author's note: for AJ, who said "someday i want to be worthy of having one of sennen's fics dedicated to me". also please note that this is probably the darkest thing i have ever written, so proceed with caution.
He can't sleep next to her. She kicks, for starters. And he can't trust himself not to wrap an arm round her waist, bury his face in her back, breathe in the scent of sweat and shampoo. If he did those things…well, it wasn't him, it wasn't them, and so as soon as she rolls over, long blonde hair covering the pillow, rippling like waves, he starts counting the seconds before he can get up and sleep on the sofa.
He cannot trust himself around her, and it terrifies him.
Sometimes he thinks he hates her, for making him feel like this.
Sometimes, he gets out of bed (it's not really a bed though, it's a shitty stained mattress on the floor of his shitty, tiny apartment - can you cool it that when it's only one room?) and stands smoking by the window, watching her sleep. She never looks peaceful. Lily does, when Lily sleeps she looks like nothing bad has ever, will ever happen to her.
But not Marlene.
Marlene looks like the weight of the world is on her shoulders.
He wonders whether she knows he doesn't sleep next to her. She must do.
Upstairs lives a former Daily Prophet editor and his new wife, a girl that doesn't look much older than Sirius himself. He daydreams regularly about going up there to ask for a cup of sugar or something, and beginning a long and passion filled affair with her (she can't be satisfied with a bloke double her age, surely?) that climaxes with her husband walking in on them together, and throwing Sirius out of the top floor window, to his inevitable death on the icy road below (rather that then bleed to death in Emmeline Vance's arms like Sturgis' brother).
He has never shared this fantasy with Marlene. Mainly because he fears she'll laugh at him.
He daydreams, too, about finding James' dead body, mangled and unrecognisable, on his doorstep, and running a Sectumsempra through his brother's chest. He also dreams about crashing his motorbike into the Muggle Houses of Parliament; setting fire to McKinnon's hair as she sleeps; shagging Dorcas Meadowes and snapping his wand and becoming a Muggle, and drowning them both in the bath.
He is a mess, a terrified mess of a boy that is utterly broken by war, and in his bed lies a girl who is just as he is, so why, why can't he love her? He uses an empty mug that until about an hour ago held cold tea, as an ash tray.
He thinks he knows why.
Love, being in love, loving someone like that, requires a vulnerability that he would rather die than admit he has. He's not vulnerable, he's strong, and love makes people pathetic. He's not James, and she's not Lily. He didn't need to unveil his soul to anyone because he'd seen it himself and it made him gag, so why the fuck would he want to show it to anyone else?
She groans in her sleep, a sad and small noise that he never wants to hear again. It is the sound of someone who has been standing for too long finally sitting down. He wonders what she's dreaming about.
Upstairs, the old editor and his good looking wife are arguing. It's two in the morning.
It's cold, really cold, and he sinks onto the sofa. Maybe she's not of age, he thinks, maybe that's what they're fighting about.
McKinnon groans again, and rubs her eyes with the backs of her bony hands.
"What the-?" she mumbles, "Black?"
I have long and vivid daydreams about murdering you, he thinks.
"Cigarette." he says. She sits up.
"Chuck us one."
He obliges, and, reluctantly, crosses the room and crawls in next to her.
"Fuck, your feet are cold!" she hisses, and he shrugs coolly.
"It's November." he says, by way of explanation.
They smoke in silence. Her hair gleams in the moonlight. He wonders what it would look like on fire.
"What're they arguing about?"
He shrugs again. "Dunno."
She closes her eyes, and blows smoke rings. He wants to kiss her so badly it aches, but he can't. Something in his chest won't let him, and whatever it is, he hates it.
"They'll be fucking in five minutes," she says slowly, "just you watch."
"I'd rather not," he replies, and her eyes snap open.
"Not into that, are you?" she teases, and he shrugs for the third time.
"You on watch tomorrow?"
Marlene shakes her head.
"Clare's making me go dress shopping," she tells him, pulling a face. Clare is her second eldest brother's fiance. Marlene hates her.
"What about you?" she asks, taking another cigarette out of the packet he has in his clammy hands.
"Dunno," he replies lazily, "might join you."
She laughs. "You'd get eaten alive."
"Excuse you - I have fought off Death Eaters and saved lives," (and taken them, he adds in his head) "your future sister in law will be no trouble."
Marlene closes her eyes again. Upstairs, everything is silent. The stillness cools his fiery blood, and the urge to set her hair alight passes. The tightness in his chest lifts.
"Bollocks," she whispers, "she'll eat you alive."
He starts counting the seconds before he can get out of bed again, but Marlene doesn't appear to be dropping off.
"You'll freeze to death on the sofa," she mumbles, pulling him down so that he's on his back next to her, "I won't hurt you."
Oh, McKinnon, he thinks, you already have.