beware authors bearing fics
Ok, been a while, but I've noticed that the time I get the most inspiration is when I'm supposed to be revising.
This idea has been bugging me for ages but I finally got round to writing it.
Title: Drink With Me
Pairing: Remus/Sirius (duh... but truly it's not that obvious, and I guess if you turn your head and squint your eyes then it could not exist.... but it's still there... somewhere)
Rating: I'm never any good that this, but I'd say about PG for one or two words and misuse of alcohol.
Warnings: Angst, drunken Remus, anger and... did I mention angst? Oh yeah, and possible anachronistic language... but you'll all forgive that, won't you?
Disclaimer: Remus, Dumbledore,and any other characters mentioned in this fic are not my property and, alas, never will be. the fic, however, is mine (I also don't own the song that inspired this...)
Summary: Drunken Remus
The sun was setting as the stumbling figure lurched along the pavement, clutching the railings. The rest of the street was deserted. No one cared enough to be looking out for a drunken werewolf heading, slowly, but doggedly, towards the gates at the end of the road. No one was left to sling his arm round his shoulders and support him until he got back to his flat. No one would be there the morning after to hand him a hangover-cure and smirk knowingly as he grimaced.
He tripped suddenly and fell, barely catching himself with one hand, knees hitting the autumn leaves, slushy with the aftermath of British drizzle. Through some miracle he was able to prevent the rectangular bottle he clutched from being smashed against the paving slabs. He manoeuvred himself up again and then careened forward a few steps.
It took a lot of work for a werewolf to get this drunk; usually they were practically impervious to the inebriating effects of alcohol. More than three days of wallowing in fire whiskey, however, had enabled Remus Lupin to pass from tipsy, through drunk, past smashed and right into pissed.
Grabbing onto the cool metal bar desperately he swung around and through the gates, setting his sights determinedly on a position on the other side of the enclosed area. Stumbling and cursing into the scarf he had slung on, without a coat, he gradually made it across to his goal, gathering a large collection of bruises and grazes on his shins from bumping into obstacles.
The sight of his target appeared to have a sobering effect on the young man: he stood up slightly, straightening his shoulders, and set his precious bottle down on the flat-topped stone behind him. He simply stood there for a minute, staring in what might have been disbelief, before collapsing to his knees on the sodden, freshly turned soil. He leaned out a hand, staring at it as though it were alien to him. Gently he outlined the indentations with two fingers, ascertaining their reality.
Here lies
JAMES POTTER
1960-1981
Beloved son, father and friend.
Husband of
LILY POTTER
1960-1981
Mother, friend and daughter
Heroes
A tear rolled down his cheeck as he traced the names.
'Jamie.' The word was whispered, barely more than an alcohol laden breath on the wind. An almost canine whimper wrenched itself from his throat, altering into a sob. 'Jamie. James... James... Jim?' His voice repeated the name in a questioning voice, as if wanting a reply. He gripped the top of the gravestone and leant forward to rest his forehead against the damp, scratchy granite above his friend’s name.
'This wasn't supposed to happen,' he told the stone, his tone defiant. 'Not you...' he broke off, unable to complete the thought, whether due to intoxication or emotion was unclear. 'This wasn't supposed to happen,' he repeated simply. He knelt in silence for a moment, staring at the carved letters in front of his eyes, unfocussed owing to his proximity.
'James and Lily...' the murmur was more a sigh of lamentation.
In a fluid movement, incongruous with his inebriation, he stood up, grabbing his bottle of fire whiskey from the top of the tomb behind him. He leaned back against it, taking a violent swig.
'This wasn't supposed to happen!' His voice, now harsh and loud, snapped like a whip into the silence. 'How could you let this happen?!' A question demanded of the still autumn air. Unsurprisingly there was no answer. The silence enraged him. 'Why did you all abandon me?' he asked, furiously. 'How could you go? James?' he paused, 'Prongs?' The only sound was the whisper of the chilly November breeze through the ancient horse chestnut in the far corner of the graveyard. 'ANSWER ME!' he commanded futilely. 'DAMMIT... answer me...'
In a movement of denial and impotent fury, he whirled around, turning his back to the grave and gulping down another burning mouthful of the whiskey.
'You were never meant to die,' he insisted, as though he knew what Fate's plan had truly been. 'You were supposed to live forever,' he stated the impossible like a well known fact. 'You survived... always.' The young man stared at the emerging stars. 'I imagined what would happen, a million different ways. I would die, Peter could die, even -Sirius- could die,' he spat out the final name as if it infected his mouth. 'Even Dumbledore... but never you... never you. You were always going to be there, at the end: you and Lily, smiling, and Harry - little Harry.' He turned accusing eyes back to the inoffensive slab of stone. 'How could you die? You were the future, my future... the future of all of us...
'...and now there is nothing. NOTHING! Not you, not Lily, not Peter, not that... that bastard... not even Harry.' As he sank back against the stone his voice became a strangled choking in his throat. A shiver passed through his body: the only indication that he was feeling the cold through his well-worn shirt.
'I can't see him, y'know Prongs. They wouldn't even let me say goodbye.' Tears rolled down reddened cheeks unashamedly. 'I promised I'd look after him if anything... I'm sorry, but Dumbledore... he...' A shaking hand dashed away the water from his eyes belatedly. 'He's gone to live with those bloody Muggles. Lil's family: P-p-petyoooonyah and that horrible husband of hers.' His voice stumbled over the name, stammering it out in disgust. 'And I'll never get to see him. Even though I promised...’
'...but nothing was going to happen to you!' he yelled, 'I wasn't supposed to keep that promise. I was supposed to be where you are. It'd be better.'
He took another drink from the glass bottle; as he drew it back he looked at it curiously, examining it carefully. A self-deprecating smirk spread across his face.
'I'm drunk,' he announced, beginning a harsh chuckle. 'Hear that Prongs? I'm drunk!' He swung up from his lounging position. 'You always said you wanted to see me drunk, James, so here I am.' His arms swung wide open, presenting himself to the world, spinning around in a slow circle, stopping when he was finally facing the grave again. He held still for a second, swaying slightly.
'See James... I'm drunk... I'm pissed ... I'm smashed...' He laughed again, the sound feral and chilling. 'Happy now?' he asked coldly. 'Happy to see what you've driven me to? Enjoying this, are you?' There was no answer once more, but somehow even the silence seemed damning. He raised the bottle in a sarcastic toast.
'Cheers, Jamie. Here's to you, and Lily, and Petey and Sirius fucking Black!' He took another swig, coughing as he inhaled the fumes. The coughing changed to the horrible little chuckle for a second.
'What's wrong Prongs?' he asked cruelly of the stone in front of him. 'Not enjoying our little conversation?' This time he did not even hesitate for a reply. 'Oh I know. You want a drink! You always did like your fire whiskey. And it'll be so much more fun to laugh at stupid old Remus, drunk in a goddamn cemetery when you've had a little liquor!' He held the bottle out above the grave, his arm extended. Slowly he began to tip it upside down.
'Here Prongs, have a drink!' The golden liquid began to glug out of the bottle to splash onto the already wet ground. 'Come on James, drink with me! It's no fun being drunk on your own!' As the last of the whiskey emptied out onto the top of his friend's resting place he shook the bottle between a forefinger and thumb, shaking the dregs out.
'All gone!' he declared, a horrific parody of a little child, before chucking the bottle over his shoulder, ignoring the smash of shattering glass.
Words appeared to fail him for a moment, the he slowly crumpled. He crouched down, patting the headstone tentatively.
'Oh Merlin! Prongs - Lily -' he muttered, 'I'm so sorry.' He patted the wet soil and a now alcoholic bouquet of lilies in apology. 'I didn't mean - I'm so sorry...' He sighed and turned himself over, wearily, to sit down, resting his back against his friends' memory.
'Everything's just so messed up,' his voice was small and pathetic as he drew his legs up to his chest, embracing them with his arms. The liquid seeping in to the seat of his trousers was ignored, as was his scarf, which had just slipped down into his lap. 'You're dead, and Peter's dead ... dead dead.... dead,' he echoed, helplessly reinforcing unpalatable truths. 'And Harry's gone and Pads is... I wish he were dead. I wish Pete had got him... I wish he'd suffered. He doesn't deserve to live.'
'How could we have trusted him, James?' the werewolf asked of his friend's spirit. 'How could I have loved him? He never loved me - never... and now I'm alone... all alone, like I was before.' His voice took on a sing-song quality, 'like I was always meant to be - and I hate him. I hate him! I hate him! I hate him. I hate him.' He rocked backward and forwards repeating the words as a mantra, until it sounded almost like a prayer. Shaking and mumbling to himself he began to doze off, comforted by the presence of the stone as his back and lulled by excess alcohol and grief.
Half an hour later and elderly man with a long white beard and cobalt blue robes appeared in front of him, clutching a faded pink slipper. He sighed as he caught sight of the huddle figure cradled by his dead friend's grave.
'I thought I'd find you here,' he murmured, setting the slipper down where a bottle of Fire whiskey had once stood. He crouched and shook one shoulder gently. 'Remus? Remus! Wake up.' Amber eyes lever themselves open.
'Wha'?' he was asked by a drunken slur.
'Remus, it's Albus.'
'Dum'lldoh?'
'Yes.' He answered, 'now, come on,' the old man lifted the other gently from his resting place.
'Dumlldoh... 'm so cold.' The werewolf complained. Dumbledore turned and gave him a sad smile.
'I'm not surprised, my friend. I'll get you in front of a nice warm fire.' He reached for the slipper but the young man lurched to the side, causing his companion to grab for him.
'Not jus' outsi' cold, 'm cold inside... so cold.' The sad smile faded and his rescuer cast a look back at the grave solemnly.
'Sadly, I fear that that is one thing I cannot help you with, ' he paused. 'Now, let's go and get you warm.'
'Hogwarsh?' the young man asked.
'Yes, we're going to Hogwarts.' He was informed.
'Good...' and the young werewolf fell asleep again.
The other reached out for the slipper with a tired sigh, his grip on his burden firm. As he grasped it there was a curious ripple and the pair of them disappeared.
This idea has been bugging me for ages but I finally got round to writing it.
Title: Drink With Me
Pairing: Remus/Sirius (duh... but truly it's not that obvious, and I guess if you turn your head and squint your eyes then it could not exist.... but it's still there... somewhere)
Rating: I'm never any good that this, but I'd say about PG for one or two words and misuse of alcohol.
Warnings: Angst, drunken Remus, anger and... did I mention angst? Oh yeah, and possible anachronistic language... but you'll all forgive that, won't you?
Disclaimer: Remus, Dumbledore,and any other characters mentioned in this fic are not my property and, alas, never will be. the fic, however, is mine (I also don't own the song that inspired this...)
Summary: Drunken Remus
The sun was setting as the stumbling figure lurched along the pavement, clutching the railings. The rest of the street was deserted. No one cared enough to be looking out for a drunken werewolf heading, slowly, but doggedly, towards the gates at the end of the road. No one was left to sling his arm round his shoulders and support him until he got back to his flat. No one would be there the morning after to hand him a hangover-cure and smirk knowingly as he grimaced.
He tripped suddenly and fell, barely catching himself with one hand, knees hitting the autumn leaves, slushy with the aftermath of British drizzle. Through some miracle he was able to prevent the rectangular bottle he clutched from being smashed against the paving slabs. He manoeuvred himself up again and then careened forward a few steps.
It took a lot of work for a werewolf to get this drunk; usually they were practically impervious to the inebriating effects of alcohol. More than three days of wallowing in fire whiskey, however, had enabled Remus Lupin to pass from tipsy, through drunk, past smashed and right into pissed.
Grabbing onto the cool metal bar desperately he swung around and through the gates, setting his sights determinedly on a position on the other side of the enclosed area. Stumbling and cursing into the scarf he had slung on, without a coat, he gradually made it across to his goal, gathering a large collection of bruises and grazes on his shins from bumping into obstacles.
The sight of his target appeared to have a sobering effect on the young man: he stood up slightly, straightening his shoulders, and set his precious bottle down on the flat-topped stone behind him. He simply stood there for a minute, staring in what might have been disbelief, before collapsing to his knees on the sodden, freshly turned soil. He leaned out a hand, staring at it as though it were alien to him. Gently he outlined the indentations with two fingers, ascertaining their reality.
Here lies
JAMES POTTER
1960-1981
Beloved son, father and friend.
Husband of
LILY POTTER
1960-1981
Mother, friend and daughter
Heroes
A tear rolled down his cheeck as he traced the names.
'Jamie.' The word was whispered, barely more than an alcohol laden breath on the wind. An almost canine whimper wrenched itself from his throat, altering into a sob. 'Jamie. James... James... Jim?' His voice repeated the name in a questioning voice, as if wanting a reply. He gripped the top of the gravestone and leant forward to rest his forehead against the damp, scratchy granite above his friend’s name.
'This wasn't supposed to happen,' he told the stone, his tone defiant. 'Not you...' he broke off, unable to complete the thought, whether due to intoxication or emotion was unclear. 'This wasn't supposed to happen,' he repeated simply. He knelt in silence for a moment, staring at the carved letters in front of his eyes, unfocussed owing to his proximity.
'James and Lily...' the murmur was more a sigh of lamentation.
In a fluid movement, incongruous with his inebriation, he stood up, grabbing his bottle of fire whiskey from the top of the tomb behind him. He leaned back against it, taking a violent swig.
'This wasn't supposed to happen!' His voice, now harsh and loud, snapped like a whip into the silence. 'How could you let this happen?!' A question demanded of the still autumn air. Unsurprisingly there was no answer. The silence enraged him. 'Why did you all abandon me?' he asked, furiously. 'How could you go? James?' he paused, 'Prongs?' The only sound was the whisper of the chilly November breeze through the ancient horse chestnut in the far corner of the graveyard. 'ANSWER ME!' he commanded futilely. 'DAMMIT... answer me...'
In a movement of denial and impotent fury, he whirled around, turning his back to the grave and gulping down another burning mouthful of the whiskey.
'You were never meant to die,' he insisted, as though he knew what Fate's plan had truly been. 'You were supposed to live forever,' he stated the impossible like a well known fact. 'You survived... always.' The young man stared at the emerging stars. 'I imagined what would happen, a million different ways. I would die, Peter could die, even -Sirius- could die,' he spat out the final name as if it infected his mouth. 'Even Dumbledore... but never you... never you. You were always going to be there, at the end: you and Lily, smiling, and Harry - little Harry.' He turned accusing eyes back to the inoffensive slab of stone. 'How could you die? You were the future, my future... the future of all of us...
'...and now there is nothing. NOTHING! Not you, not Lily, not Peter, not that... that bastard... not even Harry.' As he sank back against the stone his voice became a strangled choking in his throat. A shiver passed through his body: the only indication that he was feeling the cold through his well-worn shirt.
'I can't see him, y'know Prongs. They wouldn't even let me say goodbye.' Tears rolled down reddened cheeks unashamedly. 'I promised I'd look after him if anything... I'm sorry, but Dumbledore... he...' A shaking hand dashed away the water from his eyes belatedly. 'He's gone to live with those bloody Muggles. Lil's family: P-p-petyoooonyah and that horrible husband of hers.' His voice stumbled over the name, stammering it out in disgust. 'And I'll never get to see him. Even though I promised...’
'...but nothing was going to happen to you!' he yelled, 'I wasn't supposed to keep that promise. I was supposed to be where you are. It'd be better.'
He took another drink from the glass bottle; as he drew it back he looked at it curiously, examining it carefully. A self-deprecating smirk spread across his face.
'I'm drunk,' he announced, beginning a harsh chuckle. 'Hear that Prongs? I'm drunk!' He swung up from his lounging position. 'You always said you wanted to see me drunk, James, so here I am.' His arms swung wide open, presenting himself to the world, spinning around in a slow circle, stopping when he was finally facing the grave again. He held still for a second, swaying slightly.
'See James... I'm drunk... I'm pissed ... I'm smashed...' He laughed again, the sound feral and chilling. 'Happy now?' he asked coldly. 'Happy to see what you've driven me to? Enjoying this, are you?' There was no answer once more, but somehow even the silence seemed damning. He raised the bottle in a sarcastic toast.
'Cheers, Jamie. Here's to you, and Lily, and Petey and Sirius fucking Black!' He took another swig, coughing as he inhaled the fumes. The coughing changed to the horrible little chuckle for a second.
'What's wrong Prongs?' he asked cruelly of the stone in front of him. 'Not enjoying our little conversation?' This time he did not even hesitate for a reply. 'Oh I know. You want a drink! You always did like your fire whiskey. And it'll be so much more fun to laugh at stupid old Remus, drunk in a goddamn cemetery when you've had a little liquor!' He held the bottle out above the grave, his arm extended. Slowly he began to tip it upside down.
'Here Prongs, have a drink!' The golden liquid began to glug out of the bottle to splash onto the already wet ground. 'Come on James, drink with me! It's no fun being drunk on your own!' As the last of the whiskey emptied out onto the top of his friend's resting place he shook the bottle between a forefinger and thumb, shaking the dregs out.
'All gone!' he declared, a horrific parody of a little child, before chucking the bottle over his shoulder, ignoring the smash of shattering glass.
Words appeared to fail him for a moment, the he slowly crumpled. He crouched down, patting the headstone tentatively.
'Oh Merlin! Prongs - Lily -' he muttered, 'I'm so sorry.' He patted the wet soil and a now alcoholic bouquet of lilies in apology. 'I didn't mean - I'm so sorry...' He sighed and turned himself over, wearily, to sit down, resting his back against his friends' memory.
'Everything's just so messed up,' his voice was small and pathetic as he drew his legs up to his chest, embracing them with his arms. The liquid seeping in to the seat of his trousers was ignored, as was his scarf, which had just slipped down into his lap. 'You're dead, and Peter's dead ... dead dead.... dead,' he echoed, helplessly reinforcing unpalatable truths. 'And Harry's gone and Pads is... I wish he were dead. I wish Pete had got him... I wish he'd suffered. He doesn't deserve to live.'
'How could we have trusted him, James?' the werewolf asked of his friend's spirit. 'How could I have loved him? He never loved me - never... and now I'm alone... all alone, like I was before.' His voice took on a sing-song quality, 'like I was always meant to be - and I hate him. I hate him! I hate him! I hate him. I hate him.' He rocked backward and forwards repeating the words as a mantra, until it sounded almost like a prayer. Shaking and mumbling to himself he began to doze off, comforted by the presence of the stone as his back and lulled by excess alcohol and grief.
Half an hour later and elderly man with a long white beard and cobalt blue robes appeared in front of him, clutching a faded pink slipper. He sighed as he caught sight of the huddle figure cradled by his dead friend's grave.
'I thought I'd find you here,' he murmured, setting the slipper down where a bottle of Fire whiskey had once stood. He crouched and shook one shoulder gently. 'Remus? Remus! Wake up.' Amber eyes lever themselves open.
'Wha'?' he was asked by a drunken slur.
'Remus, it's Albus.'
'Dum'lldoh?'
'Yes.' He answered, 'now, come on,' the old man lifted the other gently from his resting place.
'Dumlldoh... 'm so cold.' The werewolf complained. Dumbledore turned and gave him a sad smile.
'I'm not surprised, my friend. I'll get you in front of a nice warm fire.' He reached for the slipper but the young man lurched to the side, causing his companion to grab for him.
'Not jus' outsi' cold, 'm cold inside... so cold.' The sad smile faded and his rescuer cast a look back at the grave solemnly.
'Sadly, I fear that that is one thing I cannot help you with, ' he paused. 'Now, let's go and get you warm.'
'Hogwarsh?' the young man asked.
'Yes, we're going to Hogwarts.' He was informed.
'Good...' and the young werewolf fell asleep again.
The other reached out for the slipper with a tired sigh, his grip on his burden firm. As he grasped it there was a curious ripple and the pair of them disappeared.