hp fic // keep you in my pocket [remus/sirius; PG.]
title: keep you in my pocket
author: crooked
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: PG
word count: 1006
summary: When no-one is looking (and even when they are because skinny, awkward werewolves in shabby blazers are easy to overlook), Remus likes to wander off and disappear into the nearest thicket of trees.
a/n: for drabble prompt two @ imochan's AMAZING R/S LOVE POST. ♥
keep you in my pocket
When no-one is looking (and even when they are because skinny, awkward werewolves in shabby blazers are easy to overlook), Remus likes to wander off and disappear into the nearest thicket of trees. And when a thicket of trees is dreadfully difficult to find, as they often are in the middle of bloody Whitechapel, he Apparates to the countryside, and there's usually an abundance of trees to take refuge in.
He treks into the woods, kicking at underbrush and occasionally pulling out his wand to clear a path, and then, at a very random spot, he stops. His hand slips into his pocket and fishes out an innocuous-looking piece of parchment. Remus unfolds it carefully, well-worn at the creases from reading and rereading so many times he's lost count. A familiar, tight scrawl runs the width of the page, a single line of text that he's memorised over the years.
Thanks for all the sex last night.
It had been passed to him as a joke, meant purely for shock value seeing as how ‘shock value’ was Sirius’ middle name. Remus remembers how well it served its purpose that cloudy day in March, Sirius watching him in the middle of Transfiguration with that stupid smirk on his face, as he’d unfolded the square of parchment and promptly turned tomato red. Because they had had sex for the first time the night before, and no-one but the two of them knew. Even standing in the thick air of the trees, branches tangled around him and suffocating the light, he turns the slightest bit pink, but not because the words have the same effect on him.
He's embarrassed that he's kept the bloody thing for so long. He's embarrassed that it was never not on his person most days since seventh year when Sirius gave it to him. He's embarrassed that Sirius' face was just plastered all over the Daily Prophet - mad and unrecognisable and accused of heinous things - and yet he still is out in the woods on his lunch break, trembling fingers holding the note and a smile threatening to break across his face.
Remus hastily crumples the note and raises his arm to throw it as far as the breeze will carry it, but his arm falls back to his side a moment later. The slope of his shoulders shows his defeat as he carefully presses out the wrinkles in the palm of his hand, relieved to see the words still legible.
"Stupid, sentimental fuck," he chastises himself, refolding the note and stuffing it back into his pocket.
It's the way his life has gone for the past three weeks: at once hating Sirius for ruining their lives and murdering their friends while simultaneously refusing to believe the person he loved was capable of such atrocities. The flat (which he still hasn't quite worked out how he's going to keep paying the rent on his own) has an empty box marked 'his things' sitting in the middle of the bedroom, having been packed and unpacked several times over the past few days.
Remus looks up and suddenly everything seems dreary and filled with gloom, not at all the tranquil place he'd walked into moments ago. He sighs and kicks and pushes his way out into the wide pasture he'd Apparated into to get there. He pulls out the old pocketwatch his father had given him when he was a boy, and his lunch break is almost up. With a loud crack that echoes over the high grass Remus disappears and is standing back in Whitechapel, no-one having noticed his absence.
Mr Peppers nods at a stack of newly delivered post when Remus walks into the small office, and he sets about sorting it at once. He works mechanically until it's time to clock out for the day, his mind wandered back to the woods and the note - heavy as a stone - in his pocket.
Twenty minutes on the train and Remus is home, though it hasn't felt like home since the biggest, loudest presence in it went away. He follows the routine he's set for himself: remove blazer, loosen tie, take off shoes, make a kettle of tea. He's found that keeping his mind in a constant state of autopilot makes it easier to cope.
Remus pads toward the bedroom, pausing to lean against the door frame as he sips at his still-too-hot tea. The box, charmed so that it's much larger than it appears, stares at him from the floor, empty and taunting. He sighs to himself, and the next three hours are spent packing up everything in the flat that has Sirius' stamp on it. It looks as if someone has robbed him when he's done, but Remus thinks he can live with the bare minimum as long as it means no constant reminders of what his life once was - and what it could have (should have, he tells himself) been. He Spellotapes the box shut and pushes it into the far corner of the hallway closet.
He shuts the door behind him with a soft click, his hand slipping into his pocket out of habit. Remus freezes when his fingertips brush the parchment. He turns around, hastily pulling out the box and tearing into the tape. He holds the parchment above the open box full of Sirius: Buzzcocks albums, his favourite pair of fuzzy socks that Mrs Potter had knit for him, smiling pictures, pictures frowning and gesturing rudely at being shoved into a box, the hair products he swore he never used. But the piece of paper stays where it is, between shaking fingers, and Remus eventually closes the box once more.
He sinks down onto the sofa, unfolding the note again, staring at Sirius' handwriting. "I hate you, you know," he says to both the parchment and the boy who wrote it, the boy who'd turned into the man now rotting away in Azkaban.
But, deep down inside, Remus knows he really doesn't mean it.
author: crooked
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: PG
word count: 1006
summary: When no-one is looking (and even when they are because skinny, awkward werewolves in shabby blazers are easy to overlook), Remus likes to wander off and disappear into the nearest thicket of trees.
a/n: for drabble prompt two @ imochan's AMAZING R/S LOVE POST. ♥
keep you in my pocket
When no-one is looking (and even when they are because skinny, awkward werewolves in shabby blazers are easy to overlook), Remus likes to wander off and disappear into the nearest thicket of trees. And when a thicket of trees is dreadfully difficult to find, as they often are in the middle of bloody Whitechapel, he Apparates to the countryside, and there's usually an abundance of trees to take refuge in.
He treks into the woods, kicking at underbrush and occasionally pulling out his wand to clear a path, and then, at a very random spot, he stops. His hand slips into his pocket and fishes out an innocuous-looking piece of parchment. Remus unfolds it carefully, well-worn at the creases from reading and rereading so many times he's lost count. A familiar, tight scrawl runs the width of the page, a single line of text that he's memorised over the years.
Thanks for all the sex last night.
It had been passed to him as a joke, meant purely for shock value seeing as how ‘shock value’ was Sirius’ middle name. Remus remembers how well it served its purpose that cloudy day in March, Sirius watching him in the middle of Transfiguration with that stupid smirk on his face, as he’d unfolded the square of parchment and promptly turned tomato red. Because they had had sex for the first time the night before, and no-one but the two of them knew. Even standing in the thick air of the trees, branches tangled around him and suffocating the light, he turns the slightest bit pink, but not because the words have the same effect on him.
He's embarrassed that he's kept the bloody thing for so long. He's embarrassed that it was never not on his person most days since seventh year when Sirius gave it to him. He's embarrassed that Sirius' face was just plastered all over the Daily Prophet - mad and unrecognisable and accused of heinous things - and yet he still is out in the woods on his lunch break, trembling fingers holding the note and a smile threatening to break across his face.
Remus hastily crumples the note and raises his arm to throw it as far as the breeze will carry it, but his arm falls back to his side a moment later. The slope of his shoulders shows his defeat as he carefully presses out the wrinkles in the palm of his hand, relieved to see the words still legible.
"Stupid, sentimental fuck," he chastises himself, refolding the note and stuffing it back into his pocket.
It's the way his life has gone for the past three weeks: at once hating Sirius for ruining their lives and murdering their friends while simultaneously refusing to believe the person he loved was capable of such atrocities. The flat (which he still hasn't quite worked out how he's going to keep paying the rent on his own) has an empty box marked 'his things' sitting in the middle of the bedroom, having been packed and unpacked several times over the past few days.
Remus looks up and suddenly everything seems dreary and filled with gloom, not at all the tranquil place he'd walked into moments ago. He sighs and kicks and pushes his way out into the wide pasture he'd Apparated into to get there. He pulls out the old pocketwatch his father had given him when he was a boy, and his lunch break is almost up. With a loud crack that echoes over the high grass Remus disappears and is standing back in Whitechapel, no-one having noticed his absence.
Mr Peppers nods at a stack of newly delivered post when Remus walks into the small office, and he sets about sorting it at once. He works mechanically until it's time to clock out for the day, his mind wandered back to the woods and the note - heavy as a stone - in his pocket.
Twenty minutes on the train and Remus is home, though it hasn't felt like home since the biggest, loudest presence in it went away. He follows the routine he's set for himself: remove blazer, loosen tie, take off shoes, make a kettle of tea. He's found that keeping his mind in a constant state of autopilot makes it easier to cope.
Remus pads toward the bedroom, pausing to lean against the door frame as he sips at his still-too-hot tea. The box, charmed so that it's much larger than it appears, stares at him from the floor, empty and taunting. He sighs to himself, and the next three hours are spent packing up everything in the flat that has Sirius' stamp on it. It looks as if someone has robbed him when he's done, but Remus thinks he can live with the bare minimum as long as it means no constant reminders of what his life once was - and what it could have (should have, he tells himself) been. He Spellotapes the box shut and pushes it into the far corner of the hallway closet.
He shuts the door behind him with a soft click, his hand slipping into his pocket out of habit. Remus freezes when his fingertips brush the parchment. He turns around, hastily pulling out the box and tearing into the tape. He holds the parchment above the open box full of Sirius: Buzzcocks albums, his favourite pair of fuzzy socks that Mrs Potter had knit for him, smiling pictures, pictures frowning and gesturing rudely at being shoved into a box, the hair products he swore he never used. But the piece of paper stays where it is, between shaking fingers, and Remus eventually closes the box once more.
He sinks down onto the sofa, unfolding the note again, staring at Sirius' handwriting. "I hate you, you know," he says to both the parchment and the boy who wrote it, the boy who'd turned into the man now rotting away in Azkaban.
But, deep down inside, Remus knows he really doesn't mean it.