¯\_(ツ)_/¯

He has gone by many names and many more faces in the millennia since his creation. They'd called him Persephone, once. Had worshipped him, offered tributes in his honour, and celebrated the beginning of spring. He hasn't been worshipped in a long time. The name he settles on this time is James Potter, a sensible, dependable, ordinary name for something as unordinary as he is. He likes it. It suits him; suits this version of him.

This version is a painter who can barely afford the rent on a one bedroom flat in East London (you can only be a florist so many times); who wears glasses because without them his eyesight is terrible, and whose bedside table consists of the entire works of Jane Austen.

He feels the cold fingers of winter begin to wind their way through the broken bedroom window; feels the damp, mildewy mattress beneath him shake slightly, and smiles. It's slow, leisurely, taking its time to spread across his face and he doesn't bother trying to hide it. He doesn't move because it would be pointless. She'll find him, because she always finds him.

He knows she's close when his breath starts billowing out tiny clouds in front of him. The cold becomes so unbearable that ice streaks across the murky windowpane, but he still doesn't move. He senses the moment she materialises in the small landing outside his front door, and rolls his eyes. The build up has always been her favourite part; the silent battle of wills to see who'll cave first and bridge that final gap.

She pauses, and James still doesn't move. His breath almost catches in his throat as he waits, the small, stupid niggle of doubt in the back of his mind wondering whether this will be the time she doesn't come back for him.

The lock on the front door snicks and the hinges creak as she steps through the doorway. He tries to hide the smug, victorious smile and instead leans back on his hands. His heart starts pounding as her footsteps echo across the bare floorboards of his small kitchenette and he wipes his sweaty palms against the rumpled bedsheet.

The need to see her is so strong that it becomes almost impossible to keep himself anchored to the mattress. She pushes the door of his bedroom open and it's like the stars themselves are smiling down on them.

Neither of them move for a few moments, just watch and drink each other in. She's all hard plains and sharp angles, and he knows it's a conscious choice. Her cheekbones stand out, almost unhealthy in how prominent they are, and he longs to reach out and brush his fingers over them. She's been Lily for the last twenty years; beautiful and fierce and forged from steel, but it doesn't fail from taking his breath away.

She stands tall, her back straight as she steps into the room. She raises an eyebrow at him, her head tilting as she takes him in.

"You look different." She says eventually, her voice quiet but steady. It washes over him in a comfortable, familiar wave that leaves him feeling warm.

"You don't." He answers, rubbing a large hand over the stubble on his chin. It's a stark contrast to the body he last inhabited, he knows. He'd been Dorcas the last time she'd seen him; short and chubby with an afro dyed to match the skies he wishes he could reach.

"You think I should?" She asks, both brows pulling down into a light frown.

"Of course not, dear heart." James says so softly it may as well be a whisper. She's not close enough for him to touch, so he finally takes a step forward and reaches out towards her. His fingers ghost across her cheek and brush up into her hair, pushing some of her fringe out of her face. The feel of her skin under his fills him with a happiness so rich and heavy he doesn't know how to contain it, and he breaks out in a wide grin. "You're beautiful."

Lily smiles. It softens her, the angles of her face becoming gentler at the edges as she leans, ever-so-slightly, into the palm he has on her cheek. "Charmer." He feels her hand on his own and closes his eyes.

"I missed you." He says, although it's vastly inadequate. As if something as simple as 'missed' can truly explain how bone deep his loneliness reaches when he's not with her.

"And I you." He risks opening his eyes again, and it's to find her still smiling up at him. "I wish that I could keep you with me."

"I'd tire of you so quickly. Imagine being stuck with you forever, and the things I'd have to endure." He manages to keep a straight face for approximately twenty seconds before he snorts. "Your enjoyment of Abba is bad enough as it is."

She swats at him with her free hand. "You love it."

"I love you. Questionable music taste aside." He watches her soften even more around the eyes, although her smile becomes sly and mischievous.

"Let's go home." Lily says, pulling his hand away from her cheek so she can tangle their fingers together. He feels the air begin to shift around them, and pulls on her hand to make her stop.

"I want coffee first." James doesn't react to the mildly unhappy look she gives him. "You've waited six months, another ten minutes won't kill you."

"It might." Lily mutters petulantly, but allows herself to be pulled out into the kitchenette anyway.

"Lily." James says. "Zeus himself won't be able to pry me away from you, but first: coffee."

"Fine." Her lips twitch and it makes James smile again. But when he goes to move, she stands firm. "You called me Lily. What do I call you?"

James blinks owlishly at her for several moments. "What you've always called me."

Lily steps close, and it should be funny that she has to stand on her toes to be anywhere near his height, but instead it makes him swallow rather quickly. He sees her track the bob of his adam's apple and then she's breathing the answer against his lips. "Persephone."