‘Hold up’
The hand on his back is light, a gentle touch, and for a brief second James is convinced he's imagining it. "..what is it?" he asks softly, voice barely breaking the quiet of their bedroom. Her fist is tangled in the soft fabric of his t-shirt, worn throughout the years, - stolen by her, too, on a number of occasions, - though it's enough motivation to make him sit back down on the edge of the bed, turning to Lily. She had tangled her hair up into a bun before sleeping, though most of it is unraveled now, a flame licking across her pillow. She still looks half asleep, like she hadn't actually meant to reach out to stop him from leaving, but how is he ever supposed to walk away? Dumbledore's owl had come the night before, asking James to meet him urgently just after midnight the next, and he's not one to leave Albus hanging. Not now. Not when every single piece of information is so crucial, so key to turning the war in their favor. They need all the help they can get, and if his former headmaster demands his presence at 2 in the morning, he can't turn away. Still. He's not an idiot. He had planned on getting up a few minutes early before floo-ing, to at least get a cup of coffee and settle his nerves before hopping in the fireplace. And with Lily's hand dropping, moving from his back to tangle her fingers with his own again, James can think of a much better alternative to sitting alone in the kitchen. ".. five more minutes, then," he decides, slumping back to sit against the pillows, using his grasp to tug his wife in a little closer.