Warning: Slash if you titlt your head and squint, metaphorically speaking.
Disclaimer: Pete is mine. Peter Pettigrew...not so much. (Just my little joke, not thatIthink anyone else will actually get it...)
Peter turned the coin in his fingers over and over again. Something to do while he waited, something that wouldn't make noise.
He shivered in the rain. He wished the Lord would hurry up so Peter could get out of there and back to his flat.
He felt something different than the cold drops of downpour on his cheek. It was warm. He reached up to brush it off.
It was a tear.
He was crying; why was he crying? It was the way James wanted to go. In an explosion. Before he got old.
Quick. Painless.
Peter's last gift to James, working hard to convince the Lord to wait just a little while, wait just a little longer, and when that failed, to make it quick.
James had changed his mind a few times on that summer day so long ago, but he'd always wanted a quick death.
Peter had never liked Lily, for reasons James couldn't or wouldn't understand, but James had liked her. James wouldn't have wanted to wait for her. So Peter had arranged it so she'd go with. James would have appreciated it.
It was what James would have wanted.