Untitled Sirius/Remus something or other
He came to himself staring at a square of grimy grey floortile. The cheap orange plastic chair was biting into the backs of his legs. It felt as though he was swimming to the surface after a long dive, the noises getting louder and sharper and resolving themselves into intelligible patterns.
Accident and Emergency at St Thomas's. The place was packed, a triage nurse buzzing from visitor to visitor. A small boy clung to a weary-looking man's leg, drizzling snot across his dad's trouser knee. The father stroked the boy's head mechanically, his attention fixed on one of the curtained cubicles that could be glimpsed down the corridor. Rows of people pressed bandages into cuts and tried to hold fractured and sprained limbs as still as possible until the busy doctors could get around to the walking wounded. Every 10 minutes or so, another casualty would limp in, dripping rainwater over the floors and demanding instant treatment.
Drunks gibbered, the receptionist's phone rang and rang, people yelled out in pain. It was maddening. A typical Friday night, in fact.
The smells were the worst. Remus had always been grateful for his capacity to divine so much by scent, but here the coppery tang of blood was cut with cheap disinfectant, urine, fear-sweat and the sour stench of alcohol.
Any second now they would tell him what he already knew deep inside: he'd failed. He welcomed every second the doctor stayed away and made it not true.
At least it was safer than St Mungo's. The blood statutes were in full force there and Rose would never have been able to come -- she would have been lucky if the guards on the door didn't blast her purely for being a muggle. But at least the enemy would never imagine that any self-respecting magical person would choose to be treated in this madhouse. This had been one right decision in a night of terrible ones.
He concentrated on the small things. The press of his elbows against his denim-covered thighs. The neural lightshow sparked when his palms rubbed wakefulness into his eyes.
There had to be a limit to what he could see and smell. That was important. Limit what you can sense, don't think about anything else, concentrate on not vomiting.
He looked down and breathed through his mouth. Grubby greying vinyl floor tiles that might once have been white. His scuffed boots, one red bootlace lolling on the floor like an overheated earthworm. These were sights he could handle.
The heels of his hands pressed into the side of his head, he concentrated on not-thinking.
Grey tiles. Black boots. Red laces.
Grey tiles. Black boots. Red laces...
Grey tiles, black boots...
The boots had been a gift from Sirius, who always seemed to have money even though he had been disinherited. There had been a great uncle somewhere way back in the gnarled Black family tree who had liked a rebel and shown his appreciation in a legacy of galleons, sickles and knuts.
It had been their first few months in the flat in Ravenscourt Park, the first year after school, and it had been so cold outside all the time, as though winter had London in her fist and was squeezing all warmth from the city's brick, stone and pavement. There had been some sort of disruption to the natural order of the Otherworld and the streets were beyond filthy, muggle rubbish spilled everywhere and matted onto the pavements. Up north, they said, the bodies lay unburied.
Remus had been an errand boy for the Order that winter, memorising messages that they didn't want to owl and talking to people he'd known at school, trying to sound out whether they were potential rebels -- or at least sympathetic to the cause.
Lots of travel, mostly off the magical network for safety's sake: buses, trains and the Tube. Muggle transport took an absurd amount of time and you never knew when they would be on strike so there was also lots and lots of walking. He was still wearing the boots his mother had bought him for passing his Owls but he'd grown since then and they'd developed a leak that neither magic, cobblers nor electrical tape could patch for long. He barely had money for his share of the food, rent and heating as it was. He just wore ever thicker socks and patched up the blisters.
One day Sirius had stalked in and thrown a heavy plastic bag marked Army Surplus at him before slumping onto the sofa in front of the fire.
"What's this?" he'd asked Sirius, but he already knew. He could smell the new leather, his thumb grazed the thickly ridged soles through the thin plastic. He despised charity handouts, always had, but the thought of dry feet was so enticing --
"Open it, for god's sake" Sirius had said in an off-hand way he couldn't quite carry off. "Consider it your gift to me because if I have to smell your socks drying on the radiators one more time, I may throw up."
He pretended to look at the fire while regarding Remus out of the corner of his eye and trying not to smile. Remus had walked slowly across to the battered armchair nearest the fire and placed the boots on the hearth rug. The bag may have looked cheap but the boots were not, he could tell. The leather was soft and supple and smelled wonderful and the soles were thick and sturdy. He slid his feet in. The boots closed around them like warm, snug mouths. There might be a week or so of blisters while his heels and ankles moulded the leather but that was nothing because they'd last for years and years.
"Good God, Moony, you don't look as happy as that when you're having a wank," Sirius crowed, the indifferent front dropped now he knew his gift had been a success.
Sirius had always been like that -- insightful enough to see the need, brilliant at working out the best way to implement his kindness, and utterly insufferable all at once.
Remus had stuck out his tongue, trying to think of how to say thanks without doing what he wanted to do, which was to hug him so tightly that he could feel every rib.
Of course that was when they had been close. Closest. Not so long ago even though it felt that way tonight.
God, he was so tired but he couldn't leave. Someone had to wait for Rose...
He couldn't think about it just now.
Grey tile, black boots, red laces...
Lily had bought him the laces last birthday. A joke gift -- red laces shot through with streaks of yellow-gold cotton, because once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor, even though the safety of Hogwarts seemed liked a distant memory now.
Her eyes had been merry. "This," she said, bopping him on the nose with the laces, "is what we call a colour, Remus. If you wear it, the sky won't fall in."
"I wear colours sometimes," he protested, smiling. "I have a very fetching red hat."
She pressed them into his hand, her thumb stroking along his lifeline. Memories sharpened in her eyes. "You wear too much black, Moony," she said quietly.
Black was easy to mend and hid the dirt, he didn't say. "I have to look inconspicuous on my travels."
Sirius looked up from his cards, a sneer already in place. He'd been steadily emptying a bottle of Lagavulin all night as he, James and Peter played cards. He had always been mercurial on butterbeer but hard liquor, and particularly whisky, made him nasty.
"Red laces -- how daring!" he said. "You fashion plate, Moony. You fop."
Peter laughed because Peter always did. James stared down his nose past his Lennon glasses at Sirius as if the remark was in poor taste even for a Black but seemed to think it was just teasing. Remus felt the sharp edge to it, for himself and for Lily.
Sirius was making new friends among the elite as part of his work for the Order and every time they saw him his robes were a little grander and his drinking a little worse. Being a Black opened doors and brought instant respect even if your family did not approve of you and the fast, young Death Eater crowd were arrogant dandys, partying all the louder now their star was in the ascendant. Even Snape washed his hair and polished his boots now and then.
Last week Remus had told Sirius he liked it a little too much. Obviously that was still stinging.
The silence was growing uncomfortable. Remus turned back to Lily, and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Well, at least my laces can keep up with the Blacks," he said, fixing a smile on his face.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Sirius snapped.
"Fuck's sake, Sirius, it was a joke," said James. "It's your turn, unless you're going to play like a girl and drop out again."
Lily's brows knitted together in annoyance. James didn't even look up from his cards. "Sorry, Lily," he said.
She put her hand on his shoulder. "Who can take you at cards any day of the week, James?"
He shot a quick smile at her. "You, dear."
She kissed the crown of his head. "Too bloody right."
Peter smiled and Sirius rolled his eyes but not with the disdain of before. The frosty atmosphere was gone as soon as it had appeared and Remus felt a fierce jolt of affection for them all.