SiM fic: Waiting (for Something to Start) [There's Too Much Love]
Title: Waiting (for Something to Start)
Rating: PG
Characters: Sirius, tangentially Remus (surprise surprise)
Summary: He's honest sometimes, brutal occasionally, and, these days, a bit afraid too.
Notes: Titled for Deanna's sake (and I ask, what's wrong with simply calling it 'Untitled #5'?), written in 23 non-continuous minutes.
The kitchen table is made of dull brown Formica mostly because when Remus bought it Sirius hadn’t moved in yet and Remus could afford little better. Now Sirius stares at it with a clinical eye and fights the urge to slam his forehead against it in frustration, covered as it is with sticky bread crumbs and the dried-up orange juice he spilled last night and couldn’t be bothered to clean up.
He glances at the clock again, and it’s really not all that late, just slightly past ten, which is a perfectly reasonable time to be out and about, be one Remus or be one someone else, only that lately there’s been a few too many killings for his liking and he can’t help it if that makes him on edge, not knowing where Remus is, like he can’t help the way Moody pulling him aside one morning and gruffly saying “either you or one of your friends is a spy” makes him on edge, because now he can’t look at any of the people he went to school with without a momentary flash of doubt.
Sometimes he catches Remus eyeing him queerly, and Sirius wonders if Moody has pulled him aside too, if Moody’s told him the exact same words so that now neither of them can look at each other without wondering. Maybe that’s why things have gone to hell, anyhow. Maybe that’s why Sirius doesn’t trust Remus blindly anymore, so much as desperately hopes they’ll both be on the same side, when and if it ever comes to cursing Death Eaters out of their dirty, unkempt flat, with its dull Formica furniture and its dirty windowpanes, greasy on the outside from the cod-frying that goes on in the pub downstairs.
It’s nice, blaming Moody for the way things are, throwing all the fault and guilt and responsibility on someone who’s almost a stranger, and forgetting for a few minutes that things were awkward and strained long before that particular Order meeting.
It’s nice, but it’s a lie, and in the end he’s never sure who is really to blame, whether him or Remus or the two of them. Or maybe Peter, who never comes around any more, probably because it’s no fun, listening to Remus and him arguing over nothing. Or perhaps some of the blame should go to James, who didn’t quite forget about his friends the moment Lily Evans said “yes fine I’ll meet you in Hogsmeade now shut up about it already Potter” but came dangerously close to doing so.
Maybe the blame is entirely his (and maybe one can never stop being a Black), or maybe the fault is entirely Remus’ (and maybe one can never stop being a dark creature), or maybe it’s everyone’s, or no one’s, really, he doesn’t know.
So he drums his fingers against the tabletop absently, unconsciously playing scales on the dirty Formica, fingers deftly dodging sticky clusters of orange pulp and day-old bread, and waits for Remus to come home, glancing at the clock every two minutes and wondering just where he is and what he is doing.
Rating: PG
Characters: Sirius, tangentially Remus (surprise surprise)
Summary: He's honest sometimes, brutal occasionally, and, these days, a bit afraid too.
Notes: Titled for Deanna's sake (and I ask, what's wrong with simply calling it 'Untitled #5'?), written in 23 non-continuous minutes.
The kitchen table is made of dull brown Formica mostly because when Remus bought it Sirius hadn’t moved in yet and Remus could afford little better. Now Sirius stares at it with a clinical eye and fights the urge to slam his forehead against it in frustration, covered as it is with sticky bread crumbs and the dried-up orange juice he spilled last night and couldn’t be bothered to clean up.
He glances at the clock again, and it’s really not all that late, just slightly past ten, which is a perfectly reasonable time to be out and about, be one Remus or be one someone else, only that lately there’s been a few too many killings for his liking and he can’t help it if that makes him on edge, not knowing where Remus is, like he can’t help the way Moody pulling him aside one morning and gruffly saying “either you or one of your friends is a spy” makes him on edge, because now he can’t look at any of the people he went to school with without a momentary flash of doubt.
Sometimes he catches Remus eyeing him queerly, and Sirius wonders if Moody has pulled him aside too, if Moody’s told him the exact same words so that now neither of them can look at each other without wondering. Maybe that’s why things have gone to hell, anyhow. Maybe that’s why Sirius doesn’t trust Remus blindly anymore, so much as desperately hopes they’ll both be on the same side, when and if it ever comes to cursing Death Eaters out of their dirty, unkempt flat, with its dull Formica furniture and its dirty windowpanes, greasy on the outside from the cod-frying that goes on in the pub downstairs.
It’s nice, blaming Moody for the way things are, throwing all the fault and guilt and responsibility on someone who’s almost a stranger, and forgetting for a few minutes that things were awkward and strained long before that particular Order meeting.
It’s nice, but it’s a lie, and in the end he’s never sure who is really to blame, whether him or Remus or the two of them. Or maybe Peter, who never comes around any more, probably because it’s no fun, listening to Remus and him arguing over nothing. Or perhaps some of the blame should go to James, who didn’t quite forget about his friends the moment Lily Evans said “yes fine I’ll meet you in Hogsmeade now shut up about it already Potter” but came dangerously close to doing so.
Maybe the blame is entirely his (and maybe one can never stop being a Black), or maybe the fault is entirely Remus’ (and maybe one can never stop being a dark creature), or maybe it’s everyone’s, or no one’s, really, he doesn’t know.
So he drums his fingers against the tabletop absently, unconsciously playing scales on the dirty Formica, fingers deftly dodging sticky clusters of orange pulp and day-old bread, and waits for Remus to come home, glancing at the clock every two minutes and wondering just where he is and what he is doing.