Pancakes And Other Acts Of Love
Pairing: Poly!Marauders x Disabled!Reader Summary: You're pregnant, exhausted, and foggy with pain, but your boys are determined that you won't face it alone. Tags: disabled!reader, chronic fatigue syndrome, pregnancy, depictions of chronic pain, fatigue and dizziness, second trimester symptoms, morning routine with chronic illness, sensory overload, slightly nauseous!reader, remus being gentle, james being a menace with a heart of gold, sirius being annoying on purpose, soft domestic marauders, reader is not made of glass but they're still careful, found family, hurt/comfort, fluff, soft boys being soft, reader is so loved, no use of y/n Word Count: 2.7k words
The smell of pancakes reaches you before you're properly awake, warm and buttery and a little too sweet, the kind of smell that makes your stomach wake up before the rest of you does. You blink at the table for a second, trying to remember how long you've been sitting there, then shift carefully, because your back is already complaining and your legs have that heavy, half-numb feeling they get in the mornings. It's the sort of weight that feels like it's settled into your bones overnight and decided to stay, like you've been quietly replaced with a slightly worse copy of yourself while you slept. There's a cushion wedged behind you and another under your thighs, exactly where they're supposed to be, and a folded blanket tucked over the back of your chair in case you get cold again. Your chair is pulled in close so you don't have to lean forward, and you're quietly grateful for that, because leaning forward feels like asking your spine for a favour it doesn't want to give.
You flex your fingers on the tabletop and have to wait a second for them to feel like they belong to you again. There's that familiar delay, the small lag between thought and movement, and it makes you sigh under your breath. You roll your shoulders as carefully as you can manage and stop when a sharp little protest sparks just under your shoulder blade, like someone flicked a match and thought better of it.
The window lets in a thin wash of winter light, pale and quiet, and your reflection catches in the glass for a moment. The bump is there now, small but real, rounding out your middle in a way that still surprises you if you look too directly at it. Some days it feels like a secret you're keeping from your own body; other days it feels like your body is very loudly announcing it to everyone, including you. You rest a hand over it without thinking, thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt, and feel that strange mix of fondness and disbelief settle in your chest. There's a little flutter of movementâprobably just your imagination, probably notâand you smile anyway.
Your fingers feel a bit clumsy today, like your brain is running a second behind your body, and you have to blink a few times to clear the fog that seems determined to hang around. The fog is thicker in the mornings, like it pools behind your eyes overnight and refuses to move until it's had its say. You make a small, annoyed noise at it and then feel silly for arguing with your own head.
There's a faint ache sitting low in your back, the familiar one that never quite leaves, and another, newer discomfort that comes and goes in odd little waves. Your stomach gives a quiet, unimpressed roll, not quite nausea, not quite hunger, just enough to make you breathe through it for a second. You shift again and regret it immediately when your spine sends up a dull, complaining throb that settles between your shoulders and stays there like it's sulking. You brace a hand on the table and wait for it to fade, counting your breaths like that helps.
Remus is at the stove with his sleeves rolled up, flour smudged on his forearm, moving with the careful, unhurried focus he gets when he's cooking. He flips a pancake, waits a beat too long, then nods to himself like it behaved and deserved the praise. The pan hisses softly, a steady, comforting sound, and he tilts it just so, like he's negotiating with it rather than ordering it around. There's a tiny smear of batter on his wrist that he hasn't noticed yet.
The air smells like vanilla and something citrusy, and it makes your stomach twist in a way that's half hunger, half that low, annoying nausea that's been hanging around your second trimester like it pays rent. You swallow and tell yourself it'll pass if you don't think about it too hard, then immediately think about it and sigh.
Sirius is perched on the counter, one knee up, heel knocking against the cupboard in an irregular rhythm that you're pretty sure isn't on purpose. He steals blueberries from the bowl and tries to look innocent about it, failing in a very committed way. James is setting the table, plates clinking, hair already a mess, moving too fast for this early in the morning and nearly dropping a fork when he turns too sharply.
"Leave some for the pancakes, Pads," James says, swatting at Sirius's hand with a tea towel.
Sirius dodges and grins. "I am. Mostly." He pops another berry into his mouth. "I'm just making sure they're not poisoned."
"You don't even like blueberries," Remus says, not looking up, but you can hear the smile in his voice.
"Exactly. Very brave of me, really."
James snorts. "You're very brave eating half the bowl before they even hit the pan."
"It's a sacrifice," Sirius says, solemn. "For science."
"You're going to have to test the plates next," you say, and Sirius looks delighted by the idea.
"Finally, someone who understands me."
You try to stifle a yawn and fail. It comes out slow and wide and makes your eyes water, and for a second your head feels too light for your neck, like it might float away if you don't keep it anchored. The tiredness settles back over you like you never really shook it off in the first place. Pregnancy has taken your usual fatigue and turned the volume up, and your CFS doesn't exactly appreciate the competition. Your limbs feel like they're full of sand. Your head feels thick, like someone wrapped it in cotton. You blink a few times and focus on the edge of the table until the slight swim in your vision eases.
You shift in your chair and wince a little when a dull ache runs up your spine and fans out between your shoulders. Your legs tingle in that familiar, uncomfortable way, not quite pins and needles, not quite nothing, just enough to be irritating. You wiggle your toes and wait for the sensation to even out, breathing slowly while it does, counting the little tick of the radiator to keep yourself steady.
Remus glances over his shoulder, eyes soft immediately. "Hey. How are you doing, love?"
You consider lying. You don't. "Tired," you say. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. "Kind of⊠fuzzy. And my back's being a pain. And I feel a bit sick, but not enough to actually be sick, which is somehow worse. And my legs are doing that weird thing again. And I think I might be too warm? Or too cold? I can't tell." You huff a little. "But I'm okay. I think."
Sirius hops down from the counter and crouches beside you, his knees cracking like they always do. He reaches for your hand, warm and steady, and squeezes it gently, careful of your fingers. "You don't have to be okay all the time," he says. "You're growing a whole person. And your body's already doing too much on a good day."
James appears at your side with a glass of orange juice and sets it down carefully, like it might explode if he doesn't. "Doctor Potter's orders," he says, then leans in and kisses your forehead, lingering for a second. "Fluids. And pancakes. Mostly pancakes."
You snort, then immediately regret it when a flicker of heartburn crawls up your chest. You press a hand there, wait for it to settle, and take a cautious sip of juice anyway. It's cold and sharp and helps a bit, even if it makes your stomach complain again a moment later. "You're very bad at being subtle," you tell him.
"We're not aiming for subtle," Sirius says. "We're aiming for 'you sit there and don't fall over'."
"That's a very noble goal," you say dryly, and James beams like you've just praised him.
"High standards in this house," he says. "We're very professional."
The kitchen feels warm in that slow, safe way, like nothing bad is allowed in before noon. The radiator ticks softly, a small, steady sound that makes the room feel held together. Someone's left the kettle warm on the back ring, and it gives off a faint, comforting hiss that fogs the edge of the window for a second before fading again. Remus flips another pancake and slides it onto a plate, then another, then hesitates like he's counting in his head or arguing with himself about whether this is enough. He tilts the plate, considers it from a different angle, and then brings it over and sets it down in front of you with the carefulness he usually reserves for old books. He pauses, adjusts the cutlery a few centimetres so it's easier on your wrist, and adds a handful of blueberries, nudging them into a little pile like he's arranging something important rather than just breakfast. He wipes the batter off his wrist with the tea towel, checks your face, and finally seems satisfied.
"Is this okay?" he asks, quietly, and the question lands heavier than it should, like it's about more than just pancakes.
"Perfect," you say, and you mean it. The word feels solid in your mouth, like something you can lean on.
They still fuss even though you point outâagainâthat you can, in fact, pick up a plate without causing a medical emergency. James reaches like he's about to add more, then stops when Remus gives him a look and settles for sliding your napkin a bit closer instead, lining it up with the edge of the table like that will solve something. Sirius adjusts the cushion behind your back, then the one under your thighs, then thinks better of it and still pokes at both until you swat at him and tell him to stop. Remus hovers like he's trying very hard not to hover, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and pretending to be interested in the stove while still keeping you in the corner of his eye.
"I'm pregnant," you say, trying for stern. It comes out fond and a little tired, and you hear it yourself. "Not made of glass."
"We know," James says. "We just worry."
"And we like bossing you around," Sirius adds cheerfully. "It's a hobby."
"An extremely annoying hobby," you say, but you're smiling when you say it.
You take a bite. The pancake is soft and warm and tastes like comfort, like mornings that don't ask too much of you. The blueberry bursts and you make a small, pleased noise before you can stop yourself, then laugh quietly at yourself. For a moment, everything narrows to eating and breathing and not feeling like you might tip over. Your hands are a little shaky, and you have to rest your fork once or twice when your arm starts to feel too heavy, like someone quietly turned up gravity. No one says anything about it. Remus just shifts a bit closer, his knee brushing yours, solid and steady, like he's there in case you need to lean.
You chew more slowly after that, because your stomach makes a warning little twist and you don't fancy testing it. Your back still aches. There's a faint buzzing along your nerves, that too-tired feeling that never quite goes away, like your body is humming on the wrong frequency. Your head swims a little if you move too fast, and you have to pause between bites once when a sudden wave of dizziness rolls through and then fades again, leaving you a bit clammy and blinking at nothing.
"Okay?" James asks, a little quieter, his fork hovering.
"Yeah," you say, after a second. "Just⊠sit-down dizzy. It'll go. It always does."
Sirius makes a face. "Rude of it, really. Bodies should come with better manners."
Remus reaches out and presses his thumb lightly against your wrist, checking in without making a fuss, then nods when your pulse settles again. "Take your time," he says. "We're not going anywhere."
James sits across from you and immediately goes for a second pancake, then stops and looks at you. "Do you want more, or is that a terrible idea?"
"Ask me again in five minutes," you say. "Or never."
Sirius drags a chair over with a dramatic scrape and hooks one ankle around the table leg, nearly tipping it and then pretending he meant to do that. They start talking about nothingâRemus found a book he wants to show you later, Sirius is absolutely, definitely not planning anything, James nearly tripped over the rug and is deeply offended by itâand you listen, half following, half just enjoying the sound of them. You pick at your food when your stomach starts to complain again, waiting for it to settle before taking another bite, then manage a few more mouthfuls before setting your fork down to rest your hand.
"You should rest after this," Remus says, gently, like he's offering, not telling.
You nod, because the thought of lying down makes your bones feel lighter already. "Yeah. That sounds⊠really good, actually. My head feels like it's full of fog. And my hips are starting to argue with me. Loudly."
"We'll bring you tea," Sirius says. "And something to read. Or five things. You can choose. Or you can just sleep and we'll pretend not to watch you."
"And I'll stand guard," James adds. "In case of surprise naps. Or rogue cushions."
"Truly heroic," you say, and smile at him, tired and real. "Those are the worst kind. Very dangerous."
The light shifts as the morning goes on, dust floating in it like tiny sparks you can't quite focus on for too long. You watch them without really meaning toâthe way Remus listens with his whole body, the way Sirius can't sit still even when he's sitting, the way James keeps glancing at you like he's checking you're still okayâand something warm and heavy and good settles in your chest, right under your ribs.
There are days when your body feels like it's made of bad signals and crossed wires. Days when the tiredness hits so hard you can barely think, when standing up makes the room tilt, when even talking feels like it takes more energy than you have. Days when the future feels like appointments and careful planning and waiting to get your energy back. And then there are mornings like this, where things are slower and softer and you're allowed to just sit and be taken care of without having to apologise for it.
You finish what you can of your pancakes and let them take the plate. Let them fuss a little. Let them argue quietly about whether you want more tea or less tea or a different mug because this one's too heavy today. Let them love you out loud. Remus presses a kiss to your temple that lingers. Sirius squeezes your hand and bumps his shoulder lightly against yours. James grins at you like the world is on your side for once, like this is something you're all doing together.
When you shift to stand, they're there immediately, not crowding, just close enough, James steadying your elbow, Sirius making a terrible joke to distract you, Remus watching your face for any sign you need to sit back down. You pause, let the room settle, then take a careful step and another, and it's slow but it works.
The kitchen hums softly around you, still smelling like pancakes and citrus and coffee you're not allowed to have much of anymore. Your body still feels heavy and imperfect and tired, and your back still aches, and your head is still a bit foggyâbut it feels a little easier to carry all of it, because you don't have to do it on your own.
