(no subject)
I II
Title: A Twilight Wooing
Rating: PG
Words: 1102
Prompt: Wellies!
Disclaimer: They are far from being mine. JKR owns them - i'm just borrowing them for a bit.
The garden was a labyrinth.
Sirius had a picture in his mind, though he couldn’t date it, of a scrubby square of yellowed grass, surrounded by beds of foxgloves and hollyhocks. There had been a summer house in one corner and a wall, bricks crumbling into red dust, that concealed a glasshouse full of glossy leaved herbs and flowers with languorous scents.
The wall was still there, somewhere below the brambles, and he’d found the rusted framework of the glasshouse, scabbed over with lichen. The rest of the garden was wild: skeletal saplings yearning for the sky, vast and knotted buddleias dripping yellowing florets, wet and reedy grass and weeds flattened underfoot. Everything was twined with clinging bindweed, its bone-white flowers sagging.
Sirius preferred it this way.
A glob of cold water slid off a bough above, plummeting straight inside his collar, the cold shock of it making him flinch.
For a moment he saw only mildewed walls, grey and close, in another place, where the dripping water from the ceiling had been the only reminder of which way was up.
“Padfoot! Padfoot! Are you out there?”
He glanced up, startled, the vision of Azkaban fading back into the autumn afternoon. Through the branches, he could just glimpse Remus’ robes fluttering as he stood on the top step, squinting into the sunset.
Sirius ducked down quickly, shoving his last bottle of Ogdens under the matted grass. Moony had been getting increasingly old-maidish about such things lately. Well, he couldn’t confiscate them if he couldn’t find them, could he?
“Padfoot?”
Moony sounded worried, so Sirius loped back towards the house, the branches quivering as he brushed past, showering him with hoarded rain. “I’m here!”
He heard the clang and creak of the iron steps down into the garden, and Remus appeared from behind a curtain of bindweed, pushing it aside with a shiver. He looked brown and tired, and he was frowning slightly, his forehead lined.
Sirius was beginning to hate that little line, which seemed to have become a permanent feature of Moony’s face. It could mean anything from A woman I hate has my job to Padfoot, you forget about cutlery again and it never went away. There were times when Sirius wanted to just grab Moony’s head and press that crease away with the ball of his thumb. He had a feeling, an almost-memory, that he had always hated it that Moony’s face, which was the right shape for smiling, hardly ever did so.
“Sirius?” Remus asked, touching his shoulder tentatively.
“M’name,” Sirius said, the words suddenly clogging in his throat. They were still doing that, even now, at the start of conversations. Twelve years of silence took a long time to fade.
Remus’ lips flickered up at the corners, not quite a smile. “Are you all right? You’ve been out here for hours.”
Sirius shrugged, not able to meet Remus’ eyes when thirteen concealed bottles were sitting in his conscience. “Thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Remus said dryly, as Sirius noticed his feet.
“Weasley wellies!” he said gleefully. “You’ve got Weasley wellies.”
Remus winced. “Someone left them in the kitchen. They were all I could find.”
“I bet she makes Ron wear them,” Sirius said, kicking Remus in the ankle. Bright pink, orange-sunflowered Weasley wellies.
Remus jumped backwards, out of range, and Sirius danced forward, thinking, Smile, Moony, smile.
“Get off,” Remus said, dodging again, but there was no genuine ire in his voice.
Sirius made another lunge forward, his feet sliding on the wet undergrowth, and careened into Remus, who stumbled away, his face creasing with amusement. Sirius cackled and gave chase.
They slid and reeled across the garden, and every time they crashed into a branch, water sprayed down around them. Remus was laughing now, his cheeks pink with exertion, and Sirius attacked him triumphantly. That was how a Moony was supposed to look, flushed and breathless, alive with delight.
The weeds were creaking under their feet, releasing the fetid, sodden cornflake stink of neglect, and Remus’ pink wellies were splattered with black mud.
Something hard rolled under Sirius’ foot, and he just had time to think, Bugger! The mead! before he went flying into Remus.
They went down in a tangle of laughter and muddy cloth, Remus’ old robes knotting around Sirius’ thin wrists. Sirius snorted with laughter and rolled them over, thwarting Remus’ efforts to untangle them.
“I win,” he said, breathing in the tea and old clothes smell of Moony. It was still a strange thing, to be close to another human being, even one as comfortable and unthreatening as Remus. Feeling someone else’s body warmth close to his own, having them close enough to smell, was heady.
There were times when he was afraid that he had brought something of the Dementors out of Azkaban, some unquenchable hunger for humanity. He rationed himself and held back from touching people constantly just to reassure himself that they weren’t another Dementor dream. The desire made him feel clumsy, over-eager and desperate.
Remus was different. Remus tolerated it with grave amusement, never flinching from pressed shoulders and grabbed wrists. Remus understood without needing to ask.
“Win what?” he said now, his breath brushing Sirius’ ear.
“Win,” Sirius murmured contentedly, and gazed past Remus’ shoulder at the wool-grey sky. He could happily stay out here all night, trying to spot stars through the orange haze of the city. He said so.
“No,” Remus said firmly, and pushed to his feet. “You’ll get pneumonia.”
“I will not,” Sirius said to the wellies, suppressing a shiver. There was something twiggy poking him in the back.
“And you’re a miserable patient, Padfoot. Up you get.”
Sirius looked up. Moony was looking old and tired again, from this angle all gaunt lines and shadows. Sirius scrambled up guiltily but said, “I would be the epitome of gracious martyrdom.”
Remus shot him a sceptical look, and began to pull him back towards the house.
Letting himself be led, Sirius said, “You’ll have to clean Ron’s wellies.”
“They’re not Ron’s.”
“Bet they are. Bet he forgot them on purpose.”
Remus grinned quickly. “If they were Ron’s, Molly would have sent them to school by now.”
Damn. Too clever for his own good, that Moony.
Remus held his foot out, considering. “Any guesses?”
Sirius frowned. Weasley names had just slipped out of his mind, tangling with long dead Prewetts. At last he snagged one, and said, “Fred.”
Remus shook his head decisively. “No. Bill.”
“Bill,” Sirius agreed, grinning. He could work out which one Bill was later. For the moment, he was going to enjoy the sight of Remus smiling.
Title: A Twilight Wooing
Rating: PG
Words: 1102
Prompt: Wellies!
Disclaimer: They are far from being mine. JKR owns them - i'm just borrowing them for a bit.
The garden was a labyrinth.
Sirius had a picture in his mind, though he couldn’t date it, of a scrubby square of yellowed grass, surrounded by beds of foxgloves and hollyhocks. There had been a summer house in one corner and a wall, bricks crumbling into red dust, that concealed a glasshouse full of glossy leaved herbs and flowers with languorous scents.
The wall was still there, somewhere below the brambles, and he’d found the rusted framework of the glasshouse, scabbed over with lichen. The rest of the garden was wild: skeletal saplings yearning for the sky, vast and knotted buddleias dripping yellowing florets, wet and reedy grass and weeds flattened underfoot. Everything was twined with clinging bindweed, its bone-white flowers sagging.
Sirius preferred it this way.
A glob of cold water slid off a bough above, plummeting straight inside his collar, the cold shock of it making him flinch.
For a moment he saw only mildewed walls, grey and close, in another place, where the dripping water from the ceiling had been the only reminder of which way was up.
“Padfoot! Padfoot! Are you out there?”
He glanced up, startled, the vision of Azkaban fading back into the autumn afternoon. Through the branches, he could just glimpse Remus’ robes fluttering as he stood on the top step, squinting into the sunset.
Sirius ducked down quickly, shoving his last bottle of Ogdens under the matted grass. Moony had been getting increasingly old-maidish about such things lately. Well, he couldn’t confiscate them if he couldn’t find them, could he?
“Padfoot?”
Moony sounded worried, so Sirius loped back towards the house, the branches quivering as he brushed past, showering him with hoarded rain. “I’m here!”
He heard the clang and creak of the iron steps down into the garden, and Remus appeared from behind a curtain of bindweed, pushing it aside with a shiver. He looked brown and tired, and he was frowning slightly, his forehead lined.
Sirius was beginning to hate that little line, which seemed to have become a permanent feature of Moony’s face. It could mean anything from A woman I hate has my job to Padfoot, you forget about cutlery again and it never went away. There were times when Sirius wanted to just grab Moony’s head and press that crease away with the ball of his thumb. He had a feeling, an almost-memory, that he had always hated it that Moony’s face, which was the right shape for smiling, hardly ever did so.
“Sirius?” Remus asked, touching his shoulder tentatively.
“M’name,” Sirius said, the words suddenly clogging in his throat. They were still doing that, even now, at the start of conversations. Twelve years of silence took a long time to fade.
Remus’ lips flickered up at the corners, not quite a smile. “Are you all right? You’ve been out here for hours.”
Sirius shrugged, not able to meet Remus’ eyes when thirteen concealed bottles were sitting in his conscience. “Thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Remus said dryly, as Sirius noticed his feet.
“Weasley wellies!” he said gleefully. “You’ve got Weasley wellies.”
Remus winced. “Someone left them in the kitchen. They were all I could find.”
“I bet she makes Ron wear them,” Sirius said, kicking Remus in the ankle. Bright pink, orange-sunflowered Weasley wellies.
Remus jumped backwards, out of range, and Sirius danced forward, thinking, Smile, Moony, smile.
“Get off,” Remus said, dodging again, but there was no genuine ire in his voice.
Sirius made another lunge forward, his feet sliding on the wet undergrowth, and careened into Remus, who stumbled away, his face creasing with amusement. Sirius cackled and gave chase.
They slid and reeled across the garden, and every time they crashed into a branch, water sprayed down around them. Remus was laughing now, his cheeks pink with exertion, and Sirius attacked him triumphantly. That was how a Moony was supposed to look, flushed and breathless, alive with delight.
The weeds were creaking under their feet, releasing the fetid, sodden cornflake stink of neglect, and Remus’ pink wellies were splattered with black mud.
Something hard rolled under Sirius’ foot, and he just had time to think, Bugger! The mead! before he went flying into Remus.
They went down in a tangle of laughter and muddy cloth, Remus’ old robes knotting around Sirius’ thin wrists. Sirius snorted with laughter and rolled them over, thwarting Remus’ efforts to untangle them.
“I win,” he said, breathing in the tea and old clothes smell of Moony. It was still a strange thing, to be close to another human being, even one as comfortable and unthreatening as Remus. Feeling someone else’s body warmth close to his own, having them close enough to smell, was heady.
There were times when he was afraid that he had brought something of the Dementors out of Azkaban, some unquenchable hunger for humanity. He rationed himself and held back from touching people constantly just to reassure himself that they weren’t another Dementor dream. The desire made him feel clumsy, over-eager and desperate.
Remus was different. Remus tolerated it with grave amusement, never flinching from pressed shoulders and grabbed wrists. Remus understood without needing to ask.
“Win what?” he said now, his breath brushing Sirius’ ear.
“Win,” Sirius murmured contentedly, and gazed past Remus’ shoulder at the wool-grey sky. He could happily stay out here all night, trying to spot stars through the orange haze of the city. He said so.
“No,” Remus said firmly, and pushed to his feet. “You’ll get pneumonia.”
“I will not,” Sirius said to the wellies, suppressing a shiver. There was something twiggy poking him in the back.
“And you’re a miserable patient, Padfoot. Up you get.”
Sirius looked up. Moony was looking old and tired again, from this angle all gaunt lines and shadows. Sirius scrambled up guiltily but said, “I would be the epitome of gracious martyrdom.”
Remus shot him a sceptical look, and began to pull him back towards the house.
Letting himself be led, Sirius said, “You’ll have to clean Ron’s wellies.”
“They’re not Ron’s.”
“Bet they are. Bet he forgot them on purpose.”
Remus grinned quickly. “If they were Ron’s, Molly would have sent them to school by now.”
Damn. Too clever for his own good, that Moony.
Remus held his foot out, considering. “Any guesses?”
Sirius frowned. Weasley names had just slipped out of his mind, tangling with long dead Prewetts. At last he snagged one, and said, “Fred.”
Remus shook his head decisively. “No. Bill.”
“Bill,” Sirius agreed, grinning. He could work out which one Bill was later. For the moment, he was going to enjoy the sight of Remus smiling.