A fic! A Fic! My kingdom for a fic!
This fic took me forever to write. It is my first time posting Remus/Sirius anything anywhere and is totally unbetaed. This might explain why I like the first half and the latter half deteriorates into crap.
Or that could just be my crap writing.
Anyway, I wrote this fic after reading one too many "happily-ever-after" post-Veil fics that didn't quite add up. Things seemed like they should be harder. Originally this was going to end quite differently. Then I was going to add Remus's and Tonks's perspectives in as well, but that threw everything off. Eleven-hundred words and several fledgeling ideas were scrapped because I realized it was turning even more into a soap opera than it already was is. The result is what you have before you. Gah.
Title: The Strength to Carry On
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s):Remus/Sirius- mentions of Remus/Tonks, Harry/Ginny, and Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Just a basic slash warning- I don't think there's even cursing.
Disclaimer: All characters and locations here-in are property of J.K. Rowling, and I am receiving no compensation for this fic. The lyrics used between transitions are part of the song "American Pie" by Don McLean. I am making no money off their use either.
Summary: Sirius returns from the Veil, but the world sems to be have done quite well without him.
Word Count:2928
“Are you okay?”
Everyone’s been asking that lately.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Sirius closes his eyes and tilts his head back, feeling the sun beat against his face and neck.
Everyone’s been getting that answer lately.
“Liar.” The voice sounds tired and almost amused, and now there’s a toe poking into Sirius’ thigh. “Move over Padfoot,” he is commanded, and he does.
Sirius opens his eyes just barely and peers at Remus as he is sitting down. “What do you want Moony?” he growls, “I was sunning.”
Remus hmmms and stretches and half-lids his eyes and Sirius thinks resentfully that for a werewolf, Remus sure did always act like a cat.
Sirius smiles slightly, crookedly, once Remus is comfortable and reaches into his pocket, fishes out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?” he asks, shaking the fags at his companion.
Remus wrinkles his nose in distaste. “That’s a dreadful habit,” he informs Sirius, “It’s bound to kill…you…” He trails off, suddenly looking awkward, and faint rose is painting his cheeks.
Something dark and sour twists inside Sirius just as his face twists into a scowl.
Things aren’t supposed to be awkward between him and Remus.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters. He puts the cigarettes back; decides he didn’t want any anyway.
The two of them are silent for a moment, Sirius can’t decide if it’s the awkward kind or the comfortable. He wonders at what point the two became blurred. But he doesn’t want silence, has had too much of it over the past few weeks when conversation would lag and falter and die. So even though he doesn’t look at Remus, Remus looks at him when he says, “So, you and Tonks, huh?”
(That’s not how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.)
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
Sirius presses up against him; hard, demanding, insistent. “Dammit Remus, it was supposed to be you and me,” he whispers, breath hot and harsh and rushing along Remus’s jaw.
“You died,” Remus hisses back, and he bites Sirius’s neck where it meets his shoulder, delighting as Sirius jerks and writhes. “You fucking died on me.”
“You should have waited,” Sirius tells him, knowing he’s being stupid and unfair but doing it anyway because God-dammit, he fucking died, and it’s hard to be mature after that.
“I’m not some blasted damsel to tragically await my true love’s return,” Remus snarls in panting, heavy breaths, and he curls up a fist and slams it into Sirius’s stomach. Sirius gasps and lets go of Remus, dropping to the floor and curling around the injured area.
“Why not?” he demands once he’s gotten his air back. He glares up at Remus who now refuses to look at him and is already walking off.
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
It’s later and Sirius is sulking, refusing to heal his bruises and stalking haughtily around Remus’s house. He’s living a kind of half life. He doesn’t want to be here, but has nowhere else to go, nothing to do. The war ended while he was dead and what’s a soldier to do?
Both he and Remus are ignoring each other, flashing edge-of the teeth smiles and dropping cryptic comments at each other when they’re in the same room. It reminds Sirius too much of the old times, the bad times, back when the first war was heating up and Sirius and Remus suddenly found they couldn’t trust each other. Tonks, the only other member of Lupin Lodge, varies between looking amused, exasperated, and on the verge of tears. She senses the tension but neither her cousin or her fiancee are willing to talk to her about it.
All Sirius really wants to do is get out and talk to Harry because Harry reminds him of James. With James Sirius always had a sense of purpose, whether it was “Here, throw this dung bomb down that corridor,” or “Be my best man,” or “Protect my son.”
Sirius has to admit he was great at the first two, but a total arse-up at the third. But Harry turned out fine, hasn’t he? He is tall and handsome and brave and now adjusting to a world where the Darkest Wizard in a Really Long Time isn’t trying to kill him. He is adjusting, and he is adjusting well, flying off all over the place with that pretty Weasley girl.
So yes, Harry doesn’t need to see him, and he probably doesn’t even want to see him, but Sirius swears if Nymphadora-he-doesn’t-bloody-care-she-wants-to-be-called-Tonks flutters her eyelashes at Moony one more time he is going to be sick all over the carpet. And that wouldn’t do at all, would it?
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
“Sirius!” exclaims Harry happily when Sirius apparates into the boy’s home- he’s one of the few allowed to get past the charms Hermione set up.
(James, James, James go the voices in Sirius’s head. He’s never going to get used to this- can’t fathom how Remus has.)
“Did you hear the good news?” demands Harry, and he hands his godfather a glass of fire whiskey.
Sirius shakes his head in answer and Harry beams, light reflecting off his glasses and teeth so he looks like the sun.
“Ron and Hermione are getting married!” and he grins like anything.
Sirius follows Harry’s smile, and sure enough, there’s Ron and Hermione, arms wrapped around ach other and looking shy and embarrassed but terribly, terribly pleased.
Sirius feels a hot surge of emotion in his belly and knows it’s jealousy- it’s the same feeling he gets whenever he sees Nymphadora in the morning- or after lunch, or before dinner, or in the evening, or anytime at all really. But this isn’t jealousy of the individual, of Ron or Hermione. This is jealousy of the couple, of Ron and Hermione. He’s jealous of the two, of them being together and in love. It’s petty, but he feeds it anyway as he bares his teeth and spits out, “Congratulations.”
He knocks back the drink, and asks a still sickeningly sunny and now slightly drunk Harry for another.
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/ singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
Sirius doesn’t know why he apparates to Grimmauld Place next. Maybe it’s because he’s a little drunk and a lot maudlin, but this feels like the only place he has left. Lupin Lodge and Harry’s new house have been taken over by lovers, and the flat in London he used to have was let, literally, a lifetime long ago. And James, James who has always equated home to Sirius, is a Veil-fall away. He supposes Andromeda would be happy to see him, but he doesn’t want to impose on her- for perhaps forever.
Sirius doesn’t have a job or money or a house or any experience really. He’d always figured he’d live on his Uncle Alphard’s inheritance. That was before the war started, and during the war it was easier to not have a job if you were part of the Order. And after the war? Well, you really don’t need much of anything in Azkaban.
Harry has offered to give back Sirius his money and Grimmauld Place. But Sirius has refused, time and time again. As far as any of them can tell, there’s no precedent to this kind of thing. Sirius died, and Harry was the beneficiary of his will, and Sirius will be damned again if he’s going to take it all away because he’s pathetic. Besides, it’s not that Sirius even wants this strange empty house that looks nothing and everything like the place he grew up in.
It was completely gutted after the war by Remus and Harry and Hermione and every flame-haired and freckled faced Weasley under the sun. Left a blank shell, hollow but for the memories. Like here, and Sirius brushes long, bony fingers against the white space where his mother’s portrait used to spit venom. Remus finally figured out how to take it down.
How satisfying it must have been, Sirius thinks, and he can almost see Remus’s brilliant, exhausted smile, remnant of a thousand school-boy victories.
There’s a pop, all the wards had been taken down as well. Grimmauld Place is now a decrepit mansion in the middle of Muggle London, and as if Sirius’s thoughts have summoned him, a weary Remus is saying, “How did I know you’d be here?”
Sirius smiles at the wall because even though the two them have quite recently tried to beat each other to death, Sirius is always happy to see Remus.
“You always were good at finding me,” Sirius says. And it’s true, Remus had always been the one able to drag Sirius out of whatever Hogwarts haunt, and later, whatever London pub, Sirius had been hiding in. Remus had been the one who had sighed and said in his long suffering but really, secretly concerned tone, “Why don’t you talk to me about it?” instead of telling Sirius that he was, “a mangy git who was better off without those arse-faces anyway.”
“Padfoot…” Remus sighs, and Sirius feels a spinning sensation of déjà vu. There’s the sound of soft footfalls as Remus crosses the distance between them, lays a hand on Sirius’s shoulder.
Sirius turns, grabs Remus’s hand, and the two stare at each other with a million unsaid things hanging in between and neither sure if the words should stay that way. Then- Sirius hugs Remus, so hard he thinks both their ribs must crack, arms wrapped tight, tight, tight around Remus’s eternally too-thin shoulders. Remus is tense at first, but relaxes; tentatively raises his hands to curl around Sirius’s shoulder blades.
‘This is good,’ Sirius thinks, ‘This is right.’
And, because he can’t help it, because he’s still tipsy and still upset, he whines into the crook of Remus’s neck, “Why am I here?”
“Well,” begins Remus, perplexed, “That’s a question mankind’s been trying to answer for ages. Many philosophers have-”
He’s slipping into professor mode- teaching, lecturing… pontificating. Sirius growls low in his throat and pushes Remus back so he can glare at the man. But he keeps his hands on Remus’s shoulders so he doesn’t lose contact.
“No Moony, why am I here?” He peers into Remus’s careworn face, trying not to look too hopeless.
“Oh, Padfoot, I-” Remus stares back at him with a miserable expression. “I don’t know Sirius, I don’t know. Don’t you,” and his face and voice are so earnest, “Don’t you remember anything?”
Sirius hesitates, because he does remember something. Late at night and early in the morning and in the mazelike dream wanderings in between the memories come surging and drowning him in a sea of images that shouldn’t make sense but do. None of those memories can tell him what he most needs to know- why.
“No,” he whispers, not meeting Remus’s eyes. He doesn’t want to tell Remus that he remembers anything, almost everything really, because those memories are so much better than the now- and it’s the now Sirius must learn to live with. (Again.)
“I want to go back,” he tells his feet sadly.
“Go back where?” asks Remus. Fingers wrap around Sirius’s jaw and pull his face around so that they are staring at each other again.
Sirius squeezes his eyes shut and debates his options. He could lie. He could blame it on the drink. He could do any number of things, but it’s Remus, so he tells the truth.
“I want to go back through the Veil,” breathes Sirius, and it is all he can do to open his eyes and not break down.
“Sirius- what, why?!” Remus’s voice and face register shock and pain before slipping back into icy control.
“Because I don’t want to end up like my father!” Sirius explodes with the first thing he can think of. He pulls away from Remus’s gentle grip and swings around, punches the wall. A shower of dust falls down, coating them both with white. Neither notice. Sirius is beginning to pace in his rant, and Remus is staring at him, eyes dark and unreadable.
“Because I don’t want to end up bitter and alone and eaten alive by fire whiskey. Because I have no purpose. Because everything is fine without me. Because back there was happier.” He turns back to face Remus with a painfully open expression, “I was with James, Remus, and Lily.”
Remus’s breath catches for just a moment, but comes out again in a rush as Sirius continues, “Because…because…no one needs me.” It’s petulant and childish, but there it is. “The Order doesn’t need me. Harry doesn’t need me, and,” Sirius hesitates, a hand drifts up as if he’s going to touch Remus, but pulls back, his voice slips and falls into a whisper, “because you don’t need me.”
For a moment Remus is still, and Sirius gazes at him, hoping against hope Remus will contradict him. Remus opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs. (Maybe…maybe…) Remus turns away, absentmindedly brushes some of the ceiling dust off his shabby coat. When he speaks, his voice is cold, “Fine then Padfoot. Let’s get you back to James.”
He apparates, and Sirius only takes one last fleeting look at the house that cradled his life, his last life, like parentheses before he does the same.
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/ singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
Sirius will never know how Remus managed to get the two of them into the Department of Mysteries, into the room of death, without anyone catching him. He thinks it is a testament to the skills of lying, bluffing, and sneaking Moony was taught in school- truly abilities with more practical application than how to turn a tortoise into a teapot.
Now here Sirius is, standing at the same spot where he had died before and will die again. The spot, he realizes, where he was reborn those two months ago- shivering with cold, naked, and confused. ‘If anyone’s a member of the Order of the Phoenix it’s me,’ he thinks vaguely, wryly before turning back to Remus and saying, “Well?”
The word bounces off through the vast room, and it seems the voices from behind the Veil pick up on it as well- muttering in low, pleased voices.
“Well, well…well well, weeell.”
It is suddenly very cold.
“Are you sure want to do this?” asks Remus, standing a few feet away and looking ashen.
Sirius nods. (NO!) “Yeah, I’m sure.” He attempts a cocky grin and knows it falls somewhere around desperate and maniacal.
Remus looks at him steadily and swallows hard. Sirius watches the adam-apple bob in his throat. ‘Mine!’ thinks Padfoot, and Sirius shakes his inner head. ‘No, not anymore.’
“Well,” Sirius repeats, rubbing his hands together. “This is it. Good-bye Moony.” Keep it simple, he was never one for speeches. Merlin knows James and Lily’s wedding proved that.
“Good-bye,” echoes Moony, politely, cordially. Then he grins too, a sick, sad, hollow kind of grin. This is harder than either of them thought. “At least this time I get to say good-bye,” he says in a strangled tone.
Sirius finds he can’t speak, only nod. Remus is right, they’ve never been given that mercy- not with Azkaban, and certainly not with the last Veil-trip. He mouths ‘I love you’ at Remus, but isn’t sure if he wants the werewolf to understand him or not.
He turns around, faces the Veil. It lies still for a moment, then begins its earnest whisperings anew. This time he knows who’s making those sounds.
He takes a step forward. ‘Don’t look back.’
He gulps, steadies himself, one more step-
“Sirius!”
Sirius freezes, the Veil whispering out to caress his wrist briefly before dropping back.
“What?” he asks, (Maybe, maybe, yes?) and turns around.
Remus is staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. “Don’t go,” he whispers, “Please.”
Several seconds of silence until-“Why not?” croaks Sirius, one hand still outstretched towards the Veil. ‘That,’ he scolds himself, ‘was probably a rather stupid thing to say.’
“Because,” Remus is striding towards him, the lost look on his face replaced by one of stony determination, “Because you have to have been sent back for some reason. These things don’t just happen. And,” he hesitates and comes to halt, standing a mere foot away from Sirius, “because,” he grasps Sirius’s shoulders and pulls him closer, “I lied,” he leans forward as Sirius frowns and breathes out soft and painful and true, “I do need you.”
Sirius blinks, twists his head back to stare at the Veil, fluttering almost seductively as if eddied by the murmur of voices, and then back at Remus- tired, gray, caring, constant, kind always Remus. All he can think to say is, “What about Tonks?”
Remus releases one of Sirius’s shoulders and runs a hand through his now mostly silver hair. “I’ll think of something,” he replies with weary deliberation.
Sirius places a hand on Remus’s cheek, etched with lines by laugh and sorrow. Mostly sorrow Sirius realizes as he takes a small step forward, closing the already small gap.
He kisses Remus.
Remus kisses back.
It is a start.
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/ singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
Or that could just be my crap writing.
Anyway, I wrote this fic after reading one too many "happily-ever-after" post-Veil fics that didn't quite add up. Things seemed like they should be harder. Originally this was going to end quite differently. Then I was going to add Remus's and Tonks's perspectives in as well, but that threw everything off. Eleven-hundred words and several fledgeling ideas were scrapped because I realized it was turning even more into a soap opera than it already was is. The result is what you have before you. Gah.
Title: The Strength to Carry On
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s):Remus/Sirius- mentions of Remus/Tonks, Harry/Ginny, and Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Just a basic slash warning- I don't think there's even cursing.
Disclaimer: All characters and locations here-in are property of J.K. Rowling, and I am receiving no compensation for this fic. The lyrics used between transitions are part of the song "American Pie" by Don McLean. I am making no money off their use either.
Summary: Sirius returns from the Veil, but the world sems to be have done quite well without him.
Word Count:2928
“Are you okay?”
Everyone’s been asking that lately.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Sirius closes his eyes and tilts his head back, feeling the sun beat against his face and neck.
Everyone’s been getting that answer lately.
“Liar.” The voice sounds tired and almost amused, and now there’s a toe poking into Sirius’ thigh. “Move over Padfoot,” he is commanded, and he does.
Sirius opens his eyes just barely and peers at Remus as he is sitting down. “What do you want Moony?” he growls, “I was sunning.”
Remus hmmms and stretches and half-lids his eyes and Sirius thinks resentfully that for a werewolf, Remus sure did always act like a cat.
Sirius smiles slightly, crookedly, once Remus is comfortable and reaches into his pocket, fishes out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?” he asks, shaking the fags at his companion.
Remus wrinkles his nose in distaste. “That’s a dreadful habit,” he informs Sirius, “It’s bound to kill…you…” He trails off, suddenly looking awkward, and faint rose is painting his cheeks.
Something dark and sour twists inside Sirius just as his face twists into a scowl.
Things aren’t supposed to be awkward between him and Remus.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters. He puts the cigarettes back; decides he didn’t want any anyway.
The two of them are silent for a moment, Sirius can’t decide if it’s the awkward kind or the comfortable. He wonders at what point the two became blurred. But he doesn’t want silence, has had too much of it over the past few weeks when conversation would lag and falter and die. So even though he doesn’t look at Remus, Remus looks at him when he says, “So, you and Tonks, huh?”
(That’s not how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.)
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
Sirius presses up against him; hard, demanding, insistent. “Dammit Remus, it was supposed to be you and me,” he whispers, breath hot and harsh and rushing along Remus’s jaw.
“You died,” Remus hisses back, and he bites Sirius’s neck where it meets his shoulder, delighting as Sirius jerks and writhes. “You fucking died on me.”
“You should have waited,” Sirius tells him, knowing he’s being stupid and unfair but doing it anyway because God-dammit, he fucking died, and it’s hard to be mature after that.
“I’m not some blasted damsel to tragically await my true love’s return,” Remus snarls in panting, heavy breaths, and he curls up a fist and slams it into Sirius’s stomach. Sirius gasps and lets go of Remus, dropping to the floor and curling around the injured area.
“Why not?” he demands once he’s gotten his air back. He glares up at Remus who now refuses to look at him and is already walking off.
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
It’s later and Sirius is sulking, refusing to heal his bruises and stalking haughtily around Remus’s house. He’s living a kind of half life. He doesn’t want to be here, but has nowhere else to go, nothing to do. The war ended while he was dead and what’s a soldier to do?
Both he and Remus are ignoring each other, flashing edge-of the teeth smiles and dropping cryptic comments at each other when they’re in the same room. It reminds Sirius too much of the old times, the bad times, back when the first war was heating up and Sirius and Remus suddenly found they couldn’t trust each other. Tonks, the only other member of Lupin Lodge, varies between looking amused, exasperated, and on the verge of tears. She senses the tension but neither her cousin or her fiancee are willing to talk to her about it.
All Sirius really wants to do is get out and talk to Harry because Harry reminds him of James. With James Sirius always had a sense of purpose, whether it was “Here, throw this dung bomb down that corridor,” or “Be my best man,” or “Protect my son.”
Sirius has to admit he was great at the first two, but a total arse-up at the third. But Harry turned out fine, hasn’t he? He is tall and handsome and brave and now adjusting to a world where the Darkest Wizard in a Really Long Time isn’t trying to kill him. He is adjusting, and he is adjusting well, flying off all over the place with that pretty Weasley girl.
So yes, Harry doesn’t need to see him, and he probably doesn’t even want to see him, but Sirius swears if Nymphadora-he-doesn’t-bloody-care-she-wants-to-be-called-Tonks flutters her eyelashes at Moony one more time he is going to be sick all over the carpet. And that wouldn’t do at all, would it?
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
“Sirius!” exclaims Harry happily when Sirius apparates into the boy’s home- he’s one of the few allowed to get past the charms Hermione set up.
(James, James, James go the voices in Sirius’s head. He’s never going to get used to this- can’t fathom how Remus has.)
“Did you hear the good news?” demands Harry, and he hands his godfather a glass of fire whiskey.
Sirius shakes his head in answer and Harry beams, light reflecting off his glasses and teeth so he looks like the sun.
“Ron and Hermione are getting married!” and he grins like anything.
Sirius follows Harry’s smile, and sure enough, there’s Ron and Hermione, arms wrapped around ach other and looking shy and embarrassed but terribly, terribly pleased.
Sirius feels a hot surge of emotion in his belly and knows it’s jealousy- it’s the same feeling he gets whenever he sees Nymphadora in the morning- or after lunch, or before dinner, or in the evening, or anytime at all really. But this isn’t jealousy of the individual, of Ron or Hermione. This is jealousy of the couple, of Ron and Hermione. He’s jealous of the two, of them being together and in love. It’s petty, but he feeds it anyway as he bares his teeth and spits out, “Congratulations.”
He knocks back the drink, and asks a still sickeningly sunny and now slightly drunk Harry for another.
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/ singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
Sirius doesn’t know why he apparates to Grimmauld Place next. Maybe it’s because he’s a little drunk and a lot maudlin, but this feels like the only place he has left. Lupin Lodge and Harry’s new house have been taken over by lovers, and the flat in London he used to have was let, literally, a lifetime long ago. And James, James who has always equated home to Sirius, is a Veil-fall away. He supposes Andromeda would be happy to see him, but he doesn’t want to impose on her- for perhaps forever.
Sirius doesn’t have a job or money or a house or any experience really. He’d always figured he’d live on his Uncle Alphard’s inheritance. That was before the war started, and during the war it was easier to not have a job if you were part of the Order. And after the war? Well, you really don’t need much of anything in Azkaban.
Harry has offered to give back Sirius his money and Grimmauld Place. But Sirius has refused, time and time again. As far as any of them can tell, there’s no precedent to this kind of thing. Sirius died, and Harry was the beneficiary of his will, and Sirius will be damned again if he’s going to take it all away because he’s pathetic. Besides, it’s not that Sirius even wants this strange empty house that looks nothing and everything like the place he grew up in.
It was completely gutted after the war by Remus and Harry and Hermione and every flame-haired and freckled faced Weasley under the sun. Left a blank shell, hollow but for the memories. Like here, and Sirius brushes long, bony fingers against the white space where his mother’s portrait used to spit venom. Remus finally figured out how to take it down.
How satisfying it must have been, Sirius thinks, and he can almost see Remus’s brilliant, exhausted smile, remnant of a thousand school-boy victories.
There’s a pop, all the wards had been taken down as well. Grimmauld Place is now a decrepit mansion in the middle of Muggle London, and as if Sirius’s thoughts have summoned him, a weary Remus is saying, “How did I know you’d be here?”
Sirius smiles at the wall because even though the two them have quite recently tried to beat each other to death, Sirius is always happy to see Remus.
“You always were good at finding me,” Sirius says. And it’s true, Remus had always been the one able to drag Sirius out of whatever Hogwarts haunt, and later, whatever London pub, Sirius had been hiding in. Remus had been the one who had sighed and said in his long suffering but really, secretly concerned tone, “Why don’t you talk to me about it?” instead of telling Sirius that he was, “a mangy git who was better off without those arse-faces anyway.”
“Padfoot…” Remus sighs, and Sirius feels a spinning sensation of déjà vu. There’s the sound of soft footfalls as Remus crosses the distance between them, lays a hand on Sirius’s shoulder.
Sirius turns, grabs Remus’s hand, and the two stare at each other with a million unsaid things hanging in between and neither sure if the words should stay that way. Then- Sirius hugs Remus, so hard he thinks both their ribs must crack, arms wrapped tight, tight, tight around Remus’s eternally too-thin shoulders. Remus is tense at first, but relaxes; tentatively raises his hands to curl around Sirius’s shoulder blades.
‘This is good,’ Sirius thinks, ‘This is right.’
And, because he can’t help it, because he’s still tipsy and still upset, he whines into the crook of Remus’s neck, “Why am I here?”
“Well,” begins Remus, perplexed, “That’s a question mankind’s been trying to answer for ages. Many philosophers have-”
He’s slipping into professor mode- teaching, lecturing… pontificating. Sirius growls low in his throat and pushes Remus back so he can glare at the man. But he keeps his hands on Remus’s shoulders so he doesn’t lose contact.
“No Moony, why am I here?” He peers into Remus’s careworn face, trying not to look too hopeless.
“Oh, Padfoot, I-” Remus stares back at him with a miserable expression. “I don’t know Sirius, I don’t know. Don’t you,” and his face and voice are so earnest, “Don’t you remember anything?”
Sirius hesitates, because he does remember something. Late at night and early in the morning and in the mazelike dream wanderings in between the memories come surging and drowning him in a sea of images that shouldn’t make sense but do. None of those memories can tell him what he most needs to know- why.
“No,” he whispers, not meeting Remus’s eyes. He doesn’t want to tell Remus that he remembers anything, almost everything really, because those memories are so much better than the now- and it’s the now Sirius must learn to live with. (Again.)
“I want to go back,” he tells his feet sadly.
“Go back where?” asks Remus. Fingers wrap around Sirius’s jaw and pull his face around so that they are staring at each other again.
Sirius squeezes his eyes shut and debates his options. He could lie. He could blame it on the drink. He could do any number of things, but it’s Remus, so he tells the truth.
“I want to go back through the Veil,” breathes Sirius, and it is all he can do to open his eyes and not break down.
“Sirius- what, why?!” Remus’s voice and face register shock and pain before slipping back into icy control.
“Because I don’t want to end up like my father!” Sirius explodes with the first thing he can think of. He pulls away from Remus’s gentle grip and swings around, punches the wall. A shower of dust falls down, coating them both with white. Neither notice. Sirius is beginning to pace in his rant, and Remus is staring at him, eyes dark and unreadable.
“Because I don’t want to end up bitter and alone and eaten alive by fire whiskey. Because I have no purpose. Because everything is fine without me. Because back there was happier.” He turns back to face Remus with a painfully open expression, “I was with James, Remus, and Lily.”
Remus’s breath catches for just a moment, but comes out again in a rush as Sirius continues, “Because…because…no one needs me.” It’s petulant and childish, but there it is. “The Order doesn’t need me. Harry doesn’t need me, and,” Sirius hesitates, a hand drifts up as if he’s going to touch Remus, but pulls back, his voice slips and falls into a whisper, “because you don’t need me.”
For a moment Remus is still, and Sirius gazes at him, hoping against hope Remus will contradict him. Remus opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs. (Maybe…maybe…) Remus turns away, absentmindedly brushes some of the ceiling dust off his shabby coat. When he speaks, his voice is cold, “Fine then Padfoot. Let’s get you back to James.”
He apparates, and Sirius only takes one last fleeting look at the house that cradled his life, his last life, like parentheses before he does the same.
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/ singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)
Sirius will never know how Remus managed to get the two of them into the Department of Mysteries, into the room of death, without anyone catching him. He thinks it is a testament to the skills of lying, bluffing, and sneaking Moony was taught in school- truly abilities with more practical application than how to turn a tortoise into a teapot.
Now here Sirius is, standing at the same spot where he had died before and will die again. The spot, he realizes, where he was reborn those two months ago- shivering with cold, naked, and confused. ‘If anyone’s a member of the Order of the Phoenix it’s me,’ he thinks vaguely, wryly before turning back to Remus and saying, “Well?”
The word bounces off through the vast room, and it seems the voices from behind the Veil pick up on it as well- muttering in low, pleased voices.
“Well, well…well well, weeell.”
It is suddenly very cold.
“Are you sure want to do this?” asks Remus, standing a few feet away and looking ashen.
Sirius nods. (NO!) “Yeah, I’m sure.” He attempts a cocky grin and knows it falls somewhere around desperate and maniacal.
Remus looks at him steadily and swallows hard. Sirius watches the adam-apple bob in his throat. ‘Mine!’ thinks Padfoot, and Sirius shakes his inner head. ‘No, not anymore.’
“Well,” Sirius repeats, rubbing his hands together. “This is it. Good-bye Moony.” Keep it simple, he was never one for speeches. Merlin knows James and Lily’s wedding proved that.
“Good-bye,” echoes Moony, politely, cordially. Then he grins too, a sick, sad, hollow kind of grin. This is harder than either of them thought. “At least this time I get to say good-bye,” he says in a strangled tone.
Sirius finds he can’t speak, only nod. Remus is right, they’ve never been given that mercy- not with Azkaban, and certainly not with the last Veil-trip. He mouths ‘I love you’ at Remus, but isn’t sure if he wants the werewolf to understand him or not.
He turns around, faces the Veil. It lies still for a moment, then begins its earnest whisperings anew. This time he knows who’s making those sounds.
He takes a step forward. ‘Don’t look back.’
He gulps, steadies himself, one more step-
“Sirius!”
Sirius freezes, the Veil whispering out to caress his wrist briefly before dropping back.
“What?” he asks, (Maybe, maybe, yes?) and turns around.
Remus is staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. “Don’t go,” he whispers, “Please.”
Several seconds of silence until-“Why not?” croaks Sirius, one hand still outstretched towards the Veil. ‘That,’ he scolds himself, ‘was probably a rather stupid thing to say.’
“Because,” Remus is striding towards him, the lost look on his face replaced by one of stony determination, “Because you have to have been sent back for some reason. These things don’t just happen. And,” he hesitates and comes to halt, standing a mere foot away from Sirius, “because,” he grasps Sirius’s shoulders and pulls him closer, “I lied,” he leans forward as Sirius frowns and breathes out soft and painful and true, “I do need you.”
Sirius blinks, twists his head back to stare at the Veil, fluttering almost seductively as if eddied by the murmur of voices, and then back at Remus- tired, gray, caring, constant, kind always Remus. All he can think to say is, “What about Tonks?”
Remus releases one of Sirius’s shoulders and runs a hand through his now mostly silver hair. “I’ll think of something,” he replies with weary deliberation.
Sirius places a hand on Remus’s cheek, etched with lines by laugh and sorrow. Mostly sorrow Sirius realizes as he takes a small step forward, closing the already small gap.
He kisses Remus.
Remus kisses back.
It is a start.
(And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye/ singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.)