Against my better judgement, I have written something vaguely happy. I know; shocking!

Well, wish me luck; this could all go monumentally wrong.

Disclaimer; all the usual applies.

Remus POV.


This is how all good romances should start, with a cup of tea and three chocolate biscuits. They start with two unsuspecting victims, and slow, painful realisation. It's looking over the rim of the mug and knowing. It's not feeling the scald of boiling liquid on your lips, not hearing the tick of the clock. It's having your world turned on its head, having nothing to hold onto. Facing oblivion, and just not caring.

The rush of adrenalin that makes you shake, your skin tingle and your heart beat faster, faster, faster. Setting the mug down, hands shaking too much and taking deep breaths that make your head spin in twelve directions – that's when you know you're caught, snared, captured. You're a prisoner, and can't help smiling.

'What should we get James?' You ask, raising your eyes to meet mine. Eyes I know so well, but have never looked at, never lost myself in until now, forgetting which way is up, which way is home.

'James? For Christmas?' your mouth moves, lips parting and moving in a familiar, talented ballet.

'Hello?' You wave the catalogue in front of my face 'Earth to Moony?'

'Sorry Pads' I laugh, picking up my mug again, starting into the golden depths. 'I was miles away'

'I noticed. Somewhere nice, I hope' you smile, lifting a chocolate biscuit to your mouth. I don't watch. 'So, c'mon' you say around the last mouthful, chucking the catalogue to me 'You're better at this sort of thing, what should we get James?'

You lean back in the wooden chair, legs crossed in an oh-so casual, Sirius manner and elbow resting on the back of the chair. Completely at ease.

'You know him better than me' I answer after flicking through the pages, not taking in a single word of the item descriptions. 'He'll love whatever you get him'. I push the thin book back with my left hand, picking up another biscuit as I bring it back.

'If you say so. I'll stop by Diagon Alley tomorrow, pick something up' You smile pushing your chair back with a scrape to set teeth on edge. The tiles there are worn with grooves because you insist on pushing the chair like that. I don't mind, not really.

'You alright?' You ask, halfway between the table and the coat rack by the back door, frowning at me slightly

'Yeah, fine. It's nothing' I answer before draining the rest of my tea 'Just ... nothing'.

'Right' you're not convinced, voice muffled by the bunch of keys held in your teeth, hands busy pulling on your coat.

'You going out?' I ask, turning the mug around slowly.

'Mm-hmm' you reply dropping the bunch of keys into your pocket 'Running low on fags*, be back in a minute. Want anything?' you ask, pulling the sleeves straight. I shake my head, and begin to gather the now empty mugs together.

The panes of glass in the backdoor rattle ominously as you slam the door closed, cutting off the sudden draught of cold, winter air. I clutch the side of the table, eyes closed, deep breaths. The clock ticks a slow, steady rhythm – almost mocking the erratic thump thump of my traitorous a drawn out sigh and crack of tired bones, I push myself upright, ready for round two. I take the cold mugs to the sink, plunging them into soapy water. I should have asked you to get some Asprin. Some Paracetamol. Some Codeine. Should have asked you to get some Vodka. Something to take the edge off the ache in my head. Although, it's the ache in my chest that worries me most.

There is a second half to this in the planning stages, but I'm not sure whether to continue or not? I am hopeless at happy stuff, so I just don't know how it will work. But bear with me, and let me know if you would like the other half.

* Fags, as in the colloquialism for 'Cigarettes', not sure how widely used it is outside of the UK – don't want any confusions there ;)