tell a stranger my situation,” Rab says, and James laughs. He laughs, and then he isn’t laughing anymore, because Rab is serious.

He stares are Rab, caught between offended and confused. “I just—”

“It’s dangerous, telling strangers personal information,” Rab states, and James-I-just-gave-my-last-name-to-a-stranger-who-hijacked-my-car Potter has to blink. Reset. Because, what the fuck?

And then, James just— rolls with the punches. He’s quite good at that.

“You know what, I’m gonna just— skip over this,” he says, turning back in his seat. He settles, getting ready to merge again, but glares at Rab from the rearview mirror for good measure. “But it’s fucked up.”

Rab shrugs, unbothered. “You offered the information.”

"I thought we'd bonded over the whole narrowly escaping your wedding—”

“Please stop saying that word.”

“What would you prefer, ‘nuptials’?”

“You’re making it worse.”

“You hijacked my car,” James shoots back. “If anyone is making anyone’s life worse, it’s you.”

Rab's expression turns quizzical. "Insulting me in my time of need?”

“What you need, clearly, is a better wife. Maybe then you wouldn’t have fled.”

Rab’s hand goes to clutch at his chest, as if wounded. “Left,” Rab corrects automatically. “And ouch. Low blow.”

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you won’t tell me who you are, and we are going to establish some ground rules,” James states, pulling back onto traffic.

“Ground rules?”

"Yes, ground rules. First, you're going to promise me that there will be no police chase, no international incident, no crazy bride, and no one with guns coming after us."

Rab nods hesitantly. "I can't promise that with absolute certainty, but I'll do my best."

“So, we’ll-call-you-Rab-even-though-it-definitely-isn’t-your-name, what are the odds of me being snipered into my waffle if we get a table by a window?” James asks, and Rab takes a moment to consider James’s question.

“Probably zero?”

“Ok, your lack of confidence leads me to believe we should get a hidden booth.”

Rab shrugs, unbothered. “I mean, this is America. The odds are never at a full zero.”

James settles back into his seat, flicking on his blinker to pull into the parking lot. “Fair point.” He sneaks a look in the rearview. “Not from America then?”

“Pretty integrated into the culture, but not originally, no.”

“Oh? You sound American.”

“I do, because, as I mentioned,” Rab points to himself, “pretty integrated.”

“Right.”

James pulls into the first empty parking space he sees. First stop: waffles.

“No,” is the immediate answer from the backseat.

James throws a look over his shoulder. “Yes.”

Rab actually recoils. “Not the Beaver Chain,” he whispers, and James lifts a confused eyebrow.

“It’s called Cracker Barrel, and we are absolutely going in there. One, because the waffles are delicious, and two, because from your reaction, this is likely the last place anyone will come looking for you.”

Rab makes a show of crossing his arms over his chest petulantly. His fancy suit is becoming quite rumpled from all his fidgeting in the backseat. “I’m not stepping foot in there. On principle.”

James shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and exits the vehicle, heading towards the double doors.

He tries to stifle the grin that forms on his lips.

Three.

Two.

“Wait!”

Ah.

James simply loves being right.

“This is vile,” Rab comments, gesturing to his plate.

“Then stop eating it.”

“No.”

James smiles wide. This is not really the day James had planned on having. If he’s honest, this might actually be better. This is— unusual? Fun? Surprising?

He can’t really believe that he’s here, in a run-down diner in the middle of nowhere, having food with a complete stranger in a tailored suit.

“So, ‘Rab’,” James begins, leaning back in his chair.

“James Potter,” Rab says through a mouth full of waffles.

“Am I going to get the juicy details of your escape, or?”

“Or?” Rab prompts, and James has to hide a smile in his grits, before deciding to call Rab’s bluff.

“Or I can call the national news and explain that a politician?” he stops, eyeing Rab, who just shakes his head, “Prince?” Another shake. “—Important man fled the dreadful scene of his wedding and is currently eating waffles in a Cracker Barrel.”

“I feel betrayed,” Rab says, taking another bite of his waffle. He’s not eating in a very dignified manner, but James assumes, from the expensive suit and all, that Rab doesn’t get many opportunities to be undignified. James knows that it’s nice, sometimes, to just— be. So, James lets him. Also, the contrast of Rab’s fancy everything in this dingy restaurant is breathing life back into James. James loves contrasts.

“At least you know the full name of your kidnapper,” James quips.

“You know mine, too.”

James gives him a look. “Do I?”

Rab shrugs. “Sure.”

“You are… a terrible liar.”

“Do you want some mediocre waffles?” Rab asks instead, and James shakes his head, taking a sip of coffee instead.

“I’d rather have a story.”

For a moment, they sit in comfortable silence, the only sound the clinking of silverware against plates and the distant hum of traffic outside. And then, Rab opens his mouth.

“I have, uh, a problem with boundaries.” James nods, face blank, feigning carelessness, letting Rab continue at his pace. Not the start James was expecting, but hey, what does he know? Rab continues, “It's not that I don’t have any; it's just that they get blurry when it comes to my family. Does that ever happen to you?”

“I think it happens to everyone, honestly,” James says. “The level of blur just depends on the type of family.”

“Right, well.” Rab takes another bite of his waffle, chewing carefully while looking at everything but James’s face. “If most people’s family expectations are at a five out of ten, mine are at about fifteen. There's no room for spur-of-the-moment decisions in my family. You’re in, and you obey, and everything is fine. If you don’t… well.”

James crosses his arms on top of the table. “Well what?”

Rab just shrugs. “I’m pretty fucked, honestly.”

The noise that escapes James’s throat seems to surprise Rab, who arches an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” James says, “I just didn’t think a dude dressed like you was even capable of swearing. It’s very concerning.”

“Concerning?”

“Dichotomous.”

“I don’t think dichotomous is a word?” Rab comments, and James arches his own eyebrow.

“This is America. We create words all the time.”

“America does a lot of things it shouldn’t.”

“You know, if you don’t like it here, you could go back to wherever you came from.”

“France? Ew, never.”

James opens his mouth to reply before the words seem to register in his mind. “Wait, you’re French?”

Rab raises his fork, and maple syrup drips off the waffle and onto the wooden table. “Born and raised.”

“But you speak English.”

“Astute observation.”

James rolls his eyes. "Don't be a smartass. I meant— you speak English without an accent."

Rab smirks, taking another bite of his now-soggy waffle. Someone would need to pay James a lot of money to eat that sugary mess. Rab put about twenty tablespoons of syrup on his waffles. It’s disgusting. "I went to an international school," he offers, like that’s all the explanation needed. Which it isn’t. James tried to learn Spanish for years. Years. He’s still terrible at it. One shouldn’t just ‘pick up a language’ like this. It’s kind of unfair, actually.

“So, what now?” James asks, because after all, Rab is the one who jumped into his car. James doesn’t know what the fuck to do about any of this.

Is he supposed to drop Rab off somewhere? Offer him shelter in his and Remus’s place? Leave Rab on the side of the road?

It beats James. He just— doesn’t know. There is a man, in front of him, dressed in an Armani suit and eating soggy waffles. He is wearing a signet ring, for Christ’s sake. The man looks expensive. James can’t just— keep him. He’s not very good at keeping pristine things pristine. Whatever kind of operation Rab is a part of — Mafia? Curated Art? — is on another level. He can just tell. Very prim and proper. James would tarnish that. Also, what is James even thinking? He’s known the man for five minutes. James doesn’t know jack, and James needs to not.

James also needs to find his phone and call Remus, because he’s pretty sure he’s done with  whatever commitment had him occupied this morning, and they’re supposed to meet this afternoon for some sightseeing. James isn’t sure that any of that is going to happen, now.

Rab sighs, setting down his fork. "I don't kn— Oh.”

“Oh?” James asks.

Rab swallows. When he replies, his voice is just a little out of it. “I’ve— never not known what comes next?” he says, and it sounds like a question. It’s kind of sad, actually.

“Wow, your family is fucked.”

Rab doesn’t deny it. “And so are you, when they find you and tell the police to put you behind bars.”

“I—”

“I’m joking,” Rab says, but James squints.

“Are you?”

“I think so? I don’t think you can be put in prison, considering about three hundred people saw me run away from my own wedding.”

“That’s embarrassing, actually,” James points out, and Rab scoffs.

“Rude.”

“Well, yes. But true.”

“Way to make a bloke feel comfortable.”

James frowns. “Is that my job?”

“Shouldn’t it be? You’re the figurative knight in shining armor here, aren’t you?”

“Does that make you the damsel in distress?” James asks, lifting his eyebrows and allowing his gaze to drift towards Rab's striking blue-green eyes. He regrets it instantly, because something passes between them, simmering just beneath the surface. He isn’t sure what, exactly. He is sure that he liked it, though.

As quickly as it began, the moment passes, leaving James feeling a little breathless. He takes a sip of coffee.

Rab takes the escape for what it is.

“I am not a damsel, but I certainly am in distress,” he says eventually, digging back in for another scoop of soggy waffle.

James looks at the man in front of him. There is maple syrup on his suit, now. Some on the side of his jaw, too. Rab just— clashes horribly with his surroundings. It’s endearing. Rab also doesn’t look to be in distress at all. He looks almost in his element, like this. Free? Or maybe James is just dreaming and needs to wake up.

“Right, well, what shall we do about that?”

Rab leans back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Why don’t we let Jesus take the wheel?” he suggests, and James chokes on his coffee.

“I don’t think Jesus should be allowed to take any kind of wheel.”

“No?” Rab gives him a quizzical look. And honestly, James thinks they’re having an entire conversation underneath the one they’re currently having, and James is a smart man but he feels very stupid right now.

“He doesn’t know how to drive?” James says, unsure.

“Seems like he can drive just fine,” Rab counters.

“Are you— are you comparing me to Jesus? I think I’m confused.”

“No, James.” Rab replies patiently. He pushes his chair back, all the while leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands. He’s looking at James with purpose, and James forgets the first conversation, as well as the hidden one. He’s a weak, weak man. “Although, you are technically my savior.”

“Can we please eject Jesus from this conversation? I don’t know what’s happening,” James admits in a small voice, and Rab smirks. Doesn’t reply. Pulls out his phone instead. James peeks over enough to see that Rab’s entire screen is filled with missed calls and unanswered texts.

“Popular,” James muses absently, and Rab rolls his eyes.

“That tends to happen when one disappears on one’s wedding day,” he says casually, lifting a finger against the screen to make all the notifications disappear.

And James— James had forgotten. He’d forgotten the entire thing. For a moment, James was just eating subpar chain restaurant food with a hot stranger. Not having waffles with a hijacker who’d esca— left his own wedding.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Looking for a wine bar”, Rab replies easily. He looks up, briefly. “You, James Potter, are taking me out.”

James swallows hard. “I am?”

Rab nods. “I’ve made the executive decision to trust you won’t kill me.”

Ok. Ok. James can do this. This is a small something, and James is very good at adapting. He can do this. He lets a teasing smile play on his lips.

“A little early to decide,” he replies, and Rab gives him a blank look before turning back to his phone.

“Well, then my cranium will make a beautiful decoration on your bookshelf,” he states flatly, not looking up from his screen.

“That’s not where I put the skeletons of my enemies,” James says, pulling out his own phone.

“No?”

James shakes his head. “Nah. I put them opposite my bed on a dedicated shelf, so I can look at them as I fall asleep,” he offers, shooting off a quick text to Remus.

Prongs: Are you done?

“Ah. Makes sense,” Rab offers.

“Does it?”

Moony: James. You won’t believe what just happened.

“Not at all,” Rab says. “Oh, Le Vinyageur, sounds like an awful pun. Let’s go there.”

Prongs: Oh?

“It’s a pun?” James asks, and Rab nods, pulling up the directions and getting up.

“Vin is wine, voyageur is traveler. So ‘the traveling wine’, except it’s a bad pun and doesn’t translate at all. Which means they’re definitely not French, which means this should be fun,” Rab says, as if it’ll be everything but.

“You should lead with this as we go in, you’ll surely make friends with the owner.”

Moony: Groom ran away. Everyone’s looking for him. In the car with his brother. Can I pick you up?

James looks at the words, and it doesn’t make much sense. For about a second.

Then, everything starts making a lot of fucking sense. It makes sense, except.

Except Rab is currently dusting his shoulder off and complaining about the fact that no one can walk anywhere in America, and James’s brain just— shuts down. He decides to ignore the very obvious truth staring him right in the face. Pretend he doesn’t know.

Just for now.

Prongs: Sounds boring. Let me know when you’re free, I’ll come join you.

He drops a few bills on the table.

Moony: I might be a while. What will you do?

James starts walking, following Rab outside.

Prongs: There’s a wine bar nearby. I think I’m going to go educate my palate to French wine, he types as he takes out his car key.

Moony: You don’t even like wine.

Prongs: Which is why it’ll be very educational.

James pockets his phone and looks at Regulus Arcturus Black, brother of Sirius Black, long-distance boyfriend of Remus Lupin, and the entire reason why James is in Washington state in the first place.

Well, the gig is up. But hey, Rab doesn’t need to know that.

“Airdrop me the coordinates, let’s get shit-faced,” he says, pulling the car door open.

“You can’t get shit-faced on wine,” Rab counters. “It’s called wine tasting for a reason.”

“That’s a very French thing of you to say,” he says as they settle themselves in the car, and James pulls out of the car park.

“Please don’t compare me to my people, I might actually throw up.”

“You might throw up anyway. I’ve never seen anyone consume so much sugar and not crash massively. I honestly don’t even know if I should let you drink wine. You’ll be a mess,” James says, word catching on the last word.

Because, well, actually. Actually, James would very much like to see what a messy Rab looks like. Preferably by his hands.

And oh. Oh, look at James.

An idiot.

The man just escaped his wedding, and James is already imagining running his hands all over Rab until his suit looks less like a suit and more like a mess.

Oblivious to James’s derailing thoughts, Rab lifts an elegant finger. “Actually, Potter, I’m a grown man, which means you literally cannot make me do anything.”

James can’t help it. He snorts. “Kind of like your family couldn’t make you marry whoever it is you left at the altar?”

“Actually, I was at the altar. And I almost threw up already, thank you very much. Several times. It’s been a rough few days. I need the wine. My French blood almost demands it. Take a left here.”

James takes a left.

“Is that what happens when French people are too far away from wine for too long? The blood starts to demand it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never not drunk wine with dinner,” Rab replies.

“That’s the Frenchest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I can’t go against all of my roots. Some things are too deeply ingrained.”

“Is it true that French people start drinking early on?” James asks, risking a quick glance at the passenger side, and Rab hums.

“I don’t know. We are generally more lax around alcohol, yes. I think my parents started letting me taste wine at thirteen, so I could get used to it.”

“Thirteen?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Isn’t that young?” James asks.

“It is. I also did say taste, not down the bottle.”

“I don’t know what the difference is.”

“That’s because in the States, you make a big deal out of drinking, like it's a taboo that needs to be hidden, and then suddenly you hit twenty-one, and people start drinking with straws in wine bottles and before they know it, their limits are erased, and they're having terrible experiences with alcohol. In France, it's different. We're exposed to alcohol at a young age, so by the time we reach legal drinking age, we've already tasted different types of alcohol and know that alcohol tastes like shit, so we don’t feel the need to overindulge."

James sits with this for a few seconds.

“How do you grow to like it?”

Rab shrugs. “I don’t know. How do you grow to like coffee?”

James squints. “I don’t… know?”

Rab gives him a here-you-go look.

“I see your point. It was long winded, and full of unnecessary critique of my own people, but I see it.”

Le Vinyageur is a small cave.

Molly and Arthur Weasley - both strangers that did, in fact, give them their full name-– run the place. Rab, being the educated man he is, doesn’t dare tell them that their wine tastes awful. He does tell James though, as soon as the nice couple turns around to fetch another bottle for them to try.

“Why is it spiky?” Rab inquires, perplexed.

“It’s not spiky?” James replies, confused. It tastes like wine, honestly. But then again, Remus is correct, and James absolutely abhors wine. He would give anything for a gin and tonic.

Well, not everything. The company is undeniably delightful, and it's no secret that James is a weak, weak man. Each sip of the pungent wine makes him weaker, and Rab is actually making him want to lunge over the rustic wooden table and rip off his shirt. James needs to stop drinking. Probably.

“It is,” Rab insists, flashing a smile as soon as Molly returns with two new glasses.

“This one is a Sauvignon. You’ll like it,” she comments, and Rab nods as if it makes perfect sense.

“If it’s as good as the ones you’ve made us try so far, Molly, I’m sure it’ll be lovely,” Rab says, and James wants to die and climb him all at once. Something’s happened in James’s mind. Stockholm Syndrome, probably. Rab was a man who took him hostage. The problem is, now Rab is a man that James wants to see naked.

“You look drunk,” Rab tells him, and James shakes himself from his daydream.

“Hm?”

“Your cheeks are very red. Maybe you should stop drinking. I don’t know how to drive. One of us should remain sober, and you’re not the one who just yeeted out of his own marriage, so I think I win this round and should be allowed to get very drunk. And you,” Rab says, pointing his finger at James, “should be tasked with taking care of me.”

Instinct demands it, and James does it. He just— grabs Rab’s finger, and it’s— it’s the first time they touched, isn’t it? Oh, it’s lovely. It’s a nice finger. Elongated. Smooth. Pale. Nails neatly trimmed. It should be holding ink pens only. Signing elegant contracts.

“You’ve got really pretty hands,” James says, and Rab’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Aristocratic, really,” James continues, turning over Rab’s palm. “All of you is very— yeah.”

“Are you drunk already? This is only glass number two.”

“I’m not drunk,” James protests.

“Then why are you spouting off about aristocratic fingers? Are they also going to find themselves on your shelf once you’ve had your way with me?”

“My way with you?” James asks, and his mind is going in the wrong place. He knows this. He can’t help it.

Rab gives him a searching look, like he’s not sure whether to stop James from drinking or let him drink more. James doesn’t think it’ll make a difference.

His brain has already started to derail. There’s no stopping it. He’s had the thought. James knows himself well at this point. Once he starts having the thought, James’s brain is unstoppable. It’ll start making excuses for everything, until it gets what it wants. Sometimes his brain wants froyo. Sometimes, it wants Chicago mix popcorn. Right now, it wants Rab.

Fuck.

“You know, the whole murder vibe we were joking about an hour ago? Wait, you are drunk, aren’t you? What are you thinking about?”

James wants to say that he isn’t drunk. That he’s very, very sober, and very, very attracted to him. That when James becomes very, very attracted to someone, his brain sort of goes fuzzy.

James is smart and doesn’t say any of this.

What comes out is worse.

So much worse.

“I’m just thinking about your hands around my cock,” he says. Stops. Tries to make the words go back inside his mouth. Take back the words that have escaped, and oh, please don’t run away, come back here, you are not allowed outside of my brain. But it’s too late. The words are out. James can’t swallow them back. So he steels himself back for Rab’s reply.

What comes out of Rab’s mouth is better.

So much better.

“That can be arranged.”

James actually is a little drunk. He has issues distinguishing between the effects of the alcohol and Rab, but nonetheless. Driving right now might not, in fact, be the best idea.

Luckily, Rab is a very accommodating man.

They walk back to the car.

James settles behind the wheel.

They’re looking out the windshield.

Rab takes a breath.

James can hear it.

He tenses.

And then, Rab’s thighs are bracketing his hips and he’s on top of James and James has his hands full.

This is a good development, in James's opinion.

It’s a little blurry, how it all happens, but James doesn’t mind not having all the details.

He remembers what matters.

Rab’s weight is on him, and his hands are everywhere, and he’s looking at James like this , and telling him, like that , “Maybe we should find something to do while you de-drunk yourself.”

James is nodding.

Furiously.

And then, Rab is picking up James’s hands from where they are resting at his waist and dragging them up and towards his face, where he lets them frame Rab’s cheeks.

“Your hands are really warm.”

And James is actually drunk, because there are a lot of things James could say in response, yet all he says is, “I feel like I am touching the sun,” and then he isn’t saying anything anymore because he’s gently pulling Rab’s face towards him, and Rab is coming.

Rab is willingly going to him.

This might be the best day of James’s life.

It gets better when Rab’s lips make contact with his, and then James isn’t just touching the sun, he’s kissing it.

It’s warm, and slow, and explorative the way so few things are nowadays, and it tastes like time well spent.

They’re not trying to get anywhere, which is good, because James is in no state.

James also wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

There is something about enjoying the small things of life.

This feels like a very big thing, actually, yet James and Rab are acting like it isn’t. They’re very good actors, the both of them. They exchange close-mouthed kisses for… entirely too long and not long enough, before Rab decides to go explore the rest of James’s face. He’s taking the scenic route, lifting his lips to hover over the line of James’s nose, across each brow, tongue darting out to taste his temple — has anyone done this to James before? No, no, and all the more shame for it. Temple tasting is now a top five in James’s book — dropping his lips back down to James’s ear, where the lips take a gentle break to just lay there, barely touching his skin, just memorizing the contour and shape of his ear.

James has not had these experiences before.

He finds that he likes it very much.

It feels a little like a religious experience, if he’s honest. His own hands have dropped from Rab’s face to go rest elsewhere. One is gently holding the bottom of his neck, just his clavicle, feeling for Rab’s pulse against his vein. The other is desperately kneading at Rab’s waist again.

James feels like he is about to fall.

Drop from the earth, go somewhere new. It’s a little scary and a lot exhilarating.

And then Rab’s lips are on the move again, descending to the side of his jaw, which is the place where James becomes acquainted with Rab’s teeth for the first time.

It’s an immediate love story.

He feels the need to tell Rab so. “Ra—”

“Regulus,” Regulus interrupts, because James knows this already, but Regulus doesn’t. James is glad. Regulus is better anyway. It’s unique. As unique as what’s currently happening to him under Regulus’s hands.

“I think I am drunk,” James says, and Regulus laughs.

“I don’t think, I know,” he replies easily, and then his teeth are back at his jaw, and James forgets what he was planning on saying at all. The teeth travel down from his jaw to his neck, and a terribly needy noise makes its way out of James’s mouth.

This seems to be the cause of the frenzy.

James doesn’t mind being the cause of this new development, because one minute Regulus is taking his time, and the next, he’s hungry , and the only food in this car is James.

Regulus’s hands are everywhere, and James’s own are roaming, but it absolutely cannot compare to the feeling of kissing — really kissing — Regulus for the first time.

James doesn’t think he has ever been kissed like this before. He doesn’t know what to categorize this kiss as.

Transcendental seems like a weak word.

James is ascending .

There is a lot more lip pulling than James would have expected, but it’s curiously very welcome. It feels like Regulus wants to eat him, and James would probably let him.

James would probably let Regulus do a lot of things to him, if he’s honest.

They’re kissing, and biting, and it’s a warm exchange of tongues, and it’s a little wild at times, like Regulus is impatient, like Regulus wants James to do something but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“What?” James eventually manages to mumble against Regulus’s lips, and Regulus just— shushes him by kissing him a little more desperately.

It works, for a while.

Regulus is very good at distracting James. But Regulus is a terribly needy man, because a noise of frustration escapes his lips again, and James— James pulls back.

They’re breathing— very hard.

They’re very close. From here, James can see the blue-green eyes staring at him like a wild animal.

“What do you need?” James whispers again, and Regulus lets his forehead drop to James’s.

It’s comforting.

“I need a lot of things,” Regulus whispers back, and he’s looking at James so intently, trying so very hard to pass along a message that James is just not getting.

“I feel like you are trying to speak a full sentence in a language I only learned the basics of three hours ago.”

Regulus rears back.

“Has it only been three hours?”

“Maybe four,” James replies, looking down from Regulus’s eyes to his own hands that have managed to sneak under his dress shirt. Regulus’s skin is on fire. He’s magma.

“I need to go back, I—”

“No,” James cuts in, voice dropping to a low and commanding tone, and it’s—fuck. It’s the Voice. James doesn’t really like it. He’s very careful at keeping it under lock and key. But the lock has been opened and the key has been thrown, and James really needs to shut up, and this is probably why . 

It’s because James is too busy berating himself to notice Regulus’s reaction to the Voice. 

Which is why, when James asks, somewhat confused, “Why are you so tense?” it takes— an extraordinarily long time for Regulus to speak.

“What— I— because you— erm, hello.”

James’s eyes snap back to Regulus’s, confused. “Hello,” he says back. “Do you—”

“‘No’ what?” Regulus interrupts.

“What?”

“You said— erm, you said, um, no? And I just— why?”

Oh.

Oh, yes. James had said no. Why had he said no again?

Oh, right. Because Regulus wanted to go back . And James very much wants him to stay.

Stay right here.

Right here, on top of him.

For a very long time.

For forever.

That’s not what he says, because James isn’t drunk anymore, and he doesn’t want Regulus to be tense under his hands, and James has fucked it all up.

“I— um. I don’t think I am drunk anymore,” he says instead. “I can drop you back.”

“Oh,” is Regulus’s unhelpful answer. It definitely isn’t the answer James was hoping for, but then again, that is what James gets for opening the box and losing the key to his control.

“At the venue?”

Regulus arches a brow. Takes a long look at James, before disentangling their legs and settling back on his seat. James is graced with Regulus’s profile, because Regulus isn’t looking at him anymore. He is looking straight ahead, bottom lip between his teeth. Cheeks very pink. Brown curls strewn all over.

He looks edible.

“At home, please,” Regulus asks, and James just nods. “I’ll direct you.”

James pulls out of the parking lot.

They drive.

James thinks he’s under Regulus’s spell. He must be, because his brain has short-circuited and taken a dive off a cliff and James’s mind is filled with static. James is in no rush to go get his brain back.

The ride to Regulus’s home is awkward.

And then he’s in the parking lot of a very expensive looking building, and Regulus isn’t opening the door to exit the vehicle, and James isn’t prompting Regulus to do so either, and they just sit there, looking at the gray wall on the other side of the windshield.

James knows what he should say.

Good luck with the rest of your life.

Lovely to meet you, bye.

You have syrup on your collar.

You’d need to pry the words out with a crowbar. James refuses to say a single word. It’ll break the spell, and as long as the spell is working, Regulus is sitting next to him, and James isn’t alone in his car, and this is just fine.

James’s teeth are grinding.

His control is slipping.

James is a weak, weak man.

He won’t. He’s not a neanderthal, he—

“If you don’t invite yourself up, I’m not leaving this car,” Regulus says quietly, and that’s that.

James’s control takes after his brain and dives off the cliff.

“I’m going to go up,” he says. Very carefully. Very meaningfully. Because this isn’t what James is saying at all, and he needs Regulus to know that.

Except Regulus apparently isn’t the kind of man who likes to speak in layers when it matters, because he turns and looks at James for the first time since he last had his body squeezing James’s under his.

“I’m going to need you to say that again,” Regulus enunciates, and James gets it.

The signals are signaling.

The message has been received.

“You’re going to let me fuck you,” James says instead, his voice a little stronger now.

Regulus just smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips that sends shivers down James’s spine.

“Good,” Regulus says. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

And then he’s out of the car and James is following him.

He feels like he’s in a daze as he follows Regulus into the building, not quite sure what he’s doing or why or how this is even happening at all. The elevator ride up to Regulus’s apartment is silent, save for the soft ding of the elevator as it reaches its destination. They’re not looking at each other. The space between them is very, very, very tense. James didn’t know this much energy could exist in such a small space.

James also wishes he could say that he takes notice of the apartment.

It would be a filthy, filthy lie.

James doesn’t notice anything, because the moment the door is open, he has Regulus pinned against the wall, and James is devouring.

James Potter has never had sex with a stranger. It’s not… it’s not something that James does. Sex, that is.

He knows he can. He has . When in committed, long-term relationships.

It’s just that… his body doesn’t really care about other people otherwise. James likes people; he just doesn’t like being with people. Most of the time.

There are, apparently, exceptions.

Like right now.

Like right now, pressed against his best friend’s boyfriend’s little brother, in a very nice, very expensive flat.

The apartment is immaculate, as is Regulus, and James isn't great with pristine things at all. He feels like he’s going to break something, or someone, and Regulus is looking at him like he wants him too, and this is all very complicated to navigate.

James figures he’ll go in blind. Regulus doesn’t really seem like the kind of person who wouldn’t voice something he doesn’t like.

It starts very simple.

He’s dragging his hands up and down Regulus’s button down over the fabric, because James isn’t patient about a lot of things, but for this. For this, James can be very patient.

It’s a terrible idea.

It’s the best idea he’s ever had.

It’s Regulus’s hands in his hair, and James’s body pressing and shifting against him, pulling him along. James can’t see the flat very well, but Regulus must know what he’s trying to achieve, because he’s directing them towards an open door.

It takes them entirely too long to get to the bedroom, because barely a step has been taken in its general direction, before James is pushing Regulus on another surface, or Regulus is pulling James to him, and it’s a very efficient use of all the space available, in James’s opinion. The bedroom isn’t going anywhere. So Regulus ends up on top of the entryway table, and a the mirror against which Regulus’s head snaps back as James trails a path of filthy kisses detaches and breaks on the floor, so James grabs onto Regulus’s thighs and wraps them around his waist, and Regulus’s arms go around his neck, and James is walking them towards the bedroom, except there is a table in the way, and James deposits Regulus on it, and there are a lot of kisses exchanged on the table.

Regulus’s mouth is a mixture of maple and wine. Should it be as addictive as it is? Should it taste as good as it does?

Probably.

Yes.

James’s fingertips are on fire, trailing patterns over Regulus’s shirt, pulling his hands forward to start unbuttoning the shirt. The buttons are very small, and it’s all very frustrating.

“Can I—” he mumbles against Regulus’s lips, and Regulus’s reply is instantaneous.

“Please do.”

So James rips the shirt open, and drags it off Regulus’s frame, and this is much better.

Then his hands are back beneath Regulus’s thighs and he’s walking them towards the bedroom.

There is a lot going on, and James is struggling to pull anything significant from the mess.

He knows he’s speaking, which would be extremely embarrassing, except Regulus’s throat is making all kinds of garbled noises, so James doesn’t think it’s that bad.

James thinks that, maybe, he says something — out loud, God, how embarrassing — along the lines of, “I think I have a strange addiction to the taste of your body”, and he would blush, but Regulus moans and it’s all very nice.

Regulus’s hands are kneading his neck, drifting down to touch his back, stretching his tee-shirt. They’re also roaming over his shoulders, and they’re lifting his shirt to paw at his abs, and they’re circling his neck and touching his ear lobes with reverence, and James might just come in his pants from the intensity of Regulus’s gaze. Maybe it’s too early? Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe they need to take a break. Maybe James needs to try to fill his lungs with something other than Regulus.

“Regulus, this is great, really, but I don’t think—”

“If you tell me we need to stop, I will scream,” Regulus announces very seriously. And doesn’t that just sound like a vow that James wants Regulus to abide by?

“Do you promise?”

Regulus doesn’t respond, opting instead to move his mouth from James’s lips back to his ear, nipping at the shell.

“Move,” Regulus says, and James picks back up.

Right, the bedroom.

It’s just skin. It’s just cartilage. James cannot begin to explain how his entire body is vibrating with tension. He feels like a bowstring ready to snap.

He’s glad the bed is right there, because James’s arms weaken, and Regulus drops on the mattress, dragging James with him.

There are a few forces in the universe stronger than James. Supernovas. Tsunamis. Earthquakes.

To James, meeting Regulus is a combination of it all.

James thought he was hungry, but it’s a truly underwhelming way to try to explain how James feels. It’s like he has this terrible, insatiable hunger, and nothing he does is feeding it. James isn’t hungry.

He’s starving.

“I want you under my hands, embedded under my fingernails,” James says, meaning it. Regulus moans in response, hands clutching at James’s shoulders. And then James is descending down Regulus’s body, biting down hard on Regulus’s collarbone. “This is kind of absurd,” James continues, because it is. He pulls back and admires his handy work. Continues his way downwards.

Regulus's skin is a canvas waiting to be painted, and James is the artist wielding the brush.

The situation takes a strange turn then, because James thinks he stops thinking altogether.

There are pants in the way, and then there aren’t, and then James is busying himself. Feeding. James would recoil at the thought if it didn’t feel so appropriate. Regulus’s hands find their way into James’s hair, clutching at the strands desperately.

“Jesus,” Regulus moans, hips bucking up into James’s mouth, and actually, no.

No, that won’t do at all.

James uses teeth, a little more than a scrape, and Regulus sort of just— snaps up, pulling James’s face away forcefully.

“I—”

“James,” James asserts, and Regulus is breathing hard. Looking at him like he can’t make sense of what James is saying. Like he’s being punished but doesn’t remember why. It’s okay. James can remind him.

“Wha—? You just—? What?” Regulus stammers, looking down at James, yet James wonders if Regulus can see him at all.

“It’s ‘James’ for you,” James repeats firmly.

“I— okay,” Regulus forces out, a little breathlessly.

“Say it, then.”

Regulus looks down at him with intent. He opens his mouth. Makes sure James is looking.

“ James.”

Regulus is greatly rewarded.

There is time, and James is sure that it passes. He doesn’t really pay attention. He is busy.

James is pretty sure that Regulus starts pleading at some point, and James is more than happy to help with this, because now at least, Regulus isn’t begging for God. He’s begging for him.

James leans back and spits into his hand before reaching down , and it sort of— devolves rapidly from there, like a thread unspooling.

Regulus’s breath hitches.

“I want you to beg for it,” James asks, pulling back to look at Regulus.

Regulus whimpers. Doesn’t fight it at all. “Please,” he whispers, and James’s grin is feral.

“Please what, love? Be specific.”

Regulus forces the words out. James doesn’t think he actually hears them at all. He doesn’t think his body is entirely under his control anymore.

It all takes a slow tint. Rose-colored glasses.

It takes an eternity and no time at all.

Regulus's head falls forward, body tensing as James fills him.

Things are happening, and James is very aware that they are. There are noises, and sounds, and hips against hips and pacing doesn’t exist at all, and there is trembling and shaking, and bodies moving in perfect sync, and James can’t think of anything except the way Regulus feels under him.

There are hands gripping sheets and the very late realization that Regulus would have been very unhappy in whatever marriage had been planned, because he seems very happy under James’s hands, and James is going to take care of him, and it’s certainly not whoever Regulus abandoned at that altar that could make Regulus feel like this, and beg like this, and speak like this, and James truly hasn’t been so out of control in a very long time.

James tries to stay quiet, but it's becoming increasingly difficult. He's never been good at being quiet. But then again, it seems neither is Regulus. So James leans in, lips brushing against Regulus's ear. "If you can't stay quiet, I'll have to gag you," he whispers.

And ah. Would you look at that? Regulus is nodding, quite frantically. Not speaking, because James’s hand is already on his mouth, muffling him. Taking a mind of its own.

There are a lot of filthy sounds and gasped moans under covered mouths, and it’s all so very disgracious. Regulus is looking at him, eyes dark and hungry, and James feels a surge of heat.

And then the slow tint is red, and it’s all very fast and dangerous, and James doesn’t care. All he cares about is the man who’s worked his way back up and above him, in the exact position they were in the car, and James’s eyes are focused on Regulus’s as they break apart, and then they aren’t focused at all because James blacks out.

James wakes up to the sound of an argument.

It takes him a moment to retrace the steps that led James into— Regulus’s bed. Right.

Right.

Oh, oh James is an idiot.

“—Not going back.”

“Reggie, I’m not going to ask you to go back. I’m asking you to do this properly.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

That’s Regulus’s voice, and the answering one isn’t a voice James has ever heard in real life except from over the phone, because Remus spends entirely too long on Facetime with Sirius Black, and oh shit, James is going to meet his best friend’s boyfriend in this shitty, shitty circumstance, and where is is shirt?

James is up and dressed in two seconds, which is kind of upsetting because he was oh so very comfortable.

“I mean with lawyers, and with contracts and signatures, because you can’t just escape—”

“Leave —”

“Leave your wedding and never speak to them again. The Greengrasses will hunt you down—”

“I just want it to be over. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m so fucking tired.”

James quickly finishes dressing and makes his way to the door. He hesitates for a moment, then opens the door to peer out.

He sees Regulus sitting on the edge of the couch, head in his hands. It’s very reminiscent of him sitting in the back of James’s car in the same position, a mere… five, six hours earlier? Jesus Christ.

The other people in the room are a dark-haired man that James recognises as Sirius Black, and his very own best friend, Remus.

James clears his throat, making his presence known. "Hi there," he says, trying to sound casual.

Remus looks up, then back at Sirius, before doing a double take.

“James?”

Sirius, who had been focused on his brother, turns to take in the man who is… so very obviously exiting his brother’s bedroom. James kind of wants to be swallowed by the earth. For the building to crash and bring them all down together. He waits, but none of that happens, so he just walks in further into the room.

“Um, surprise?” he offers awkwardly.

A lot happens all at once, and James very much is still in bliss, and he’s not sure who says what.

“You know James?—”

“James is the guy you fu—”

“Did you even go wine tasting at all, you assh—”

“You knew who I was?”

The room suddenly falls silent, as if a pause button has been hit. James looks between the three of them, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment. Regulus finally looks up, his expression a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Sirius, who looks like he's just been slapped, takes a step back. "So, you two just... met? And... ended up here?”

James throws a helpless look at Regulus, who is being entirely unhelpful and just staring at him.

“He just, um, sort of… hijacked my car?” James offers, face twisting.

Sirius turns on Regulus, “You what?”

Regulus’s face joins James and twists. James doesn’t have a brother, but he imagines being scolded by one can’t be all that lovely.

“I think it was an accident,” James starts, and Sirius scoffs. Regulus drags a hand along his face. Remus is just looking confused.

“Did you—” Remus starts, and James lifts his hands.

“Look. Here’s what happened. I was driving, Regulus was escaping, he chose my car at random, we drove away, he lied to me about his name, then we ate waffles, Remus texted me about an escaped groom, this seems to check out all the boxes, I was having a good time, we did in fact go wine tasting, Moons, so don’t come at me, and then one thing led to another and here we are.”

Sirius balks, and Remus’s eyebrows crease. “I feel like you’re leaving out important information.”

James shakes his head. “Nothing major.”

“Nothing major,” Sirius, starts, “Nothing except the fact that you had sex with your carjacker? Who does that?”

James shrugs. “He’s very attractive?”

“—Can we not talk about him like he isn’t in the room”, Regulus asks, and there’s another riot of people talking over each other, before it eventually quiets down.

“I need a drink,” Sirius says, and Regulus waves at the open kitchen on his left.

“You go ahead.”

Sirius pins James with a look. “You. Come with me.”

James goes.

Sirius leads James into the kitchen, his movements stiff and controlled, clearly trying to keep his emotions in check. Then Sirius is rounding on James, his eyes narrowed. "Okay, let's get one thing straight,” he starts, and James braces himself. “You. Are a genius.”

And that’s, ah, not what James is expecting. At all.

James blinks, surprised by the unexpected praise. "I'm sorry, what?" he asks, genuinely confused.

Sirius shakes his head. "You're a genius, James. I’ve been trying to get him to leave this goddamn forsaken family for years. Years. Not even a day in your company and he’s ready to throw it away?” Sirius shakes his head again. “Wicked.”

James scratches his head, feeling a bit self-conscious. "I mean, I didn't plan any of this? It just... happened.”

Sirius grins, clapping James on the shoulder. "That's what makes it even better. I can’t hate you, which is useful, since you are Remus’s best friend. Nice to meet you, by the way.”

James chuckles nervously, not entirely sure how to take the compliment. "Nice to meet you?”

Sirius throws him a warm smile. “Break his heart and I’ll kill you.”

James freezes, hand half extended towards Sirius. He retracts it. “Oh. Okay.”

“Great!” Sirius says brightly, clapping James on the shoulder again. “Now let’s go back to the others before they burn down the apartment.”

“You don’t want a drink?”

Sirius throws him a grin. “You’re sweet. I like you. We’re going to get along great.”

It’s true. They do.