Warnings: Language and violence.
His nerves are pulled so taut they might snap with only the slightest movement. Magic fills the air, pooling at the tips of his fingers, and Remus swears he can smell it—sweet, earthy, soothing, almost like burning wood. It's an unwelcome scent just now; with his whole body on edge, an overabundance of gathering magic is sure to lead to an involuntary spell with any sudden noise.
Remus can't help it though. This is their first "reconnaissance" mission, but he prefers to think of it as a hunt. That's what it feels like at least—the watching, the waiting, the hiding in shadow. Here, in the cover of an old barn, Remus has never felt more like an animal, which is ironic in a way.
James and Sirius wait up in the hay loft, probably joking and smoking cigarettes and acting as they always do. Two months in a war hasn't changed them much, but they will feel it sooner or later. Moody is stationed in another of the outbuildings and Vance in yet another. The Order received word that Death Eaters would be here tonight, and they've come prepared.
As if summoned by his very thought of them, Remus catches sight of strange movements coming from the shadow of the chicken coop several yards away. His heart quickens, his sweaty palms clenching tighter around his wand. He remembers Moody's instructions:
"We're not here to duel. We're here for information only. So for fuck's sake, don't blow our cover."
The words should have put his mind at ease, but they didn't. And now he says them over and over, as if repeating them will somehow still him. However, he finds that they are still of little comfort. He wants this to be over with.
When a large, bulky man steps into the moon light, Remus' skin begins to crawl. He looks familiar, and yet Remus knows he's never seen him before. Or at least he thinks he hasn't until the man gives pause, directing his face towards the nearly full moon.
His hair is grey, matted together in clumps. The man's facial hair is so long and unkempt that he appears to have whiskers. Lips pulled into a snarl, Remus can make out the shine of yellowed teeth. And it's all so terrifyingly memorable now.
He's just a small boy again. The scent of heather overpowers his sense of smell, and fireflies blink in the sky in front of him. There is a jar clutched in his hands, and he hopes to fill the glass up with the glowing bugs to show his mum. But then the tall grass parts, revealing a funny looking dog with putrid breath. Remus' stomach twists. He runs. The dog is quicker. His body hits the ground. His side is punctured by red hot teeth. There's something wrong. He smells the blood. He's crying, and his side won't stop burning. The dog leaves the way he came, as Remus lay dying.
Remus has never seen his human visage, and yet he knows by instinct. This is his maker; his side sears as if proof. It's been twelve years since they last met, and every day between then and now, Remus swore to kill him if he ever laid eyes on the beast who took his humanity away.
That's why his tongue curls around the incantation so easily, why his legs are suddenly rushing him towards this other werewolf—Fenrir Greyback. The tip of his wand glows a beautiful green, the Avada Kedavra slips past his lips, and he is throwing it at the monster. His aim is not true, but before he can cast the spell again, he's staring four Death Eaters in the face.
Beams of colorful light are directed at him, and yet they miss, as though someone's put up a Shield Charm before him. Remus doesn't think about how to get out of this now hopeless situation; his thoughts are too consumed by Greyback—the sneer of his face, the recognition in his eyes, the sudden sprint in his step. They chase.
His legs were made for running—long, muscular, strong. He keeps up with Greyback, following him through the woods. Every once in a while, they exchange spells. Remus has been hit by two, and he's not sure what the effects of those are. The adrenaline in his bloodstream numbs him from pain.
As they enter a clearing, the chase halts. Both men's chests heave, lungs screaming for oxygen. The grin on Greyback's face unnerves him, for all he can think of it right now. And as if by sharing a bite they share one mind, they both speak simultaneously:
"July 17th, 1966."
Greyback laughs, and it's so horrific that it nearly makes Remus wince. "Remus Lupin. Tell me, how is your Squib of a father? He was, after all, responsible for this."
Remus swallows hard and aims his wand. "You murdered me. Not him."
"Took your life like someone took mine." Greyback shrugs.
He wants to shout that that's fucking stupid logic, and that it's not fair what Greyback did to him. But in that moment, it would feel so much better to just kill Greyback as he was killed that July night, catching fireflies.
Remus waits a second too long. The spell that comes from Greyback's mouth brings him to his knees before he curls into fetal position, his body wracked with a maddening pain. It feels like ice and fire rushing through his veins all at once. And the pressure—there's so much that he thinks his head is going to explode. Between the throbbing of his head and the pain coursing through him, Remus doesn't see the kick to his stomach coming and can only feel its aftershocks: the bile rising in his throat.
The acrid smell fills his nostrils, and that's enough reason alone to vomit again. But another kick is delivered to his stomach, and then another to his head. Remus wishes for the hot/cold pain of the spell again to this, but he understands the need for physical violence. It's in their blood, their cursed flesh.
Magic-induced pain fills him once more, but this is only when his vision feels irreparably blurred and the coppery taste of blood lays heavy on his tongue. For a moment, he considers fighting back. But he can't.
He's six years old again with a broken jar of glass in his hand, his fireflies escaping into the freedom of the moonlight.
Stirring, Remus' nerves come alive with a maddening throb. He feels cut open, as though more of his skin is broken than mended. And the ache in his bones—the full moon's call to him—makes his battle wounds so much worse.
He remembers the chase, remembers the pain. Remus thought he would die there in that clearing, and maybe even hoped he would just a little. Living with a cursed and failing human shell would do that to anyone. Knowing that he would never have to suffer another moon—the breaking of his bones and tearing of his flesh—is too sweet a comfort to push the desire for death from his mind entirely.
As he parts his eyelids, Remus meets Sirius' gaze for the first time that day, grey eyes stern and unforgiving. Sirius holds one of his bandaged hands between his own as he sits in a wooden chair next to Remus' bed. He's sat vigil all night, Remus thinks.
"You're a fucking idiot," Sirius scolds.
Remus expects nothing less from Sirius' first words to him. Yes, he was an idiot. Yes, he could have gotten himself killed—that will be Sirius' next remark no doubt. But Sirius will never be able to understand.
"You could have got yourself killed!"
Remus smiles knowingly. "Before you ask, no, I don't have a death wish."
A small lie. Sirius will never know the difference. He feels his own emotions so deeply, and yet struggles to scratch the surface of others.
"Do you think you're funny?" he shouts, his voice thick. "Twelve hours ago I was picking your barely breathing body off the ground! Do you know what that was like for me, you prick?"
"Don't cry."
"I'm not crying!"
He's crying. Just a little bit, but crying all the same. Remus squeezes his hand, hoping it will provide him some comfort. Sirius is going to be angry with him for days. And mothering. Christ, he can't tolerate the mothering. But it's nice to feel wanted and well-cared for, and Sirius has fulfilled both those needs since they were just boys.
Sirius shakes his head, slowly. "I'm not going to lose you to this war, Remus. Not you."
"I know."
"So you explain to me why you pulled that shite last night."
Remus doesn't need to explain with words. Pulling his hand from Sirius', he pushes the bed linens down and lifts his arm. Sirius' eyes fall on the pinkish-red flesh on his side, mangled and cursed so it would never fully heal. A realization dawns on Sirius' handsome face, and Remus knows that Sirius is now aware of the identity of the man Remus chased.
Reaching, Sirius brushes his fingertips across that skin as he so often has before. In fact, he still plants kisses there after all these years, as if he could draw the curse out with his lips—if not its physical remnants then its emotional ones. And once upon a time, Remus thought he could, too. However, now he's wise enough to know there will be no happily ever after. Not for the wolf.