written for jily week
He's gone again.
He carried her to the door, joked around until he set her bare feet on the hard wood floor of the front hall. James joked about how he should have nicked her knickers when he had the chance a few moments ago in the kitchen after they finished not saying goodbye. If he was going to die he wanted to make sure his last memory of her was a bloody fantastic one. He made her laugh, and kissed her playfully, and then passionately, and then slowly. He took his time and held her and told her how much he loved her. He pulled away and shut the door.
He was gone again.
She should have been used to it by now. She should have been used to the cooking meals for one, setting the table for one, ordering drinks for one, doing laundry for one, sleeping alone. She should have been used to gathering every pillow in their house to make a piss poor pillow-James to sleep next to. She should have been used to waking up in the morning and reaching for him and coming up empty, used to the silence. She should have been used to the worry and used to the heart ache.
But she's not, and she knows she never will be.
He's gone again and she's scared again. Because what if this time he doesn't come back? What if this time he does, and he's hurt, or inured, or dead inside? What if he comes back, and he's under the imperius? What if the body that belongs to the man she loves and trusts so much isn't there? What if she couldn't trust that man to love her, because he'd be too busy attacking her?
She's terrified.
There's nothing she can do.
She's helpless.
And god damn it all, Lily Potter fucking hates being helpless.
But she loves her husband.
Her husband lives for his job.
And so she waits, waits in fear and loneliness, in desperation. She paces the halls, leaves pages of the Daily Prophet trailing behind her. She sleeps with a piss poor make shift pillow James, and cooks for one, washes dishes alone, and survives.
She also knows that soon, quite soon, it will be his turn. And he's going to wake up alone. And eat alone, and order food alone because James is not allowed to touch her pots and pans. Soon, he's going to be waiting for her. And he's going to be scared and alone.
And James hates it when she's gone, hates waking up by himself, hates doing dishes alone, hates taking her perfume to bed just so he can have her scent near by.
They leave each other alone, because they can't stay together. They love each other while they can because that's all they have. This war, the Order, it's more important. And it will be. For as long as she can't go out in public without at least one snide comment about her blood. For as long as he gets into fist fights with the people who call her words he can't even convince his lips to form. Until everyone understands that she's just as bright and witty and her blood doesn't mean a god damn thing, the war and the order will always be the third party in their relationship.
And they'll leave each other alone to sleep with pillows and perfume bottles to be with the third person, the bloody mistress that's the war.