#im sorry for the subtle reminder there at the end of certain canon deaths

[efkgirldetective]

good that won't go out

~part VI~ { part I & part II & part III & part IV & part V}

& just like that—this wartime drabble series reaches its end ! much love & thanks to the anon who sent in the final prompt & gratitude to all who sent in previous prompts! if i didn’t end up using yours don't fret, at some point in the future i'll do little standalones—as always, thank you for reading&supporting! 💞enjoy!

spoon + green + excitement

James is setting the dinner table ill at ease.

Or rather—setting Lily ill at ease.

Even despite their conversation in the bedroom, not minutes ago, long and roundabout and accomplishing little, a parade of unfounded concerns—

“Tell me why you’re so worried.”

“It’s just...it’s them.”

“Yes—and?”

“And! Lily, it’s—them.”

“Repeating the word with slightly more emphasis isn’t helpful.”

“It’s—I don’t—it’s difficult. I’m a bundle of nerves, and—”

“—basket case, yes—”

“Lils, love, honest, you must understand—you told me, yeah? You were so strange, all day. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand, yes, but—I knew you would...be okay. Be there. I knew. You must know they’ll be just the same.”

“Yes, I know, I know, but...”

“Fucking hell. It’s spaghetti and meatballs and I’m pregnant, Potter, we’ve got to leave the bedroom and face the music.”

“I love you, I do, it’s just—”

“I’m going out. I’ll tell them on my own.”

“No! Evans! I’m—okay, I’m coming, I’m coming, honest, I’m just—”

“Certifiable basket case. I love you, too.”

—even despite it all, his leg bounces—erratically, continuously—up and down beneath the table; absolutely, undeniably ill at ease.

Lily catches the hike of his thigh with her hand. Stills him. Lets him know, out of the corner of her eye, that he is not alone.

“Bread?” she asks, carefully.

“Oh,” he says, and he swallows. Across the table, Peter is elbow-deep in spaghetti and meatballs; oblivious, blissful. Remus pours wine with his wand hand—Lily refuses her glass with a shake of the head—and dabs at Sirius’ already stained jumper with his other hand. Sirius, unconcerned with the jumper, dirty or not, bats at the prying hand and attempts, in one bold go, to drain his entire glass.

James blinks at Lily. “I would like—yes, bread.”

Lily pins him with a purposeful smile. Hands him a piece of bread and mouths, I love you. His throat contracts. She nudges his thigh with hers. Go on.

“Right, erm—er, lads?”

“Lads?” Peter frowns, immediately, up and about from his plate. “Lads, James?”

“Lads,” Remus repeats, brow tense, letting go of the mucked-up jumper, lowering the wine with his wand. “Something big, now is it?”

Sirius looks up and stares: Suspecting. Eyes land on Lily and she keeps them but just smiles, halfway, looks back to her—to the center of herself.

Who is, still, ill at ease. Gone a bit blue-green. “Okay,” he clears his throat and shifts in his chair and everyone stares. “Okay.”

“Oh, in this century, love,” Lily whispers.

“It is big,” James says, pained.

“It is big,” Remus echoes.

Sirius—staring. Picks up a spoon and starts fiddling.

Peter’s frown deepens. He misreads. “Bad as well as big?”

“No, no,” James shakes his head. “Not bad.”

Lily’s hand tightens on his thigh. Comforting squeeze. Somewhere, through an open window, a cool wind. Autumn trees murmuring.

Sirius toys compulsively with the spoon. It clatters, gently, over knuckles.

“We’ve something to—” James sort of stops, and takes one look at Lily, and with her nodding takes her hand from his leg and holds tight and finishes—“something to tell you, lads.”

“Lads.” The spoon clangs, suddenly, against the table—Sirius sucks in an anxious breath. “Go on, then, what the fuck?”

“It’s—there’s to be a—?” Remus is patient and calm; steadfast, always.

James inhales. He brings their hands up to the table, as if to present their connection; physical, real. Lily’s breath leaves her lungs evenly. The room feels safe. The tablecloth is dark green. It grounds them to the space they’re in; this is growth. This is forward.

James exhales.

“A baby. There’s to be a baby.”

A moment of still and silence. Lily watches the words roll over faces: Peter, frown unyielding, somehow deeper and more expansive, yet; Remus, leaning back in his chair and regarding Lily and James in equal measure, expression still patient, still calm; and Sirius, now grasping the spoon so hard his knuckles whiten with the hold, eyes pinned, fastidiously, to Lily’s.

“A baby,” is Peter’s first attempt at grasping. “You mean—you’ve a cousin who’s—you mean, Lily’s shit sister is—you mean—a baby...”

Remus smiles, gently—something small, something knowing. Lily catches that eye, and is smiling, too. He knows.

Sirius—spoon askew, determined, furrowed brow—watches her smile bloom. “Okay, I’m—” he cuts off, he swallows something back.

James is watching him—is anxious, fumbling at Lily’s hand. She feels his breath shallow and complicate. She curbs the urge to roll her eyes. Decides, instead, to be plain.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, and leaves her breath hanging off the end, as if there’s more—though that’s all there is.

Peter looks tossed into the ocean sans life raft. “Lily, you?” Remus is beginning to beam, and—Sirius, with his restless spoon, face still stoic, until—he releases a stream of air so quick and so long that it startles, then stills, and he breaks, instantly, into a grin; a real, cracked-open grin; lets out a wide and unbelieving laugh. Reaches out instantly to their hands with both of his own, folding half-over the table, which clatters at the movement—his grey eyes aglimmer, glistening.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes. “It’s true?”

“Yeah,” James chokes.

Peter stands right up from the table, face lighting with joy, a wide, uninhibited thing, eyebrows skybound. “Pregnant?”

Peter, who is always learning in solid words and true feelings—in the middle of the kitchen, rounding the table, aside the dark green cloth, approaching them, the parents-to-be, putting a determined hand on each of their shoulders—and Lily thinks, he looks so young. Blonde hair in disarray, tshirt untucked. Smile crooked and true.

Her heart, she finds, is aching—and this is just the start.

She feels Sirius’ hands a little bit trembling, and hears Remus laugh, a farmiliar, grounding sound—sees his eyes gone a little bit wet, and it’s too much, all at once, it’s everything: Chairs scraping the ground and everyone suddenly piling onto to her and James with breathy, urgent laughter; arms circling bodies and gripping, tightly, faces pressed into shoulders—James slips his arm around her, stable and constant; the group convened in a unified mass, instinctively, like a heartbeat, centering; Peter begins to weep, openly, declaring, “I knew it was odd, with the wine, I know you like some wine, Lils—” and she laughs, wiping at her eyes, “yes, yes, I like more than a little wine, anyways—” and the damn quite broken, the deluge of Sirius and his hands at both of their cheeks, shaking, demanding, “how long’ve you known?” and even with James insisting, “just last week,” Sirius is apoplectic with the loss of a week, bemoaning, “a week? A bloody week you’ve been waltzing around knowing—and I—” Remus ducks around the overreaction, clasping Lily’s hand, gentle, “I’m so happy for you,” and James cranes his neck, “just Lily? I had a good hand in the—” and Remus laughs, insisting, “obviously happy for you, no need to go on about your good hand—” and Lily insists, simultaneously, “it’s a tender moment, Potter, honestly—” and Sirius wails, positively wails, “sweet Merlin—" his body tucked firmly between the Lily and James—“my dearest friends? To be parents? The most tender of—” he throws himself into James’ shoulder, completely undone. “The most tender of moments—Prongs, hold me.”

James, with his own clouded-over eyes, holds his friend, tempers all the tumultuous feelings; meets Lily’s eyes over the mass, offers a quiet, emphatic, “yeah—yeah, it is tender.”

The moment, tender, everlong, suffuses with a good so like a circle—no edges, no end, always coming back around—and Lily knows, with stark and certain faith, that it’s the kind of good that won’t go out.

The kind of good that will linger, long after things go wrong—horribly, terribly long—long after the good doesn’t feel like good. Even then. Even then—it will bloom where it’s buried. Bloom—and bloom, and bloom.

A good that grows. Without pain, without malice. Just good.