#canon jily

For my dearest, HazzaP, on your birthday. Thank you for being my friend, confidant, sounding board, fellow horse riding enthusiast. You are a joy to have in my life. You gave me hand gifs as prompts, and I did my best to give you fluff (seeing I keep making you cry with my angst) xx

That first time, it was just a brush, really. 

The back of his hand, against hers. 

She knew, probably in greater detail than she should, that the palm of James’ hand was covered in calluses, his left more than his right, preferencing his throwing arm. But the back of his hand, that was silky smooth. 

It sent sparks through her, a sharp burst of heat across every millimetre where they connected. That tingle, that fire, it travelled like a bolt of lightning, a one way ticket, directly into her chest. 

It made her stand taller, straightening her spine as they remained shoulder to shoulder, a united front, an imposing, unlikely yet unrelenting force. Something she’d never thought possible, yet it had happened so organically, so quickly, Lily had never bothered to question the improbability. She had just accepted it. 

Much like she accepted the confidence, the comfort, the reassurance his touch gave her now. It made it all the easier to face the Slytherins, seventh years like themselves, who thought along with being Merlin’s gift to the wizarding world, also took the position that the rules didn’t apply to them. It gave her the courage to hold her chin high, her wand higher, and stick to the strength of her convictions. 

It was only a small thing, that gentle yet purposeful touch. 

Yet it was the first. 

Continue reading on AO3or under the cut. 

*****

“Honestly, Evans, you need to be taller. We’re going to lose you in this crush.” 

Lily turned, finding the speaker of the mocking words so close behind her she almost ran into him, a quick hand to his chest preventing the collison. “Excuse you, my height is perfectly adequate, thank you very much.” 

James grinned, a smile that was so much better than the smirk he’d worn when they were younger. “Nothing, absolutely nothing about you could be described as adequate, Evans.” 

She fought the urge to blush, to lower her eyes. He said that type of thing so easily, yet so sincerely. It was all a bit much sometimes. 

Most of the time. 

“Regardless,” she chose the path of avoidance, refusing to acknowledge the quirk that turned his lips back towards his old teasing expression, “my height is not the problem here.” Her arm swept back, encompassing the heaving crowd that was the area in front of the Three Broomsticks bar at lunch time on the last Hogsmeade Saturday before Christmas. “It’s this madness.” 

James looked briefly away, taking in the muddle of students, regular patrons and tourists come to enjoy the splendour of the picturesque wizarding village in full festive spirit. “That is definitely accurate.” 

“I’ve made no headway into the crowd,” she complained. When James turned back with a raised eyebrow, her nostrils flared unconsciously. “Don’t say it’s because I’m not tall enough.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the boy who had grown several inches practically overnight to become a man in front of her very eyes said wisely. “But how about I see if I can help?” 

“Only if you let me pay this time.” Lily stepped sideways, allowing James to move past her and attempt to push and shove his way through the crowd. 

He snorted as he moved forward. “As if.” 

She would have retorted, would have protested, would have insisted, given he’d bought her every butterbeer Lily had had this year under falser and falser pretences, only she couldn’t. 

As James came alongside her, his hand caught against hers. In the first instant she thought it was an accident, a coincidence, a mistake. But then he didn’t move away, his skin gliding along hers, that heat she’d felt a month earlier never more present than it was right then. It sent those same sparks, raising the hair along her forearm, thankfully hidden by her woollen holiday themed sweater. 

His little finger caught against hers. Again, she waited for him to remove it, sure it was purposeful, intentional. Yet another moment she was wrong about. Because he didn’t let go. If anything, the curl of his finger tightened his grip on Lily’s. James tugged, gentle enough given the small surface area of their link, but strong enough that she was pulled into motion, falling into place just behind his tall frame. 

They moved through the crowd effortlessly, frustratingly given the fruitless ten minutes Lily had spent before James’ arrival on the scene. His stature, his popularity, his notoriety, all of it gave him the gravitas that made him the envy of many of their peers, and was undeniably effective. It got them to the front of the crowd, where James leaned one elbow against the bar, catching the eye of Rosmerta with equally impressive ease to order their drinks, and that of their mates.

“I’ve got-” she huffed as he placed a handful of coins on the bar, ignoring her clear reach for her purse. “I was going to get these.” 

“Evans,” James’ voice was teasing, light, as if she was making one of her terrible punny jokes, the likes of which he’d never quite found funny but seemed to tolerate because of his fondness for her. 

Another tug on her pinky pulled her forward, bringing Lily in front of James now, his broad shoulders protecting her from the push and pull on the unruly crowd. She didn’t say anything more. James didn’t either. 

But neither of them let go

******

The next move was hers. 

It had to be really. 

Lily Evans was a lot of things, but shy had never been one of them. And she wasn’t the type to wait around. 

And he needed her. She could tell. 

James needed her. 

She’d watched the others try. Peter had tried distraction. Exploding Snap, Wizard’s chest, a rousing game of Basilisks and Brooms, without absolutely no engagement. Remus had tried reassurance, using reason and truth to remind James of all the work he had put in, all the preparation, all the training and drills and planning. He hadn’t bought it for a second. Sirius had tried mischief, of course he had, offering dungbombs, pranks and marauder-worthy shenanigans. James had shaken him off, stared into the fire in front of him, brooding. 

He needed her. 

How to help him, Lily had really no idea. She’d never paid attention enough in the past to notice how nervous he got before a Quidditch final, never cared enough to pay attention. She cared now. And she wanted to help now. 

She needed to help him. 

Every inch of James screamed tension when Lily took a seat next to him on the couch. Such was his sullen mood that no one else had dared to share the space closest to the fire with the Quidditch Captain. His hands scrubbed relentlessly at his face, his knee jerked in a statico beat, his body hunched forward, though she knew he couldn’t be cold. If his face had been visible, the lines of worry, fatigue and stress would have appeared etched across it. 

For the first time in a long time, James didn’t react to her presence. He gave no sign that he knew it was her, that he knew anyone had sat next to him, but he had to know. Yet, he did nothing to acknowledge her. 

Lily considered her options. Crossed off most of them pretty quickly as weak, pathetic, useless. Went with the one that felt the most appropriate, the most right. 

Moving slowly, how one would move if they didn’t want to startle a deer in the forest, she reached for his face. Both hands slid along James’ arm, tracing the defined muscles, the tanned skin until she reached his wrist. Careful fingers curled around it, pulling until he finally allowed it to come free from his face and for Lily to pull it toward her. She wasted no time, bringing his hand to her lap, cradling it in both hands. 

He still didn’t make a move of his own. He allowed his hand to be manipulated by her, his fingers curling slightly under the pressure of hers. Lily found herself holding her breath, wondering, doubting, fearing what his response might be. 

But Gryffindor she’d been sorted, and a lion she most definitely was. 

The worry was for nought. The glide of her fingers up James’ palms, her fingernails scraping, scratching gently was met with the opening of his hand. His fingers spread wide, allowing hers to intermingle and weave between them. She gripped, the pads of each digit pressing into each knuckle. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch when he returned the hold with equal attention. 

As Lily kept her eyes focused on their connection, her thumb stroked back and forth in a way she hoped James found soothing.  Words didn’t come, but she tried not to worry about that. Instead she paid attention to him, to every part of him, trying to be enough. 

It wasn’t quick, the change, It took far longer than she would have liked. The fire burnt down in the grate, the candles melted low in their sconces, most of their housemates retired for the evening. If she hadn’t attuned herself to James, she might have missed it. 

His knee, vibrating in anxiety, settled into a hum, then a march, before stilling completely. His other arm dropped, resting on his thigh, at first playing mindlessly with the crease in his trousers, but eventually coming to rest as well. And as time went on, his back unwinding, his shoulders dropping, until he leaned back into the couch, head still down but now relaxed and tranquil.

His words were quiet, when they finally came. 

“Thank you.” 

She didn’t reply, except for another squeeze of her hand in his. 

****

It became the norm soon after. 

At first it happened when there was no one around. Sitting by the fire, walking together on patrols, leading each other through corridors and crowds. Hands twisted, fingers mingling, teasing, playing, comforting. They never really talked about it, beyond looks of offer and expectation, secret smiles of pleasure and peace when the other acquiesced. It was just for them, for a while, just a bubble of comfort and progress and something that wasn’t defined, wasn’t explainable, but didn’t need to be to make her feel good. 

Lily began to know his hands better than she knew his own. Each callous on each finger, the rough texture of the tips, the edges of his nails. What it felt like when he was tired, when he was worried, when he was pleased. She recognised the tremors that shook from his arm to hers when he laughed so hard it rocked his whole body. She came to know, to expect, the heat that came from him holding her, the way it flushed her body, head to toe, sent her senses singing, her spine tingling, her heart a flutter. 

One day, walking with their friends to Hogsmeade in the fresh spring air, James reached for her hand. It was such a common occurrence, a frequent gesture by then, that Lily thought nothing of it. She tickled his palm before threading their hands together, smiling herself when he gave a delicious squeeze. Neither missed a step, broke a stride, and both continued on, happy in their private moment. 

It was the choking sound from Sirius behind them that reminded them they were in public. The stifled gasp from Mary, the delighted laugh from Marlene. The whispers, the murmurs, the looks, the pointing from their classmates and other students who were delighting in their choice of opting to walk rather than go by carriage to the town, and spotting this brilliant piece of gossip. 

Lily looked up, finding hazel eyes waiting for her, a questioning look in his eyes. He hadn’t let go, if anything, he gripped her tighter, yet not painful, more possessive, more reassuring. She let her eyebrows lift, sending her own ask, while brushing her thumb along his. Her head inclined, as if to offer the choice as his, hers already happily made. 

Instead, he stepped closer, his shoulder knocking into hers, their joined hands bumping back forth between them. His head tilted, mouth coming closer to hers, his speech for her and her alone. “Alright, Evans?”

Words weren’t needed. Not for this. 

Not when another clasp, another grip, another squeeze worked just the same. A simple touch, that said everything she ever needed it to say.