#regulus being called ‘the wraith’ is really doing something for me

[xjustakay]

(8/3) prompt: reputation — 690 words (assassin regulus + spy james; cw: brief presence/mention of a gun; part 2, part 3) @jegulus-microfic

As soon as he hears the scuff of someone approaching the meeting spot too early, Regulus has his gun in hand, leveled evenly at the person’s chest from a few feet away. James Potter looks unperturbed, if not amused, as he holds both hands up —yellow envelope tucked beneath one arm.

“Your reputation precedes you,” James comments.

Regulus sucks his teeth. “And what reputation might that be?”

“That you’re quick on the draw. A real no nonsense type.” Something like admiration glints in his eyes. “That you never miss the shots you take.”

Head tilting, Regulus drops his arm and tucks his gun back where it belongs. “Suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t take the shot then, isn’t it?”

James hums thoughtfully, hazel eyes unshy as they drag down and then up his body. “Nobody warned me you’d be gorgeous.”

Well. He’s not touching that with a ten foot pole.

“Shall we talk business?”

“Unless you’d rather talk pleasure.” James smirks, dangerously off topic. “Because I think I’m interested in that.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me point a gun at you again.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” James quips.

“Potter, do you have a fucking target for me or not?”

Dark brows lift over the top of his glasses in surprise. “You know my name.”

“Part of the job description.” Regulus shrugs.

A pinched expression, curiously scrutinizing, takes over his face as he eyes him. “I don’t know yours.”

“Yeah, that’s in the fine print.”

“Hardly seems fair.”

“Such is life.”

“We call you the Wraith at headquarters,” James tells him.

There’s a bitter taste on his tongue, at the back of his throat. He hates that this is who he’s become. 

“Whatever Albus needs to feed you all.” Regulus circles a hand. “The target?”

“Right.” James is distracted looking at him for a moment before blinking with a jolt and handing over the envelope. 

James likely doesn’t even know who’s on the inside of it. He’s merely a messenger, another piece on Albus Dumbledore’s chessboard, just like he is. Regulus will check the information later, follow his instructions accordingly. As usual.

In a weighted silence, he and James stare at one another. James’ unspoken questions are a phantom presence, standing there in the warehouse with them. He squints after a minute, moving a step nearer, and Regulus stiffens.

“You’re him, aren’t you? Sirius’ missing brother?”

The question takes Regulus so off guard, his mask slips for just a moment, grey eyes widening a fraction before he catches himself. James notices and nods once even as Regulus quickly schools his expression.

“You got the same intense look in your eyes that he gets on a mission,” James explains, warm gaze darting over his features. “There’s other things, too, but.. I’d recognize that anywhere.”

“You can’t tell him I’m alive,” Regulus says firmly.

“Oh, I know.” James nods, a strange initial sadness fading to make way for a faint grin. “I promise I got this job for a reason. I’m more than just a pretty face.”

“An easy mistake to make.” His lips twitch just barely, missable if not being looked for.

James gasps and presses a hand to his own chest. “So you think I’m pretty?”

“Goodbye, Potter.” He turns on his heel to leave.

“You can call me James, you know.”

Regulus slows to a pause, half-turns to look back at him. “James, then.”

“See you around, Regulus.” It’s murmured quietly behind him as he walks away; he might have missed it if it weren’t for actively paying attention to the sound of James’ movement.

There’s an uncertain promise in the few words, but more than that, hearing his name roll so smoothly off of James’ tongue punctures something deep in his chest. Because James knows it in the first place, which means he’s heard it before. Only so many people call him by name anymore; he’s a ghost, a shadow, more a memory than a person.

But James says his name like he’s more than that.

And, by fucking god, Regulus knows already that it’s going to be a big problem for him.

[xjustakay]

✺ (1/21) ✺ @jegulus-microfic prompt: tough — 1803 words (cw: blood/injury, assassin + spy au; calling your not-boyfriend when you get shot & other extreme sports - pt.1, pt.2)

Regulus, for all the time he’s spent handling things on his own, not allowing himself to ask for help, tending to himself in cases that require it, unfortunately still knows his limits. And while the searing pain of the bleeding wound in his shoulder at present may not be the first time he’s taken a bullet, this isn’t the sort of tough circumstance that he can handle on his own.

It’s a call he doesn’t want to make, one he shouldn’t be able to make, yet he lets something other than typical instinct take the wheel. Can’t let himself think too much about the fact multiple protocols are being broken right now while he dials a number he shouldn’t even have with the shaking fingers of his free hand. He breathes carefully, in deep through his nose, out slowly through his mouth, as the dial tone drones.

It’s only halfway through the second ring when the call is picked up.

“Regulus?” James immediately sounds concerned. He’s never the one receiving a call on this line, only ever making the secret calls.

“You can’t—” Deep breath in, slow breath out. “—use my name like that.”

“What do you want me to do, literally call you the Wraith?” A pause where neither of them say anything before, “Okay, I’m not doing that.”

Regulus thunks his head into the brick wall behind him, other palm digging into the wound he’s keeping pressure on. “I can’t argue with you right now I—”

“Ooh, there really is a first time for everything.”

“I know you’re still tracking my location—”

“Going to lecture me for going against protocol again, are you? I really wish you’d use these calls for pleasure more than business.”

“James.” Regulus winces when the strain of his voice teeters on a whine. God he’s in so much fucking pain, his vision’s starting to go dark and fuzzy around the edges every couple blinks. “There is a bullet in my shoulder, I’m not fucking playing your stupid games right now.”

“What?” The octave of James’ voice jumps; Regulus can hear the rapid shuffling of movement on the other line afterward. “Jesus Christ, why wouldn’t you have opened with that?”

“You never shut your mouth long enough,” Regulus mutters between grit teeth.

“‘I’ve been shot, come get me,’ that’s literally all you had to say. But you wanted to gripe at me about your name—”

“On second thought, just let me bleed out.” Regulus sinks down against the wall until he’s sitting on the dusty cement of the alleyway he’s tucked into.

“I’m on my way now. Keep talking to me while I drive,” James instructs.

“Don’t want to do that.” Yet the phone stays at his ear, call ongoing. Regulus pinches his eyes shut, adjusts the pressure of his blood-slick hand against his shoulder, and hisses sharply. “Fuck, I hate getting shot.”

“Does anyone like getting shot?” James retorts. A car door slams shut behind him. The rumble of a turned over engine. “Have you been shot before?”

“Yes.”

“Okay so, see, you’ll be fine.”

“Tell me that after you’ve dug the bullet out of me.”

“Me? Should we not go to a hospital?”

“I’m dead, James. You can’t take a dead man to the hospital.”

“Shit, I always forget about that. But I don’t have any—”

“You’ll take me back to my place. I have everything.”

A long pause, only the distant hum of a speeding vehicle between them. Regulus blinks his eyes open, clearing the blur from them slowly.

“James?”

“Sorry, got caught up on the thought of taking you back to your place,” James says.

Regulus huffs a weak laugh, head shaking back and forth where it slumps forward heavily. “I’m glad the fact that I’m dying isn’t enough to deter you from still being insufferable.”

“Have an image to maintain, what can I say?” James quips; Regulus can hear the amusement subtly present in his voice. It’s faded to make room for something more weighted seconds later, though, when he says, “And you’re not dying. I’m coming to get you.”

“Lesser of two evils, I suppose,” Regulus sighs unsteadily.

“There you go,” James chuckles lightly.

Either he wasn’t far from him in the first place or he’d said a big fuck you to all traffic laws, because James is there to retrieve him in record time. Of course, no matter that, the bleeding has still continued. Regulus’ chest is soaked, blood up his forearm where his hand’s kept pressure. He’s dazed and dizzy when James skids to a halt in front of him and drops to his knees.

Warm hands cradle his jaw to lift his hanging head. Regulus can see his lips moving, but it’s a dull rumble instead of words that he hears. His unfocused eyes lock onto James’ mouth and he knows this must be it, this is where he dies, because he stares at James’ mouth and thinks I should’ve let you kiss me, just once.

“We’ve got time, love, come on.” The clarity of James’ voice is enough to startle him back to reality, sound coming back through the tunnel of his hearing.

Regulus’ glassy eyes go wide. “Tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”

“Would that make you feel better?” James replies, somehow not missing a beat even as he works carefully to get Regulus to his feet.

It’s an excruciating endeavor; James takes over keeping pressure on the bullet wound with one hand while his other arm bands around Regulus’ waist, hauls him to his car. The passenger seat is going to be ruined, forever stained with his blood, and Regulus thinks it’s almost poetic somehow. Something for someone to remember him by this time. 

Funny that it would be James of all people.

Despite attempts to keep him talking and awake, he slips in and out of consciousness. Still manages to give James the information he needs to, because they get to the studio apartment building he temporarily resides in between long blinks.

Then he’s on his couch, shaking and fucking cold, too painfully conscious for his liking. Barking out harsh instructions to James for where to find what he needs. Regulus grits his teeth, can’t fully bank the wounded noise that rips from his throat when he squirms and peels off his shirt.

All that flirting, all that interest in him that he’s not meant to have, and James actually seems to not be distracted the moment Regulus has removed clothing. Perhaps he really is good at his part of the job.

Worse than being dragged to the car is the process of removing the bullet from Regulus’ shoulder. Somewhere in the middle, he realizes his swearing has gone from English to French. He might have told James he’s going to hang him by his ankles and beat him like a part piñata, not that James is aware that’s what he’s said. But finally, finally, the fucking thing is pulled out, carefully pinched between crimson-painted tweezers.

James is gentler about cleaning the wound, fingers careful not to touch anywhere they shouldn’t, rubbing the alcohol in delicate dabs to try to make it easier to take. It doesn’t, Regulus nearly breaks the skin on the side of his hand, biting into it, but it’s… 

It’s different. Being handled carefully. Treated like a person and not just a weapon. As he’s most used to.

A gauze bandage is laid and taped down, James’ thumbs tinged red but so soft as they trail around the edge of the square to make sure it’s secure. There’s a couple traitorous tears clinging to Regulus’ eyelashes when he blinks slowly up at him. James’ focus flickers over his face, down his laid out body, then back up again.

“See, you’re alright,” He murmurs.

“We have very different definitions of that word,” Regulus grumbles.

James exhales a shaking laugh; nervous all of a sudden in an uncharacteristic way. He looks Regulus over again, hazel eyes darting from him to the scattered bloodied towels and the bullet on the coffee table. Back again to Regulus’ face, this time with a furrow in his brow over his glasses.

“Did you think I was going to die?” Regulus asks quietly, before he can stop himself.

“To be completely honest, I’m not sure I was thinking at all for the past twenty minutes,” James admits. He wipes his hand on his jeans —they’re ruined anyway— and brushes black curls from being stuck to Regulus’ sweaty forehead.

Regulus swallows thickly, eyes traveling the length of James’ forearm where his hand lingers at his cheek. “Well, not thinking is pretty usual for you, isn’t it?”

James’ lips twitch upward, his head shaking slowly. “Back to our usually scheduled programming then, eh?”

“Tough break for you.” Regulus pauses to wince when he shifts on the couch cushions.

“Truly. Save a man’s life and don’t even get a proper thank you,” James toys. His fingers trace the line of Regulus’ jaw, thumb stretching to tug at the corner of his lips. “Never a dull moment with you.”

“You were never with me,” Regulus points out in a whisper.

“Right, because you’re a ghost.”

“Exactly.”

“Does Albus even know you were hurt yet?”

“No.”

“Then he’ll never know I was here, either.” 

James tilts dangerously closer to the couch’s edge. and Regulus feels dizzied impossibly further when he can smell something other than the irony scent of blood or the sharp tang of rubbing alcohol. He can smell James this close, earthy and pleasant, can see the golden flecks in his eyes that make them brighter. The thumb at the corner of his mouth drags beneath his bottom lip and Regulus breathes in shakily. The hurried thrum of his heart throbs in his chest, his shoulder, his head.

Too much, not enough. Such a fine line.

“You should go,” Regulus whispers finally.

James doesn’t move away, only blinks at him. “Did you mean it?”

Regulus doesn’t have to ask what he means. Can read between the lines enough to know. The way hazel eyes search his expression but land on his mouth. The weight of a large hand that continues to gently hold his face. I should have let you kiss me, just once, an echo in their prolonged quiet.

“You can’t,” Regulus tells him.

Even though it’s as good as shooting him down, James has the audacity to look triumphant as he finally eases back, finally stops touching him. Regulus pointedly ignores the needling voice in the back of his mind that tells him he already misses the touch.

“Alright, love, whatever you say,” James replies. It feels oddly like a promise, one Regulus can’t possibly allow himself to get attached to when James tells him the same thing he did in that alleyway. “We’ve got time.”