Work Text:
The final, triumphant strains of the film’s score swelled, and on the screen, a cartoon knight was placing a comically large crown on the head of a singing teapot. A small, contented sigh came from the bundle of blankets on the sofa. Regulus Black looked down at his son, whose head was a heavy, warm weight against his thigh. Harry’s eyelids were at half-mast, the brilliant green of his irises just visible beneath a fringe of jet-black hair that was so unlike Regulus’s own carefully-styled waves.
“Did the good knight win, Papa?” Harry mumbled, his voice thick with impending sleep.
“He always does, my little star,” Regulus murmured, running his fingers through the boy’s impossably soft hair. “He’s very brave and very good. Just like your father.”
“‘M not brave,” Harry protested sleepily. “The dragon was a bit scary.”
“Being brave isn’t about not being scared. It’s about doing the right thing even when you are. Now, hush. The credits are rolling. Your dad’s favourite part.”
It was a lie, of course. James Potter’s favourite part of any movie night was the chaotic, popcorn-flying beginning, not the quiet, dreamy end. But James wasn’t here. Again.
The digital clock on the mantelpiece glowed 9:47 PM. Movie night had been scheduled for 7:30. Regulus felt not a flicker of irritation, not a prickle of resentment. He had long ago made peace with the chaotic, gravitational pull of his husband’s career. James Potter, CEO of Marauder Technologies, was a force of nature. Deals were struck like lightning, ideas born like sudden summer storms. And like any powerful weather system, he was often, gloriously, unavoidably late.
Regulus didn’t mind. He knew, with a certainty that was as fundamental to him as his own heartbeat, that James adored him. James kissed the floor Regulus walked on. He’d built them this beautiful, light-filled house not as a show of wealth, but as a temple to their family. He’d look at Regulus sometimes across a crowded room with such naked, staggering devotion that Regulus, a man schooled from birth in the art of icy composure, would feel his knees go weak.
This extra, stolen time with Harry was a secret gift. It was in these quiet moments, with his son’s trusting weight against him, that Regulus felt the last of his own childhood’s cold, pure-blooded stiffness truly melt away.
The front door clicked open with the quiet, precise sound of a key in a well-oiled lock. James was always careful not to slam, a habit born from not wanting to wake Harry on the countless nights he crept in past midnight.
Harry, however, was not quite asleep. His head lifted. “Daddy?”
James appeared in the doorway to the living room, his silhouette broad and familiar. He’d shed his suit jacket and tie, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his glasses slightly askew. He looked, as he always did to Regulus, unfairly handsome. A day’s worth of stubble shadowed his strong jaw, and his usually impeccably messy hair was as if he’d been running his hands through it relentlessly.
“There’s my champion!” James’s voice was a warm, booming whisper, but to Regulus’s finely tuned ear, it was a fraction too loud, a touch too forced. He crossed the room in two long strides, scooping Harry up, blankets and all, into a hug that made the little boy giggle sleepily. “Did you and Papa slay the dragon without me?”
“Papa said the knight was brave like you,” Harry said, snuggling into his father’s neck.
“Did he now?” James’s eyes met Regulus’s over their son’s head. The usual brilliant, unguarded warmth in his hazel eyes was banked, shadowed by something pensive. Something troubled. It was there and gone in an instant, replaced by a fond smile, but Regulus had seen it. He raised a single, elegant eyebrow in silent question.
James gave a minute, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Not now.
“Well, your old dad got caught in a bit of a siege at the office. Very boring, all numbers and grumpy men in suits. Nothing as exciting as a fire-breathing dragon.” He kissed Harry’s temple. “But I’m here for the most important part: goodnight kisses.”
He carried Harry towards the stairs, his voice dropping to a low, rumbling storytelling tone. Regulus remained on the sofa, listening to the familiar creak of the third step, the murmur of James’s voice from upstairs, the soft click of Harry’s bedroom door. He methodically folded the throw blankets, his mind working.
Something was wrong. James carried his stresses lightly; he was a man who solved problems with relentless optimism and charm. This was different. This was a weight.
A few minutes later, James came back downstairs. He paused at the bottom, running a hand through his hair again, a sure sign of agitation.
“He was out before his head hit the pillow,” James said, his voice softer now, the Daddy-performance over.
“He fought sleep valiantly,” Regulus replied, placing the last cushion neatly in its corner. He rose and glided towards the kitchen. “You must be starving. I kept some coq au vin warm for you. It’ll only take a moment to heat up properly.”
He moved into the spacious, warm kitchen, all dark wood and gleaming marble. He was reaching for the copper knob on the AGA when James’s arms slid around his waist from behind. Regulus leaned back into the solid, familiar comfort of his husband’s chest, a small smile touching his lips.
“I don’t want food,” James murmured into his hair. His voice was rough.
Before Regulus could reply, James was turning him gently, his hands firm on Regulus’s hips. Then James was kissing him. It wasn’t their usual hello kiss, quick and sweet and full of unspoken I-missed-yous. This was something else entirely. It was deep, and desperate, and possessive. It was a kiss that tasted of pure, unadulterated want, edged with a strange, frantic energy that felt like fear.
It surprised Regulus. Pleasantly, intensely, but it was a surprise nonetheless. He melted into it, his hands coming up to frame James’s face, his thumbs stroking the tense line of his jaw. James made a low sound in his throat, his grip on Regulus’s hips tightening, and he walked him backward until the edge of the heavy oak kitchen table pressed against the backs of Regulus’s thighs.
“Jamie—” Regulus managed to gasp when James broke the kiss to trail his mouth down the column of his throat.
James didn’t answer. His hands were everywhere, familiar and claiming. He hoisted Regulus up onto the table with an effortless strength that still, after all these years, sent a thrill through Regulus. parchment and a bowl of fruit skittered out of the way. James stepped between his knees, his mouth finding that specific, devastating spot just below Regulus’s ear that never failed to make him shudder.
And Regulus did shudder. A moan escaped him, and he tangled his hands in James’s hopelessly messy hair, pulling him closer. He loved this. He loved this man, his passion, his single-minded intensity. He loved the feel of his stubble against his neck, the way his large hands spanned his waist, the sheer, overwhelming James-ness of him.
But the taste of that desperate energy was still there, a discordant note in their perfect harmony.
“James,” Regulus breathed, his voice stronger now, though laced with the desire James was so expertly stoking. “Jamie, stop. Wait.”
James stilled instantly, his forehead dropping to rest against Regulus’s collarbone. His breathing was ragged.
Regulus cupped his face, forcing him to look up. “Is not that I don’t love this,” he said softly, tracing the line of James’s brow. “God, you know I do. But… everything okay? You’re… different.”
James sighed, a heavy, weary sound that seemed to come from the very core of him. The frantic energy drained away, leaving behind only the troubled man who had walked through the door. He leaned into Regulus’s touch, closing his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I needed to…”
“You needed to remind yourself that you’re James Potter, and you’re mine,” Regulus finished for him, his voice gentle. “I am always yours. You never need to remind me, and you certainly never need to remind yourself. Now talk to me. What happened?”
James opened his eyes, and the raw hurt in them made Regulus’s chest tighten.
“It was the Pucey deal,” James began, his voice low and tight. “The new sponsor. We were finalizing the terms. Everything was perfect. Better than perfect. It’s a huge contract, Reg. It would fund the new R&D wing for two years.”
“I take it the ‘but’ is significant,” Regulus prompted, his fingers still stroking comforting circles on James’s skin.
“The sponsor is a woman. Cassandra Pucey. Sharp. Brilliant, actually. She knew her stuff inside and out.” James’s jaw tightened. “She also knew everything about me. The company. My… personal life. She made a point of asking after you and Harry. Showed me a picture of the four of us from the charity gala last month that her photographer had taken. Said we were a ‘vision of domestic bliss’.”
He spat the last words as if they were poison.
“Go on,” Regulus said, his voice gone cool and level. The Black family temper, a glacial and deadly thing, was beginning to stir from its long dormancy.
“We were closing. Pens were practically in hand. Her lawyers had left. Mine were packing up. It was just the two of us in the conference room for a final toast.” James took a deep, shaky breath. “And she… she insinuated herself. Put her hand on my arm. Said a man of my ‘passion and drive’ must find a quiet domestic life… restrictive. Said that a partnership, in business and… otherwise, could be so much more… stimulating.”
Regulus went very still. The air in the kitchen grew cold.
“She knew,” James said, his voice trembling now with a fresh wave of anger. “She knew I was married. She’d just been talking about my bloody husband and son. She looked me in the eye, complimented my family, and then propositioned me as if you were… as if you were a minor obstacle. A lifestyle choice that could be easily changed for the right price.”
“What did you do?” Regulus asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
“I removed her hand from my person,” James said, his tone glacially polite. “I told her the deal was off. That Marauder Technologies would not be accepting a single knut of her money.”
Relief and a fierce, proud love surged through Regulus. Of course. Of course, his brilliant, beautiful, moral man would do that.
“But that’s not all, is it?” Regulus guessed. “That alone wouldn’t put this look on your face.”
James let out a short, bitter laugh. “No. That’s not all. I called the team in. Told them the deal was dead. That Ms. Pucey had made advances I found profoundly disrespectful and unprofessional, and that we would be seeking sponsorship elsewhere.”
He paused, and the pain was back in his eyes, mixed with a bewildered betrayal.
“And some of them… Peter, and even looked a bit… he didn’t get it. Peter said… he said, ‘James, it’s a huge amount of money. And she’s powerful. Can’t we just… manage it? Be polite, avoid being alone with her? It’s not worth torpedoing the entire deal over.’”
James looked at Regulus, his expression utterly lost. “He acted as if I was being oversensitive. As if it was a minor professional inconvenience, a bit of flirtation to be shrugged off for the sake of the bottom line. As if my marriage, my commitment to you, was a… a preference to be set aside when it became financially inconvenient.”
The glacial anger in Regulus thawed into a white-hot fury, not at the woman—she was irrelevant—but at the so-called friends who had dared to diminish his husband’s integrity.
“They think,” James continued, his voice cracking, “that because I’m charming, because I smile, that I don’t have lines that can’t be crossed. That you are a line that can be negotiated. They don’t understand. They don’t understand that you are the centre. You and Harry. This,” he gestured around their kitchen, their home, “isn’t the backdrop to my life, Reg. It is my life. The company, the money… it’s just the thing I do to take care of my heart, which is upstairs asleep and right here in front of me.”
Regulus’s heart felt too large for his chest. He slid off the table and took James’s face in both his hands.
“Listen to me, James Potter,” he said, his voice low and fierce, every syllable etched in steel. “You are the best man I have ever known. You are rich, and you are charming, and you are so blindingly good it sometimes hurts to look at you. You do not need her money. You do not need anyone who does not offer you the respect you deserve. What you did was not oversensitive. It was right. It was loyal. It was you.”
He kissed him then, not with the desperate heat of before, but with a slow, deep certainty.
“Those people who didn’t understand?” Regulus pulled back, his grey eyes flashing with a hint of the Black family fire. “They are fools. And tomorrow, you will go into that office, and you will tell them that James Potter’s love for his family is not a negotiating point. It is non-negotiable. And if they have a problem with that, they can find employment elsewhere. You are the sun, James. They are merely satellites. They would do well to remember their place.”
James stared at him, the tension and hurt in his frame finally beginning to dissolve, replaced by a look of sheer, awe-struck wonder. “I love you,” he whispered, as if it were the first and most profound truth in the universe.
“I know,” Regulus said, a small, smug smile finally touching his lips. “Now. Sit down. Let me make you that dinner. You need to keep your strength up.”
“Oh?” James asked, a genuine, familiar grin starting to break through. “Why’s that?”
Regulus turned to the stove, throwing a look over his shoulder that was all promise and wicked intent. “Because after I’ve fed you, I’m going to show you exactly how much I appreciate my loyal, perfect, fucking rich and charming husband.”
And as James laughed, the sound once again warm and free and filling their home, Regulus knew that everything was, and would always be, perfectly alright. They had dragons to slay, but they would always, always slay them together.