It was strange to see it all like this. It looked so much bigger, a suddenly-cavernous space compared to the cosy fortress it had been only twelve hours ago. But that was to be expected, she supposed, with all the furniture either crammed into the hired van idling outside the building, or palmed off on anyone who had passed even the faintest interest in a coffee table, or kettle, or whatever. "We don't need two," she had said to herself, even as she'd felt a strange sort of tug, giving away her precious kettle.
James had laughed fondly at her as she'd closed the door, suddenly kettle-less and oddly bereft, and had tugged her into a warm embrace, swaying her as if in a dance. "You'll be okay," he reminded her, his lips brushing her ear. "I promise you, my kettle will be just as good at making tea as that one was."
A pretty bold statement, she had informed him, but he was right.
Now, her flat was empty, the last of the boxes hauled out by their ever-accommodating friends; Lily stood, leaning against the wall, ostensibly checking that they hadn't missed anything, but really just taking a moment to linger a while longer.
She knew it was daft to feel this way: the flat she and James had found was so much more spacious, with enough bedrooms even for them to have guests stay over and for her to have somewhere to work. It was in an old Victorian house, high ceilings and large windows which let light spill in; it was only a ten minute walk away from Sirius and Remus', fifteen minutes from the pub, and on the right side of Oxford for visiting Dor and Mary. If it had been any more perfect, it would've been suspicious.
And that was all before considering the most important fact of all. They had both wanted to take their time, to not rush one another into anything—probably, she thought, it was more his careful consideration of her than the other way around, but still. They had been more or less happily taking turns staying at the flat above the pub (handy after an evening of drinking) or back at hers, until finally, two months ago, Lily had had what she described to Dorcas as "a medium-sized strop" about the fact that her favourite pyjamas were back at her place, and wouldn't it just be so much easier if they moved in together?
"And they say romance is dead," he had grinned, unable to hide his delight at the idea as he swept her close for a kiss. "Let's do it."
So this feeling, the strange sort of tug in her gut, certainly wasn't because she didn't want to move out. She was excited, ready for the next step in their relationship: to always wake up next to him, to know he would be there to go home to, to have a place that was theirs. A few years ago it had seemed an impossibility, but here they were. It made her heart flutter, a little, to think of what the next steps on from this might be.
She couldn't quite put her finger on it, on why she felt this way. Why she felt she could cry, maybe, if given the chance.
She hadn't noticed the sound of his footsteps on the communal stairs, or even the sound of him moving inside the flat; she wasn't aware of his presence at all, in fact, until she noticed him standing at her side, the warmth of his arm against hers. "Okay, so the van's loaded and ready, I've talked Sirius out of driving—" he was saying, and then there was a pause. She couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from where the table had once stood, where she had once leaned against the counter and stared at James across the expanse of the kitchen, not quite ready to bare her soul, her darkest secrets.
When she finally forced herself to look to her side, he was gone. She frowned slightly, wondering, again, how she could have not noticed it happening, but she didn't give the thought time to linger: her focus returned to the empty spread of the flat in front of her.
Minutes passed, and she was just giving herself a stern talking to—this is a happy day, for fuck's sake, pull yourself together—when she felt James' arms slip around her waist, his head dipping to dot a soft, unassuming kiss to the curve of her neck. She blinked, her hands moving automatically to skate along his bare forearms. "Sorry," she murmured, and wasn't sure what she was sorry for. "Did you say the van's ready?"
He nodded, but didn't let go. "Sirius and Remus are driving it to the new place, they're going to get started on unloading the boxes," he told her, his voice quiet, soft. Comforting. "Mary and Ally have gone to Marks to get some sandwiches in, and Dorcas…" He paused; she could feel his smile against her skin. "Well, I'm not sure where she's gone off to, but I'm sure she'll turn up eventually."
Lily frowned. "Oh, so we should get going, then," she said, trying to shift in his embrace: in his gentle, loving way, he didn't let her, just keeping her close. "We can't let the boys do all the heavy lifting—"
"We can," he corrected her. "Sirius has done just about everything he can to avoid it so far. It's the least he could do."
She sighed, closing her eyes. "James…"
"It's okay to need a few minutes," he said. "We're not in a rush."
Silence settled over them, just a few moments, but it was like the time was a soothing balm to the soreness that had lingered inside her. Time, and his steady, warm presence.
"I don't know why I feel like this," she said at last, her voice cracking a little—laughter, and sadness. "I swear, I'm so happy to live with you, it's not—it's not that I don't want to…"
He nodded his understanding, pressing another soft kiss to her shoulder. Each brush of his lips melted her just a bit more, if it were possible. "This was a place of safety for you, for so many years," he replied. "It must feel…strange, to give that up."
Another thing she loved about him: he was so good at putting her strange, mixed-up thoughts into words. "It is," she agreed softly. "I—I lived here for five years. There were times where it felt like the only place I could be myself, you know? Where it wouldn't matter if I was sad, or shaken, or struggling, because no one was here to see it." He nodded again, giving her a gentle squeeze of reassurance. "And it's not like I'll miss having only myself to process my emotions," she continued, her voice quieter, somehow. She was sure he could hear the ache there. "Sometimes it felt like these four walls were the only things keeping all the pain together, pinning it in one place, and that…that was a horrible feeling."
"It must have been lonely," he murmured.
"It was, a bit," she said, her gaze caught now on the wall opposite, where just an hour ago various photos had been displayed. "But—there were good times, too. With Mare and Dor and Ally. And…even if it was hard, I felt safe here." She paused; frowned. "I'm not saying—I know I'll be safe, with you, it's not…"
Again, she felt his smile, like a burst of sun against her skin. "Lil, it's okay," he assured her. "I'm not taking offence, I promise."
She believed him; he just got it, could parse meaning even when she was struggling to express herself. It was frightening, in a way, to be so seen—frightening, but exhilarating, all at once. "Good," she murmured, and smiled. "They're very mixed up, these feelings. It's a miracle I'm making any sense at all."
"Lucky I speak fluent Evans, then," he replied, voice light as a feather.
She laughed, something she hadn't thought was possible even five minutes ago. "The shit you have to put up with…"
"It's not shit," he informed her lightly. "And it's not 'putting up with', Dr Evans. It's an honour and a privilege."
At that, she twisted in his arms; he raised his head to meet her gaze, a fond smile on his face. "God, it must be bad," she teased softly, "for you to 'Dr Evans' me."
He gave a careless shrug, apparently unable to wipe the smile from his face. "No, I just like to bring it out every now and then," he replied. "Turns me on."
Another laugh, and she stood on her tiptoes to reach his lips with her own. "I love you," she murmured, "you daft, wonderful man."
"I love you too," he said, his arms encircling her waist easily, drawing her even closer against his body. "And I will happily stand here all day if that's what you need."
She sighed, not unhappily, and rested her head on his chest: hearing the sound of his heartbeat was always a comfort to her, a reminder of the constant in her life now, of wounds that were slowly healing. "I'm okay," she promised him, and she knew it was true. "It's strange, to say goodbye…but it's exciting, too. It's a new era."
"And just think," he murmured in agreement; she didn't need to be able to see his face to know he was smiling. "You're going to have so much fun telling me how awful my taste in decor is."
A smile of her own, and a nod. "I hope you're ready," she tightened her arms around his torso in a brief squeeze. "I can be ruthless in my opinions."
"I was born ready."
She pulled back, and this time she noticed that the knot that had settled in her gut had gone, unpicked, untangled with tender ease. Once again she was grateful for his presence in her life, for the care and love he so readily shared with her. She could only hope he got as much from her as she did from him. "How did I know you were going to say something like that…?"
"Either you know me very well," he considered thoughtfully, "or I'm horribly predictable. Or both."
"You're not horribly anything," she promised, and patted his chest gently. "Okay. Let's go, before Sirius starts putting things in the wrong rooms out of spite."
He smirked, but paused, his hand lifting to linger at her jaw. "You sure? Like I said, there's no rush."
"I'm sure," she promised. She let herself take one more kiss, just a brief brush of lips. "Thank you."
A kiss, and one last glance around the flat; yes, it had been a place of safety, but also where she'd bottled everything up, kept herself in a lonely kind of stasis, scared to open herself up to the truth for fear that it would drown her. She was ready to leave that behind. Time to move on.
She turned, finding James watching her—his face was a map of affection, of sweet, quiet adoration. She matched his soft smile with one of her own, and reached for his hand. "Let's go."
The new flat had been a hive of activity by the time they got there, Sirius managing to contain his possible vengeful urges by ensuring that, so far, the furniture was all in the right place (Lily suspected that it was Remus' good influence that had led to that kind of success). Mary and Alice had returned from the shops weighed down with bags of food and drink, including several bottles of prosecco that they insisted on opening, despite James' protestations ("how are we going to unpack if we're all half cut?" "oh, I'm sorry, Potter, I didn't realise you were a wuss"). In fact, the fizz probably helped move things along a bit more, a fluidity to their motions that—by some miracle—didn't result in any breakages, just a quicker unpacking of the van.
By six, everyone was a little bit drunk and a lot exhausted. Lily ordered pizzas, and they collapsed on the sofas, amongst the half-opened boxes of books and glassware, letting the cheese and grease soak up some of the alcohol. It probably didn't help, Lily reflected, that James and Sirius had found a box in the kitchen with more booze in; prosecco had already moved on to rum and cokes by the time the food arrived. She had looked around at their friends, these kind souls who had sacrificed their Saturday to help them move, and felt awash with a happy, warming glow. And only some of that was the alcohol.
They all headed off as the clock ticked past eight, Remus promising they would return tomorrow ("oh, we will, will we?" Sirius had asked, eyebrow arched indignantly), and James leaned heavily against the front door after he'd locked it for the night. "Please," he said, "promise me we don't have to unpack any more boxes tonight. I'm sick of boxes."
She shot him a fond smile. "Just the one with our pyjamas and things in."
He considered this for a moment before pushing off the door, sidling over to her. "Or," he started, his arm slipping around her waist, "we could…not wear our pyjamas…"
Lily paused, adopting an innocent expression. "But James, we would get cold."
He grinned. "I could keep you warm, babe…"
She let her fingers tangle in his hair. "You could?" she asked. "Gosh, you're so generous."
"To a fault," he agreed, and leaned in to dot a kiss to her lips. "It is my cross to bear."
She smiled, letting her fingernails scrape gently across his scalp (and enjoying enormously the little shiver of anticipation that rippled through him at the gesture). "You're a saint."
He paused, then, without warning, his hands moved to her arse, lifting her in one swift movement; her legs wrapped easily around his waist, her grip on his shoulder and in his hair tightening just a little.
"Come on then, Lil…since I'm so saint-like…" he grinned, already walking her back towards their bedroom. He made it seem easy, carrying her and navigating around the boxes strewn in their path; he even managed to kick the bedroom door shut behind them and switch on the light with his elbow, the sort of simple dexterity that only made her want him more. He didn't finish his sentence until he had pushed her up against the wall, not very far into their new bedroom, to lean in for a kiss—much less sweet than previous ones, a frisson of intensity and electricity between them—and murmured, "...I can make you see God."
She couldn't help but let out a moan, not just at his words but at the feeling of his lips against hers, the delicious friction of him right where she needed it most, even through two pairs of jeans. "Fuck, James," she gasped out, her hand clenching in his hair. "You even make blasphemy hot…"
He laughed, and kissed her so thoroughly, so completely, that she wondered afterwards if she had lost consciousness somewhere in there; but, no, she couldn't have, because she was so aware of his hand snaking up inside her top, the way his fingers had found their way to the clasp of her bra with a finesse she admired—she can't have been unconscious, not even a bit, to have helped him pull off her t-shirt, to let her head tip back against the wall with a satisfying thunk as his lips moved from her own down to the curve of her breasts.
Losing time under James' lips, or at the ministrations of his hands, or…other parts, was not uncommon: he relished any opportunity to explore, despite the fact that, by now, he must have known every inch of her body better than even she did. Each time his focus wandered over her body, she let herself succumb to the rolling waves of pleasure, a contentment that came alongside it, knowing that this was the man she loved so entirely, that she trusted beyond all else—there was something arousing even in that. And she gave as good as she got, of course, thoroughly enjoying any chance she got to skate her fingers along the muscled planes of his body, to tease sighs and groans from his lips, each one a gift. A prize. A blessing.
She came back to her mind as he shifted, moving them away from the wall and over to the bed. She could only thank whatever higher being had given her the idea of making the bed as soon as it was situated in the correct room, because being dropped into the cushiony softness of fresh linens was decidedly more pleasant than it otherwise would've been. There was no need to worry about anything at all, about tedious logistics or housekeeping concerns. It was just them, together and alone at last.
He paused, still standing, to admire the sight before him, a smile on his face that made her blush. "First night in our first home together," he explained, tugging off his own t-shirt, and then, his jeans. Her gaze lingered on the hard line of his erection in his boxers for just a moment too long, because when her eyes returned to his, his grin had become all too knowing, a bit smug—a lot sexy. Ugh. "I'm trying to savour it."
"Well," she offered, letting her own hands slip down her torso, fiddling with the button of her own jeans, "you could savour it…just, over here."
His fond laugh was shortly followed by him climbing onto the bed, hovering over her to help her slide her jeans and knickers down her hips. "Okay. If you insist," he replied. "Although I have to say, I thought you were enjoying the view…"
She smirked. "I was," she agreed. "And you can't shame me for it. It is my view to enjoy, after all."
He cast her clothes over his shoulder—they landed on one of the unopened boxes, helpfully enough—and slipped his hand between her legs, eliciting a gasp from her which he kissed from her lips. "It is," he confirmed, his voice a low murmur. "All yours."
Her hips bucked into his touch, her eyelids fluttering shut of their own accord. "James…" was just about all she could manage to say, her fingers digging into his back, an encouragement all of its own.
"Our own place," he mumbled, his lips now affixed to the curve of her neck; the combination of it, of the careful, practised brush of his fingers at the apex of her thighs, and the slow warmth of his mouth on her skin, was almost enough to push her over the edge completely. Into the abyss, one she would gladly fall into, over and over, as long as he was there to catch her every time. "I get to see you every morning…"
A flick of his wrist, a quickening of the pace, there; a curl of his fingers, and a circling of his thumb—she cried out even louder now, her back arching, her hips moving in tandem with his hand, chasing that feeling, the edge so close now, the edge she craved. "Oh, fuck—"
"And kiss you goodnight, every night," he continued, pausing to suck gently at her collarbone. There'd be a mark there in the morning, probably, and she couldn't have cared less if she'd tried. "And…pick up your shoes that you leave halfway between the front door and the bedroom, for some reason…"
Her head was buzzing, now, her whole body burning with a pulsing kind of pleasure; he knew exactly where he had her, and his movements sped up, intensified to the point where she could practically see stars. "Please, oh, yes, yes—"
"And get you to test-eat my weird pasta dishes," he continued, "and do this, get you to make these noises, fuck, on every fucking surface in this place—"
Apparently, that was all it took. Well, those words, and the deft work he had put in between her legs, because the orgasm came crashing down around her, as swift as a tidal wave, her whole body ablaze with it, and he didn't stem his movements, didn't change anything until the pleasure started to ebb, just a little, and then his lips were back on hers, and she realised that he'd tugged off his boxers at some point, because he lifted her knee, angled himself just so, and pushed into her with the most insanely erotic groan she'd ever heard.
(Okay—every groan, or moan, or whimper that she'd heard from him was 'the most erotic' she'd ever heard. She couldn't help it. It was just…him.)
"Fucking—yes, god, James," she said, almost a hiss of pleasure. She clung onto his shoulders, as if she were drowning and he was her liferaft. The sexiest fucking liferaft ever. "Don't—"
He had buried his face in her neck, perhaps overwhelmed, too, by the feeling of being inside her—if it felt half as good to him as it did to her, she could only imagine the need to pause. "Christ, Lil," he mumbled, and started to move his hips in earnest, the friction more than enough to send shivering zips of delight throughout her body. "Think you can—get there—again?"
She couldn't resist scraping her nails across his back—he'd once told her, in the soft, idle hours after sex, that he almost lost his head when she did that—and lifted her hips to meet his. "God, yes…"
She'd never been able to come more than once in such quick succession before James, although, in fairness, it had turned out that what she had experienced before him hadn't even been a proper orgasm. Maybe it was the fact that he knew her so well, and she knew him; maybe it was the trust, and the love, between them. Maybe it was just that he was so fucking sexy that he regularly distracted her from day-to-day tasks, just by his mere existence. Whatever it was, she wasn't complaining. She'd barely come down from her last orgasm and he already had her ratcheting up again, climbing back up so rapidly that it seemed to steal the breath from her lungs.
He took this as the encouragement he needed, lifting her leg even more to catch just the right angle, to draw just the right moan from her lips. "You sound—" he cut himself off with a groan of his own, his face almost pained with the effort of holding himself back. "Fuck, you sound amazing, Evans."
Time had lost all meaning, his answering moans, his muttered words incitement for every charged inch of her body. At one point, with a growl of something like frustration and arousal all in one, they flipped places, Lily arching her back as she straddled his hips, her hands keeping herself steady against his chest, and that seemed to push him almost entirely to breaking point. "Fuck, fuck, Lily—" he gasped. "Look at you, fuck…"
It hardly mattered that he was so close to finding his end, because that shift in position, the way he was angled against her, now, had drawn her to such a point of tension, of exhilarating ecstasy, that all she could do was give in to it, to tip her head and let herself go with a cry of his name. He followed soon after, his grip on her hips never wavering as his own stuttered and faltered, the groan that fell from his lips so delicious, so wanton, that she had to collapse atop him, had to capture that groan in a kiss, something lazy and sweet that seemed utterly at odds with what they had just done.
It took a while to come down from that high—hardly surprising, her body still lit up from the intensity of the pleasure—but eventually, she became aware of his hand painting soothing circles on her back, of his lips, pressing soft, idle kisses into her hair. "Bloody hell," she murmured, and knew that he smiled, even if she couldn't see him. "That was…"
"Yeah," he agreed, voice husky, ragged with use. It was one of her favourite ways for him to sound. "Good job christening the new flat, eh?"
Her own smile was wide, impossible to quell. She closed her eyes with a peaceful sigh. "A very good place to start."