Recipient: lighting (HP Trianglefest on LiveJournal)

Rating: a low R?
Characters/Ship: James, Lily, Sirius
Warnings: mentions of smoking and alcohol, swearing, torture (cruciatus), slightly non-canon timeline
Summary: Sirius has mixed feelings about his best friend's engagement to Lily, but he'll do his best to keep her safe because that's what James wants. Things become complicated.
Words: 6000
Beta: phoenix_torte—thank you once again for all your help! You're wonderful. J
Note: all characters and the HP universe are the property of J.K. Rowling

Candle in a Dark Place

It doesn't fit. Sirius has turned it around in his head a million times and he can't make it fit.

It's noisy in the flat. His flat—shared between him and James, although apparently not for long. Right now it's crowded with the guests—now he knows why James insisted on having them all over—and he can't breathe, so he ducks out onto the balcony.

Lily's pretty. More than pretty, with long red hair and longer legs. She fills out her sweater quite nicely—even more so of late, if he's not mistaken, and he's never mistaken in these matters. He considers himself something of a connoisseur.

But engagement? Engagement is for grown-ups. Surely it doesn't apply to them.

He takes another gulp of his firewhisky.

"Sirius?" It's James. "You all right?"

"Cheers. Never better." It's a good excuse for another gulp. Too bad Remus made him give up the cigarettes again.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you first. Lily wanted it to be a surprise," James says.

Ah. So that's how it's going to be. "Must do what Lily wants, mustn't we?"

"Don't be a bastard."

Deep breath, Sirius. Don't bollocks this up. "You love it when I'm a bastard."

It has the intended effect. James cracks a smile. "Fair enough."

He has to try. He knows what he's supposed to say. "So. Evans, eh? You could do worse, I suppose," Sirius continues. "Frankly, mate, she's too good for you. Don't know what she's thinking."

"Confundus charm on the ring," James says. He's playing along, but his eyes are still too dark. It's his Head Boy look—the way he looks when he's going to insist that Sirius do something that's no fun at all.

"Ah. That's the secret." Unexpectedly, all too soon, he's found the bottom of his glass.

"Look, Lily's tired. I'm going to take her home," James says. "Try not to get too trashed, all right? I want to talk to you when I get back."

Sirius shrugs. "I'll see what I can do." He knows he's done drinking, regardless. It hasn't improved his mood any.

James hesitates, then turns to go.

"I'm happy for you," Sirius says, leaning over the balcony. He's not sure if James heard him, or if he's already gone inside.

They're five stories up. He can see the entrance to Diagon Alley from here. He drops his glass just so he can hear the crash when it shatters on the pavement.

* * *

Lily's inside, reading a book on the couch. Sirius is on the balcony again. He's always on the balcony. Fucking lives there, these days, even though it's early January and bloody cold outside.

After all, James won't let him smoke in the flat.

Lily's spending as many nights at their place as not. She's nearly always there when, as tonight, James is away on a mission.

Sirius flicks his ash over the balcony. It falls slowly, the glow fading out before it hits the ground.

James is working with Peter tonight; James for strength, Peter for stealth. Not a bad team, and Sirius doesn't worry too much about James when he's with Peter. Peter has a great instinct for safety, and he knows that protecting his own arse means protecting James's.

So he's not worried. He's not, even though they're three hours late getting back. Three hours isn't so bad, really. Not in the grand scheme of things.

At four hours, he'll worry.

It's no accident that Lily's here. She's Sirius's responsibility, much as she would tear a strip off both him and James for suggesting it. The first time, it was a quiet request, made well out of Lily's hearing. By now, it's just understood—Sirius looks after Lily when James is away.

It'll be more difficult, he thinks, when James and Lily move into their own place after the wedding. More difficult, but not impossible, not by a long stretch. Surely Lily must know that in marrying James, she's marrying the rest of them, too? He feels his mouth crease up into a smirk. He has couch-crashing privileges, and he fully intends to use them.

He is, after all, their Best Man.

He jumps when he hears a thud inside the flat. "Fuck!" He's inside, wand brandished, before he can think.

It's nothing. Lily's fallen asleep on the couch; her hand is outstretched and empty, the book is on the floor. He picks it up and jams her bookmark in at random, muttering under his breath. She doesn't move. Eyes closed, mouth partly open—she has a way of sleeping that makes it look like it's hard work.

He should wake her up and send her to bed. Even he's noticed that she's been under the weather lately—she seems to sleep all the time, and there are still circles under her eyes. She hasn't looked this tired since NEWTs. James is solicitous and Lily is irritable and it makes them just a bloody picnic to be around.

James would make her go to bed. He's not James, though, and he thinks sometimes things are better left alone. He Summons a blanket from James's room (more likely to be clean) and tucks it over her, then drapes himself across the armchair opposite. He puts one foot on the coffee table just because he can, because no one's there to stop him.

He casts a Tempus charm and waits.

* * *

"Sirius! Sirius, wake up!"

He jumps. Lily must have been leaning over him, though, because his head crashes into hers. It hurts. "Ow! What the fuck, Evans?" he growls, rubbing his forehead.

She's doing the same, where she managed to stagger back onto the couch. "They're not back yet." She glares.

His head is still throbbing—should have known she'd have a thick skull—but he focuses on the Tempus charm still hovering in the air. Six hours.

Six hours late. He's officially worried.

So, apparently, is Lily. "I already checked in with Moody. They haven't heard anything. He wants us to sit tight until morning. Too many out right now, he says. Doesn't have the resources."

It's his job to protect her. But he knows what she's going to say before she says it, and he knows he'll agree.

"I'm going," Lily says. There's something bright and fierce in her eyes. It's easy to see why James loves her. "I just want to know if I need to deal with you first."

"You know where they went?"

She nods. It's confidential information, but James has never been good with confidential. He's not surprised that Lily would know details of the mission.

"Better with two than one, then, don't you think?"

"Agreed." She offers him a hand up. He takes it.

* * *

They're in, of course, a graveyard. What is it with Voldemort and fucking graveyards? This one's old and overgrown and damned creepy. Sirius shivers—and it's not just because of the chill.

"What do you think?" he whispers.

She's staring at the church in the distance. It's pretty enough, with the stained glass lit softly from inside. Muggle stained glass doesn't move, though, so Sirius had lost interest in it within seconds. "I think it's strange to have that many lights on in a Muggle church at night," she says.

Sirius shrugs. "You'd know better than I." Black family religious observations, such as they were, often took place at night. He'd long ago accepted that he shouldn't use his family as a benchmark for these things—or for anything, really.

"Let's go."

They cast Disillusionment charms and he follows her, wondering exactly when she got to be the one in charge. He suspects that it was when she whacked him in the head. He has a brief flash of what married life will be like for James and decides that he might almost feel sorry for the git if he didn't seem so damned happy all the time.

They pass under a willow tree. Something whispery and soft brushes against his skin. "Gah. Spiders."

"Shh!" She glares at him over her shoulder.

He hears a shriek of laughter from above as the freezing charm takes him.

"Spiders! Spiders! Creeping where they shouldn't be!" Unable to move anything but his eyeballs, he looks up into the tree, into the lovely but undeniably insane face of his cousin, Bellatrix.

Bugger, he thinks, and falls.

* * *

He wakes up lying on something hard and cold, his head pillowed on warmth and softness. Everything that doesn't ache, burns. There's a harsh, rasping sound and a feeling of something grating his left ear raw. It takes him a moment to recognize Lily's scent and to understand that she's running her thumb over his ear.

"Don't," he groans. It hurts to speak. "Stop."

Her hand stills. "Sirius?" She's above and behind him. The pieces slowly click together and he realizes that he's lying with his head in her lap.

He tries to sit up, but sharp pain shoots through him, leaving his muscles shaking.

"Don't move yet," she says.

Thanks for the warning. He tries to form words again. "What?"

"You don't remember? Cruciatus," she says. Her voice is tight. "Mostly from your cousin, I believe."

Bella. The graveyard. "James?" he tries.

"Not here. I don't—I don't know where they are." Something wet and hot splashes onto his face. She wipes it away. Her touch grates. Everything is oversensitive, as though his skin has been flayed away. It'll fade, he knows. Bella must have really outdone herself, for his nerves to be this raw.

He drifts until she rubs at his ear again. It's not so bad this time. He wonders if it's a habit she has, wonders if, with James—no. He doesn't wonder about any of that. Never has, never does, never will.

"Sorry," she says, stopping.

"S'okay," he says. "Better now." It's a lot of words all at once. He takes a breath. "Like it." Cleary they've unhinged his mind as well as his body.

"Oh." He feels her hand hesitate before it starts to move again, her thumb running over his ear, her fingers tangling in his hair. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the sensation as his body fades back to normal.

Later, when he can stand up, he takes stock of their situation. They're in a dungeon of some kind—which, unless his understanding of Muggle traditions is hazier than he thought, means they're probably not in the church any longer. There's no bed, no furniture at all, just a hole in one corner. Lovely.

Their wands, naturally, have been taken from them. There's no window, just stone walls and the iron bars that are de rigueur in these places. No manacles, which is something of a relief, though not much—it's not so terribly hard to conjure these things when needed. "Well, it's not fancy, but it's home," he says.

Lily sniffs and wipes at her face with the back of her hand, turning away. She's clearly embarrassed to be caught crying, so he pretends he didn't see, just continues to survey their cell. "Are you all right?" he asks, keeping his tone casual. "Did they hurt you?"

"Not badly," she says. "Not after they figured out—"

She stopped too quickly. "Figured out what?"

She starts to laugh, then, and it's not a healthy sort of laugh. It reminds him a little of Bella, actually, which is unnerving.

"Lily?"

"You are slow on the uptake, aren't you? I felt sure you'd have figured it out by now." She's still laughing, but she's crying at the same time, and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and her nose on the robes.

He takes a step back. It's not that he thinks insanity is catching, but he's found it to his benefit not to stand close to crazy people. Bellatrix is a good example, actually. "Calm down," he tries, raising his hands as though she had him at wand point. "It's all right, whatever it is. We'll sort it out."

"You can't 'sort it out', you daft bugger, I'm pregnant." She's laughing and crying in earnest now, and it's messy and bloody frightening, and he can't help staring at her abdomen and imagining Little Jamie in there, ready to pop out at any moment. "You needn't look so scared, I'm not so far along as all that. Just shy of three months," she says.

Three months. So… November. His eyes drift to her left hand, but the ring isn't there. No surprise, really, that it was taken. The Death Eaters have no class. Thugs, the lot of them.

"Pregnant?" He sounds like he has about three brain cells left.

She nods. "It's due at the end of July." She sniffs again.

"A baby."

"Well yes, that's generally the outcome," she snaps. On the plus side, she seems to have decided that she needs to be the one to hold it together, since manifestly he is unable to do so.

"Huh. I'll be damned." Something in his brain switches back on and he rushes into action. "Can I get you anything? What do you need? Should you sit down?"

"Don't be an idiot, Sirius, I'm pregnant, not sick. Besides, we're in a dungeon, had you forgotten?"

He had. Just for a second.

"How—how did they know?" She still looks normal enough to him. She lacks that waddling pumpkin look that he's come to associate with, say, Molly Weasley over the years.

She rolls her eyes. "The question isn't how did they know, Sirius, it's why do they care? They'll kill women. They'll kill children. What does it matter to them if I'm pregnant?"

He's a Black. His mind supplies an answer to that readily enough, but it's not a pleasant one. Childbirth is a powerful thing, pregnancy equally so. There are spells, rituals, all of them Dark. It's actually a wonder dear old Bella hasn't been ordered to get herself knocked up for the cause… though he supposes her particular brand of insane enthusiasm is too valuable to lose. None of the rituals end well for the mother in question. "No idea," he says.

She narrows her eyes, but if there's one thing Sirius excels at, it's lying. "So what do we do now?" she asks.

He glances around their cell again, but no avenue of escape presents itself. "We wait," he says. "We pay attention. We survive."

She shudders. He puts an arm around her shoulder and lowers them both to sit against the wall. She curls into him; it's cold in the cell, and he's happy to lend her what warmth he can. He's just debating the merits of changing into Padfoot when she laughs.

"What?" He can't see anything funny about their situation.

"I have to pee," she says. "Fifteen times a day, I swear. And they say it'll only get worse."

"Too much information, Evans." He eyes the small hole in the corner of the cell with distaste.

* * *

At night, she shivers. "Lily? Are you all right?"

"Cold." Her teeth chatter.

"Come here, then. Don't be stupid." It's just body heat. That's all it is. And she's his best friend's fiancée.

So as she lies down beside him and rests her head on his shoulder, he's not noticing the way her curves press against him. He's not noticing how good she smells, or the way they fit together, because none of that has any bearing on their current situation.

"Does that help?" He shifts away. There are… circumstances, which he would prefer she didn't notice. Because if she did, she'd likely knee him in the groin.

"Mm-hmm," she says. He closes a hand around hers, checking. Her skin feels as cold as the stones they're lying on.

"I'll do you one better," he says. "Give me a moment. Not allergic to dogs, are you?"

She sits up as he rolls away. Changing into Padfoot is as easy as breathing, now, although he generally doesn't do it in front of an audience. He doesn't know, but he suspects that there are some stages in between man and dog that are rather odd looking. He's seen the others change, after all; James with antlers is not a sight easily forgotten.

Ah, well. Best make it fast.

She laughs, but it's a delighted sound. He wags his tail. She scratches him behind the ears, and it's brilliant.

He licks her face. James would kick his arse for it, but Lily doesn't know how much Sirius is left when he changes, and who can resist a dog kiss?

She curls up around him and sighs happily. Padfoot is several degrees warmer than Sirius, and there's all that warm, soft fur to boot. No need to worry about… circumstances, either. It's a good arrangement all around.

"I think I prefer you like this," she says, but she's rubbing his ear between her fingers, so he really doesn't mind.

* * *

Days pass. Another questioning session leaves him weak and trembling again. Lily holds him until he can sit up and then, by mutual agreement, they don't speak of it.

He knows nothing of value to the Death Eaters, nothing they don't already know; the trick is to start off saying that, so that they don't believe him. Of course, the instant they bring in a Legilimens, his game's up, but he's relatively certain they won't do that anytime soon. He's a low priority—a member of the Order mostly by association, stumbling near greatness because of who his friends are. He's never been happier to be unimportant.

Besides, he suspects that Bella's having too much fun with him to want to see it end anytime soon.

He worries about Lily. He doesn't think the cold is good for her. She sleeps a lot, even more than before, and sometimes she feels hot to the touch. She has a cough that he doesn't like the sound of. She won't say anything about it, though. Stubborn.

Just now, she's gone into herself. She does that sometimes—goes so far inside that she's barely there. It unnerves him, so he generally does what he can to disrupt it.

"So," he says conversationally. "No white wedding then, Evans?"

Her eyes slowly find him. "What?"

"The wedding. Muggle custom, I hear. Do I have it wrong? This is a… rifle wedding, isn't that the term? So no white dress. What colour do you wear?"

"Rifle wedding?" She blinks, frowning. "Shotgun? Is that what you mean? Because I'm pregnant?"

"Isn't that the way it works?"

"You bastard! James loves me." She's Lily again, snapping fire and ready to twist his head off. It's an improvement, he thinks.

He shrugs. "Well, obviously. I was just asking about the dress."

"You—" She stops and presses a hand to her abdomen.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I—I thought I felt something."

The baby? "Is it all right?" Please Godric, don't let anything be going wrong. He's exactly the wrong person to help her if something's going wrong. He has a passing familiarity with the equipment, but it's hardly from a professional perspective. "Lily?"

She looks up, smiling, and she's so beautiful that his throat catches. "It moved. I think… it felt like bubbles. Tiny bubbles."

He can't help staring.

She slides a hand under her shirt, pressing it against her abdomen. He can see now that it's not as flat as he'd thought—there's a bump, the slightest promise of changes to come. She closes her eyes, and it's as if she's trying to touch the baby through her own pale skin.

He swallows. "Bubbles, eh? You're sure it wasn't gas?"

"Sirius? Could you do me a favour? Just for a moment, could you pretend you're not here?"

* * *

It's late. They're leaning together against the wall, in their accustomed place. Why always this wall, Sirius wonders, and not one of the others? It's not like the view is any different.

She turns to face him and tucks her chin over his shoulder; he's seen her do the same with James, so he wraps his arms around her the way James does. Maybe she's pretending. Would it be such a bad thing, really? Whatever keeps them sane, right?

"We're going to die here, aren't we?" she says.

Yes. "Why would you say that?"

"I can't think why they haven't killed us already." She loops her arms around his waist.

He turns his head slightly, presses against her hair. They've been here for nearly a week, and he suspects that neither of them smells as fresh as they once did. It doesn't bother him. He spends much of his time as a dog, for Godric's sake.

"I expect it's due to my charm," he says.

She swats at him.

"Well it's certainly not due to yours," he continues.

She laughs, and then she's quiet, resting against him. "Could you turn into Padfoot? Please?"

He's not sure whether to be offended. "Why?"

"There's something I need to say."

"Say it to me. You know I can understand you anyhow, right? Even as Padfoot?"

"Please, Sirius."

He holds her at arms' length so he can look at her. She's pale. The bulge in her middle is more visible now, but he suspects that it's only because she's lost weight. Her skin seems fragile, almost translucent. Easily bruised. She coughs at night, now, all night, every night, and has the marks under her eyes to prove it.

"All right," he says, and transforms.

She wraps her arms around him, threading her fingers into his shaggy fur, and presses her head against his. "Thank you," she says.

He whines.

"You teased me… about a shotgun wedding," Lily says.

He licks her face in apology.

"No. I know. It's not that. It's just… we're not getting married because of the baby. But sometimes I wonder if we're getting married because of the war."

He knows enough not to interrupt.

"I love James, I do. He's a good person. It's just… we're still so young. To be having a baby, to be getting married. I wonder if part of it is just another stupid act of defiance, you know? Proving that we'll go on as normal, no matter what. Only it's not as normal, is it? Because we probably would have waited, and… and made sure."

She's rubbing his ear absently again. He wonders if she's really speaking to him, or more to herself.

"Things are different when there's a war on. They just are. How are you supposed to know?"

Padfoot can't answer. That's probably why she wanted him to change.

* * *

That night is a bad one.

Sirius stays in dog form until Lily is asleep; it seems the best way to give her some semblance of privacy. After, though, he needs to be himself. He gets up carefully, not disturbing Lily, and moves to the other side of the cell. He needs to think.

Bellatrix has other ideas.

He shivers when he sees her. She's never come at night before.

"Aww, ickle preggers is sleeping," she says. "What? No puppy to cuddle?"

"What do you want, Bella?"

She pouts. "I'm bored."

"Yes, well, you lot are rather dull."

"Ah, but I've prisoners to play with." She taps her wand against a metal bar. "I do so love to play." Tap.

He moves to screen Lily from view. "Take me, then. Leave her alone."

She smiles. "Such a brave," tap, "brave," tap, "Gryffindor. Pity you're not the one she wants." She presses the tip of her wand to her lips—kissing it or telling it a secret—then points it at him.

He holds perfectly still, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

"Dissimulo," she says.

It's not what he expected. There's no pain, only a strange sort of tingle all over his body. "What did you do?" His voice sounds wrong. He's wearing glasses. He gropes for them and pulls them off. They're round, likes James's, and the cell is blurry without them so he slides them back on.

She laughs. "I've just helped things along. You should thank me." She points her wand at Lily and makes a circling motion, then turns it on herself and fades from view. He knows her well enough to be certain that she's still there, watching—just Disillusioned. He wonders how often she's been there when he wasn't aware of it.

Lily stirs and wakes. She sits up, presses a hand to her forehead. "Dizzy," she says. Her voice is thick with sleep.

"Lily. Are you all right? What did she do to you?" He kneels beside her.

She blinks. "James?"

"What?" He looks down at himself. He's dressed in Gryffindor robes, complete with tie. The Head Boy badge is attached, which is a joke in and of itself. Godric. She didn't. He feels his face—the shape of the features is wrong. He should be sprouting several days' worth of stubble, but all he feels is smooth skin. His hair is scruffy, short and messy.

"Lily, it's me. Sirius."

She frowns. "I had a dream. Sirius was in it." The frown dissolves into a dreamy smile. "I'm glad you're here. I've missed you."

She grabs him by the tie and pulls him close. At Hogwarts he saw her do the same to James, once, and found it vaguely arousing—he liked the take-chargedness of the gesture. It's even better when he's the one wearing the tie.

There's no time to think about that, though, before she's pressing her mouth against his. Her lips are chapped and she tastes like a week without toothpaste, but he really doesn't care. Merlin, she knows what to do with her tongue.

"Missed you," she says again, pulling back. "Where have you been?" She runs her hands up his back, then down again, cupping his arse and pressing her hips against his. There's no way she can miss his… circumstances.

"Lily, don't."

"What's wrong?" He's backing away, but she follows. She has her hand on him now, and—oh.

"I'm not James," he says. His jaw is clenched. He hopes Bella's enjoying her fucking show, because this is sadistic, even for her. When did she develop the discipline for mind games? He thinks he preferred her as the Queen of Cruciatus.

Lily has backed him up against the wall now. She takes his hand and places it on her breast, and it's every bit as round and full and—he pulls his hand down, but she's rubbing against him now, and making little noises that—.

"Bella, you bitch. Stop it!" he yells.

She laughs. He can hear it, but he can't see her. Lily doesn't seem to notice the laugh, or his protests. It would be easier, maybe, just to go along with it. Easier to—to what? Fuck his best friend's girl? Take advantage of Lily when she doesn't even know where she is? Sirius may not be a saint, but he's not going to sink that low.

He does the only thing he can think of. He transforms into Padfoot, hoping that it will disrupt the glamour or whatever it is that Bella's done to him.

It works. Lily staggers back, horrified. Bella blinks into sight, her face twisted with rage, wand pointed at him. "Crucio!"

Somewhere after the first curse, he loses the ability to stay in his Animagus form. He's human, fully himself as he writhes and screams. He feels bad at first, because Lily has never seen him tortured before. Then he doesn't feel anything at all except the pain.

* * *

It's a long time before he can move. Lily's not holding him this time, as he comes back to himself. She's sitting against the wall, hugging her knees, watching him. Her face is red and tear-stained, but she's not crying now.

"Is it over?" she asks.

He nods. "I think so." He wonders if Bella is watching. He doesn't know what to say. "Lily, I—"

"Don't," she says. "I don't want to talk about it."

"All right."

She crawls over to him. "Can I touch you now?"

He closes his eyes. Everything aches and burns, but there's none of that high-pitched singing along his nerves; the raw feeling has subsided. "Could," he says.

He feels her fingers, tentative at first, stroking his hair away from his face. She grows more certain, combing his hair with her fingers, letting her other hand trail down his neck and linger on his collarbone. "You don't feel like he does," she says. "You have more sharp edges."

There's no answer he can make.

"Can you sit up?"

He nods, so she helps him.

She pulls him into a hug that's warm and solid and reassuring; she's strong for her size, and right now she's giving her strength to him. He closes his eyes and soaks it in.

She traces the line of his eyebrow, lets her finger follow the planes of his face down to his jawline. He knows he must feel rough under her hand, unshaven and unwashed.

She kisses him. It's soft and questioning—not like the hungry kiss she forced on him under Bella's spell, and she pulls back when she's done.

"Lily—I'm not James," he says in weak protest.

She looks him full in the face, leaving him no room for doubt. "I know," she says. "I know who you are."

She kisses him again and he responds, because it feels good, because she's Lily, and even filthy with a week's worth of cell-scum, she's still beautiful. Because she's here. He deepens the kiss and she lets him, but just when he's about to lose himself in it, she pulls away. "We can't."

He's breathing hard. "I know," he says. They're quiet for a moment. "Do you want—?" he begins, but trails off, because he doesn't know what he'll do if she says yes. He's not strong enough yet. "I'm not sure I can change into Padfoot right now," he admits.

"Don't," she says. She presses him down so that they're both lying on the floor, then curls into him. "Just sleep."

He's tired enough to do as she asks.

Sometime through the night, he wakes up to the sound of crying. She has moved away from him; he touches her shoulder.

"She told me," Lily says. "What they're going to do with the baby."

He doesn't know what to say, so he rubs her back.

"You knew, didn't you?"

He doesn't want to admit it, but to lie would be worse. "Suspected."

It's dark; he feels more than sees her nod. "Thank you," she says. "For not telling me."

He rubs her back until he is certain that she's asleep, then he lies in the dark and thinks of the many ways he'd like to kill Bellatrix.

* * *

He hears shouting. He's so knackered that it takes him a moment to remember where he is, why he's lying on cold floor with a warm body draped over him. Lily's breathing softly into his neck, her lips hot against his skin.

"Down here," he hears, and before he can move or sit up or think of a fucking plan, there are footsteps outside the cell.

"Black." The gravelly voice can only belong to Moody. "You alive?"

Relief rushes through him. Relief and something else. "No thanks to you lot." He shakes Lily gently. "I think the cavalry's here, Evans."

"Mmm?"

He sits up, bringing her with him, and that's when he sees James. The look on his friend's face strips his words away; Sirius doesn't think he's ever been speechless as often as he has this week. James looks hurt and hopeful and confused all at the same time, and yet as his gaze turns to Lily, it's obvious that this is a man deeply, deeply in love.

"Lily. Are you all right?" He doesn't look at Sirius.

"I'm fine," she says.

There's a silence that's entirely out of place and can't mean anything good. "Better once you get us out of here," Sirius suggests.

It takes Moody a couple of spells to get the door open, and then James is in the cell, transfiguring something—Sirius never does figure out what, and perhaps it's just as well—into a blanket, wrapping Lily in it, and bundling her away. Sirius is left with Moody's proffered hand. He takes it and allows himself to be helped up.

"Looks like you made out all right for yourself, boy," Moody says gruffly.

Sirius closes his eyes. "Shut up," he says. "Just shut up."

To his surprise, Moody does.

* * *

It's several days later when they're allowed to leave St. Mungo's for the relative normalcy of the apartment. Sirius is, he thinks, glad to be home. Mostly.

He's heard the story of Bella's capture and escape, and the series of clues that led the Order members to the cozy little cell he shared with Lily. He doesn't care about that part so much; the important thing is that they got there.

He cares more about the fact that Lily has subtly arranged things so that they're never alone together—not once since the day James and Moody broke them out of the cell. He cares about the shadow in James's eyes when his friend looks at him. There's doubt there. There was never doubt before.

He wants to tell him that nothing happened, but he's not sure that's entirely true. The truth is, it's complicated, and he can't claim that nothing's changed.

He bloody hates change.

Remus has given him a reprieve on the smoking ban, so he's on the balcony again, enjoying a stick of fresh air. It's fucking cold, but somehow warmer than the cell.

He pushes away the memory of Lily's warm body pressed against him.

He's surprises when the door slides open behind him, but he makes a point of not turning around. After a moment, James joins him, leaning against the railing. "I've been an arse," he says, without preamble.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. "And this is news because—?"

"Git. You know what I mean." James swipes the cigarette from him and Sirius is so caught off guard by the gesture that he lets him. "Seeing you like that, all wrapped around each other—I'm sorry. I wasn't there; I don't know what it was like. I shouldn't have thought the worst."

"You weren't there," Sirius agrees.

"It was bad, wasn't it?" James flicks ash into the night air. Sirius watches it fall.

"Bad enough," he says. He looks James in the eye. "You want to know if I slept with her? I didn't."

"I know," James says evenly.

Sirius wonders, fleetingly, if James asked Lily. In a way, he hopes so—she would have torn a strip off him. But maybe it's better if James didn't ask. Maybe it's better if he figured it out himself.

Sirius isn't about to request an explanation.

"You want to know what I think happened?" James asks.

Sirius really doesn't. He shrugs.

"I think you saved her life," James says. "We got you out of that cell, but you saved her. Probably every fucking day you were in there."

"She's stronger than you think." It has to be said.

"I know how strong she is," James says. He drops the cigarette butt to the pavement. "And I know that you saved her. Thanks."

Sirius stares at the outstretched hand. A handshake? Seriously? He doesn't think they've shaken hands since first year, and probably not even then. "Put that thing away, you prat," he says, and wraps James in the gruffest man-hug he can manage. James stiffens, then relaxes when Sirius doesn't give up. "I was doing my job. Best Man, remember?"

"Yeah. I remember," James says, pulling away. "Of course."

"Good." Sirius eyes James. There's one way to know if things are going to be all right between them. "You owe me a cigarette," he announces.

"Piss off." James heads back into the flat.

Things are going to be fine.

-End-