ROCKSTAR ⇒ jegulus

THIRTY FIVE

For the foreseeable few days that pass him by, James' mind is a half paranoid, half hectic mantra of fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! And then the occasional I'm so fucking attracted to my baby's father! Fuck! ends up in the mix too.

His mind is scrambled, consumed, with thoughts of Regulus; and not all of them are sexually motivated. Thoughts of Regulus washing James' hair in the shower, how gentle his hands would feel, how sweet they would both smell, James softly rinsing them both off, and fuck! he can not stop thinking about Regulus Black.

So much so, that he calls by his childhood home, because he needs his mother right now, and her kind, supportive, words.

He just needs his mother.

"James, son," Fleamont smiles as he opens the door to his son. "What a pleasant surprise," He muses, Earl dashing around at his feet, his tail wagging excitedly at the sight of James, or at least James would like to think that is why he is yapping so much.

"Hey, dad," James greets. "Hello, Earl," He rolls his eyes fondly. "Now, champ, I totally would bend down to properly greet you, but the bump is getting rather large, and I just don't have the agility anymore, bud," He breezes softly. He does, however, reach to gently rub Earl's scruffy little face. "Sorry, Earl, the bump seems to be in the way, mate, we can cuddle again properly once the baby's out," James muses.

"That won't be long now, James," Fleamont grins proudly, his hands dug deep in the pockets of his trousers. The typical, proud, grandfather stance. "Little baby Stella is getting closer and closer to her arrival, eh?"

Little baby Stella.

His parents, himself, and Regulus; the only four people to know their daughter's name. There is something so comforting, and warm, about that fact.

James smiles softly at his father, patting his bump. "Yeah, it's looking like that, isn't it?" He gestures to his belly. "Because I'm not sure that I, personally, have much more room for her in here,"

Fleamont laughs at this, shaking his head. "James, my boy," He pauses to chuckle. "You're tiny," He smiles. "Baby Stella is going to be tinier than a bag of sugar," Fleamont muses.

James cracks a small laugh. "Yeah?" He chuckles. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. You're carrying small, son. Little Stella won't be more than a little handful," Fleamont hums. "Your mum and I were about to put on the kettle and make a pot of tea, Euphemia also made some of her lovely scones earlier, come take a seat; I'd imagine that you're only dying to get off of your feet,"

James smiles at his father, grateful to be able to simply sit and relax in his childhood home; the house that he was brought up in, the house that he spent his childhood in; running around, trying not to run into any of his mother's tall, beautifully patterned vases, or her painted plates, or knock over his father's walking boots in the process of his exploring.

He thinks of Stella; of her own adventures exploring his parent's grand house, with its beautiful porch that overlooks the large garden, the towering trees at the very end of the garden used to terrify James. The rows and rows of sweet smelling daffodils and his mother's small, but mighty, herb garden.

James smiles at the mere thought of Stella plucking every mint leaf off of Euphemia's mint plant; just like James had done in his own youth.

James rubs an idle hand down his bump. "I'd love to sit down, actually," He hums in reply. "I'd love one of mum's scones even more,"

"Well, son, you've come to just the right house, eh?" Fleamont grins. "Now, c'mon, pop your shoes off and have a cuddle with Earl. Let him feel Stella's little kicks, I'm sure he'd like that,"