A/N Not too much to say here, just the usual don't own so don't sue kind of stuff. Beware of salty language! All those likely to get offended, get on out of here!

Hope you enjoy it, and as ever, reviews are appreciated.

Everyone has methods of coping. James will get out of bed and pad into Harry's room, and just stand and watch as he sleeps, reminding him of what they have, despite all the odds. Lily will take out the photo albums they filled out after leaving Hogwarts, and flick through them, choosing ignore the order of services tucked in the back, to disregard the tear stains on certain photos. Remus will sit on the sofa and eat cold Chinese. It has to be cold, and he will buy it and sit watching it until it reaches room temperature at the highest, hoping in some grim way that the morose feeling lasts that long, or else it will be a waste of money that he doesn't really have in the first place. And you, you will go out to the nearest pub, get pissed, find the nearest leggy blond with blue eyes, has to be blond, have to be blue, and screw her in an alleyway.

It's a night that needs coping with when you stumble home drunk, and surprise surprise Remus is sat with a blanket draped around his shoulders, the familiar greasy smell hanging in the air, and foil dishes scattered across the coffee table. And he turns to look at you with that look that says everything and nothing. He looks old, you think, old and tired and sick. But when doesn't he? Always pale and drawn, not like them, they're vivacious and vibrant and… you're struggling to find a difference between the two beginning with 'v', can't ruin the poetic thing you've got going on.

Triumph! "Vagina."

Remus raises an eyebrow and abandons his rapidly congealing chow mein. "Sorry?"

"…Vagina."

"Yes" he lowers his fork. "I gathered that. Was it for a particular reason or are we just shouting out random parts of the human body?"

"No" you reply petulantly. That's one of the things Remus dearest hates the most; being answered yes or no when giving a choice.

"Oesophagus" he counters. "I have to tell you, it's a shit game."

"Fuck off" is all your sluggish mind can conjure up, and the short laugh you get in response leaves you wishing you hadn't said anything in the first place.

Her name was something like Eva, Evie, Eve, Ava, one of those stupid ones which are all basically the same but girls get really pissed over if you use interchangeably. She was drinking something sweet and with a higher sugar than alcohol content, and hardly looked legal. Maybe she cheated her way in with a fake ID. They should really have tighter security. But then are you one to talk when you're contemplating ordering her a drink and then fucking her against the damp bricks outside? Probably not.

The drink was sent over to her and as her eyes met yours she smiled, and a tongue darted out to wipe over her lips. Her dress was too short and too low cut, and had Remus or Lily been there a catty comment would have been made. But you didn't mind one bit. The rather obvious cleavage would provide a welcome change to the hard plains you've become accustomed to. He's all lines, angles and lines and points. They're soft and curvy and everything he isn't.

She was easy. That was all it boiled down to. You actively seek out the drunk ones. Not so drunk that they'll throw up down you. That wasn't good. But no, the ones that are a bit tipsy. Enough to loosen some morals. If they have any in the first place. Not like Remus dearest. Mr. I-take-the-moral-high-ground-even-though-I-choose-to-remind-people-what-a-monster-I-am. Maybe that was too many hyphens. Screw it, he deserved as many hyphens as got hurled at him. Metaphorically of course.

"You don't have a vagina" you huff in clarification as you sit down, and he briefly stops chewing before continuing where he left off. In his typical arsey fashion he makes you wait until he's finished his mouthful before giving you an answer. And when he does it is so infuriating you consider knocking the bloody container out of his hands.

"How very observant of you. It's good to know after all these years you are in fact aware of just where your cock is going" he pauses. "But you do have an oesophagus."

"I know" you scowl. "I'm not stupid."

Eye roll. Sigh. "Would you stop overreacting?" Twirl of fork. Lift of fork.

"I am not" and although you know better you can't help the foot that reaches out and kicks a still full dish onto the floor, onto that precious rug of his.

"You can clean that up" there's an air of resignation in his voice. Chew. Fork down. Swallow. "But don't use the bleach again." New forkful.

He's doing that thing where he annoys you by not annoying you. Passive something or other. You just call it him being an intolerable arse. "What exactly has brought on this pity fest?"

"I might ask the same thing" he turns over some vegetables, staring intently at them.

And you both know it's the same thing. The helplessness, the feeling that despite you throwing your entire life into a cause you can't help the growing gnawing feeling that it just isn't making a difference. And then where would you all be? Throwing your lives away just to play heroes. At least James and Lily have something tangible, they have something to hold onto. They have their Harry. And you suppose part of it boils down to them having something to show of their relationship. Maybe you resent him now, because he can't give you anything like that.

They've had the wedding, the baby, dare you say it, the attention. The acclaim, the praise, the congratulations. You get the sneers and the strange looks, and what are concealed bite marks and stolen glances compared to a fucking baby? The baby that had become the symbol for all you were fighting for? James and Lily, without a doubt should have been fighting for him, but surely your reason should have been your beloved boyfriend? But it wasn't… it was Harry, or if not, just for the sheer sake of it.

At some point during your reflecting Remus has stopped eating and is staring at you with a quiet contemplative look on his face. But this only serves to piss you off further. At one time you admired the way his face would settle with no emotion, betraying no feeling. But now it just antagonises you.

"What?" you spit. But as expected, his expression does not change.

And you get no answer as he stands, steps over your legs which are now resting atop the table and walks towards the bedroom, pulling his jumper off in the process. Though you are known for holding grudges, you do not hold them well, and it is for this reason that you turn and watch him, watch as the t-shirt underneath rides up slightly and exposes his pale ravaged skin. Whereas once he would have quickly pulled it back down, eager to spare the both of you the ordeal of seeing the scars and having them seen respectively, he now seems indifferent. A lot of things change with comfort, new boundaries have to be set, things like who cooks (Remus) and who sleeps on which side (you left, Remus right) have to be considered. Things which leave you wondering how so much changed without you noticing.

After a few silent moments you get up and follow him through. Instead of lying under the covers, back turned to you, he is sat on your side of the bed, wearing only his pants, hunched over and blinking at the floor.

Perhaps just a short year ago you would have gathered him in your arms and the two of you would have held each other well into the night, but things are different now, and you peel off your clothes, knowing that he can smell her on you, knowing he can see the lipstick marks on your neck, knowing that he knew as soon as you walked in the door. He stands up, teetering for a moment as though he will fall backwards, and instinctively your hands reach out, your fingers twining through his hair as your lips crash together messily. Angrily. Painfully. And he's kissing you back just a fervently, as frantically, so you push him backwards until his legs hit the bed.

But suddenly he pulls away and looks at you, frowning slightly. It looks like it's going to be the beginning of one of those conversations, and you can't do that, because there's a feeling inside you that this could be the one that breaks you both.

And so you push your hips against his and his head falls against your neck with a hiss, and then he's biting and nipping and it's just the wrong side of painful, but you know that he knows, and you don't have the heart to stop things, because then comes the conversation. And you probably deserve it.

Your grip on his hair tightens and you tear the two of you apart and turn him around before pushing him onto the bed before you. He lands with a soft thud but makes no effort to get back up, merely moving until all of him is on the bed. He's still wearing his pants and you supposed it is to spite you, and he's probably got a shit eating grin on his face, which is buried in the crook of his arm.

So they get yanked off and thrown to the floor, on top of yours and you move to sit on the backs of his thighs. And then you're fucking him. Not making love to him, not having sex with him, not even screwing like you screwed EvaEvieEveAva. Fucking. Like you both need. You need the burn and raw primal thrusting and grunting, and so does he. It's painful and you'll both regret it in the morning, but for now you're alive, and you're alive and you're, oh God, you're coming and this time it's you biting. Hard, on his shoulder. Not caring if he's been taken care of but knowing he has you pull out, eliciting a cry and lie next to him, your chest and his back heaving.

Any other night you both would just fall asleep, resentment layered over the suffocating air, but he turns over to you, the sheets twisting around his sweating body and his eyes study your face. You try to remain staring up at the ceiling but eventually you roll over and meet his gaze.

The backs of his fingers brush your cheek. "Was she pretty?"

You know the walls should come crashing down around you, you should beg and plead for his forgiveness, the jig is up, you've been rumbled etc. But there's a worrying lack of any discernible emotion, and you are able to maintain eye contact as you answer him. "Yes."

"Was she worth it?" he moves onto his front and rests on his forearms, the wiry muscles becoming apparent as they support his weight.

"Worth what?" you ask, clasping your hands across your stomach.

He snorts. "The pittance you paid for her drink."

You ponder for a few seconds. "It was a pretty cheap drink."

"Figures" he sounds relatively satisfied, placated with the answer and drops onto the bed, turning his head away from you but still lying on his stomach.

He's not asleep, and neither of you is pretending he is, but the conversation ceases. The night goes on and somehow, during the racing thoughts and restless legs you both fall asleep.

When you wake the next morning he is already up, and flinging an arm onto the cold sheets next to you, you gather that he has been for some time. You get up and walk into the kitchen, not bothering to cover yourself up any further than pants. Ever the exhibitionist, Remus used to sigh when you used to talk for the sake of sharing. Not just because you had to; because you wanted to.

He's sat reading the paper, the customary cup of tea in front of him, handle turned to the perfectly precise angle that only you know how to achieve. He wordlessly gestures to yours but tilts his head back for you to give him the routine kiss good morning. You mumble a thanks and sit down, opposite him. The ideal vantage point. But the paper obscures his face. So you twiddle your thumbs and shuffle your feet and generally do things that make you look certifiably insane until he's done.

Routine and courtesy dictates that once he is done he passes it to you, but he folds it under his arm as he clears up both your mugs, not caring that you were halfway through yours.

"We're going to James and Lily's" he announces, brushing some invisible crumbs off of his jacket. "We should get going. I said we'd be over early."

Biting your tongue you stand and go to get dressed. "Alright."

He's waiting by the time you're dressed and silently you floo over, breaking apart almost as soon as you arrive. He and Lily retreat to the kitchen in an almost conspiratorial manner after pleasantries have been exchanged, and you attempt to pull a small black haired blur off of your legs. Eventually you do, and Harry remains suspended in front of your face, upside down, held by one leg. By this point he is giggling madly, and his face is turning an extremely interesting shade of red so you turn him back the right way, smiling as he hugs you as soon as you do so. And for the first time in however long it's a real smile. Because you're happy, would you believe it?

It's a nice enough day, so you and James take him into the garden for an improvised game of something akin to that rugby rubbish. You really must compliment James more often and tell him just what an exceptional ball his son makes.

After a few hours of giddy play and running about Harry goes down for a nap, James insisting he doesn't need one too as you accompany him into the kitchen. Both Lily and Remus's heads shoot up as the two of you enter, and whatever it was they had been talking about stops abruptly.

Superficial conversation continues for about an hour or two, before you accept defeat and the fact that you won't find out what they were discussing. Verging on throwing a strop equal to one of those which your godson is so famed for, you stand and break the news that there are things you need to do at home. Remus, as comfortably and depressingly predictable as ever gets up and bids them both a morose goodbye. He knows what you will be returning to. A hostile lonely flat, strewn with notes, files and things which at one point meant something to you both.

Once you're home you see the paper, from the morning, discarded on the table. Another obituaries section that takes over most of the inserts, another muggle attack, another obviously botched attempt from the Ministry to pretend that things are so much better than they are. And in that instant you know that tonight, someone will be up watching a baby sleep, and someone will be digging through old photo albums.

And the two of you? You could talk, you could sit up with each other all night, you could try to patch together the holes that are threatening to tear you from each other. You could, but there are still full Chinese cartons littered around the house, and there's still enough money for a shitty drink for some tart in your pocket.

We all have ways of getting by, you think, we all have methods of coping.