james is too young to know better when he first says, "i want to fight." you've been expecting it for a while now, you've all seen the way he follows the news. like it's a game to be won, a sport to be watched. the way the media paints the threat as a joke doesn't help things, but looking at him in these moments always pushes the fact of the matter back into you where you somehow lost it along the way; lodges itself in your throat where you're forced to swallow it down with quiet acknowledgement and a bit of remorse. he's so young.
"we talked about this, kiddo." you say, and he huffs, rolling his eyes.
"no, you told mum you think i'm not ready and had her break the news to me so you wouldn't be the bad guy."
it's your turn to roll your eyes, but you can see the way his eyes are guarded, fists ready to clench defensively and walls ready to fall like they always do when you start treating him like a kid instead of james. "hey, don't do that."
he's uncharacteristically silent. broodingly, petulantly so.
so young, you don't know how you always forget.
you sit down next to him, try wait it out.
after a few minutes, though, you realize he's not going to budge, that you've lost this argument. it's your turn to be the bad guy, except you're always resoundingly bad at it, so you just say, "you'll get your chance, james. i promise."
enjoy the time you have now.
(you were twenty one when you realized that you're not indestructible, that maybe you were young and naive and stupid once, too, for believing in infallible heroes. people break, sometimes, and the monsters win.
you sleep through harry's funeral in a hospital bed.)
the next time he asks, he's too young to have dark circles underneath his eyes, for his hands to be so steady. you don't want him in a jaeger. you're not sure you can quite kick back the violent, sinking feeling that comes with the thought. you don't feel comfortable with sending him out onto a battlefield to die (not again, not like harry), and you're sure you never will.
but he's seventeen and his father's dead. his life is a mess but he's older, ragged, aged too quickly and inevitably by what he's seen. he's not that young, naive kid anymore, and when he looks at you, eyes clear and voice steady, and says "i need to do this", you know that he does.
he reminds you a bit of harry, really. going from good to great to fantastic within a span of weeks, determination grounding the ambition, the recklessness. he's still terrible at following the rules -- only ever when it suits his purpose -- and too arrogant, especially on the mats.
the day he finally manages to knock belby over is the day you realize he's ready. Ready ready, and it makes your stomach twist with nerves and admiration. he's good at this, really good, and he's smiling more every day.
when you sign off on his papers, he's in your office with his hands tucked behind his back -- eager and rolling forward on his heels, smiling wide like, c'mon, asshole, tell me i did good. i've done good.
you exhale softly, can't scrub the smile off your face. "you did good."
not young, you think. just inexperienced.
"don't get too cocky, potter."
his eyes flash with laughter, something you haven't seen in ages. "with all due respect, sir, i have it on good authority that you love it."
(you don't know when he stops looking at you like you have all the answers and starts looking at you like you're real.)
smiles in the cafeteria turn to hipchecks in the hallways which turn into sliding notes underneath his door in the middle of the night and meeting him for smokes in the middle of the night.
these moments are when the lines blur and you feel like shit could be different, like it used to be, if you all managed to pull through this.
the attack comes suddenly, just like they always do, and you know it's time to send him out. he looks so eager, suiting up, and you have second thoughts about it. about who exactly you're sending out there, here, who you can't afford to lose.
he finds your face in the crowd though, smiles real wide, and you know it's just time.
he breaks all the fucking rules and makes it home barely in once piece, just like you knew he would.
he finds you after he gets back and touches base with all the necessary protocol. you're proud and you're terrified and you're shaking all over, ready to throttle him just to feel the skin real and alive underneath your fingers. he's smiling, though, proud, and you're fucking proud, too, never been prouder in your life.
you're already halfway there when the door shuts behind him, when he moves to kiss you; your hands are on him, everywhere, pulling close enough to feel his heart beating against your skin, so fucking satisfying.
you can't believe you were crazy enough to let this kid talk you into letting him do this, and you can't believe you ever thought he couldn't handle it, in equal measures.
he moves right back into your space when it breaks, resting his forehead against your own and breathing your air. "you gonna bench me?"
"maybe. you deserve it." and he does, he really does, but you won't.
"yeah." he agrees. "great fucking ride though."
"don't ever," you huff, seriously. "do that to me again."
he hums, and leans up to kiss you.
