Remus is dead to the world, so Sirius is quiet.
He moves around the small flat carefully. He shrugs off his cloak. He slides the bolts across the front door, using fingers instead of wand to cushion the scrape of metal-on-metal. They don't get many nights like this away from their Order work, so Sirius is treating it like the precious thing it is, like some Felix Felicis cupped in his hands that he can't afford to spill.
He picks up Remus's empty tea mug and holds it in the crook of his arm, freeing his hands to pick up other things. A stack of letters on the arm of the sofa; a plate with a half-eaten sandwich made god-knows how long ago; the bucket that catches the drips from the leaky ceiling.
The mail is addressed to a Mr William Pickering, and Sirius notes with a sigh that more than half the letters are bills. There are many empty flats like these all over London. Their Muggle owners killed or worse by people Sirius grew up with; classmates, brothers. It'll only be a matter of time before the Muggle authorities come knocking to find out why Mr Pickering hasn't paid his council tax. Moving from one abandoned home to another has become almost second nature to him, he knows it's the only way to ensure they aren't tracked down but he'll be sorry to leave this brief shelter. Even though the rain drips through the ceiling, at least there's no blood staining the walls here.
Still, they'll have to leave and find another empty shell to rest in.
He puts everything where it's supposed to go – or where he guesses it's supposed to go. Dirty plates in the wash-basin, sandwich in the bin, empties the rainwater down the sink. He's probably doing it wrong, but at least he's doing it, and as carefully as he can, because God knows he needs to be doing something that feels like he's helping. Then he turns with his hands on his hips and surveys the darkened apartment for whatever else needs tidying.
He should curl up on the bed beside Remus and sleep, but the restlessness won't leave him even when his head's spinning from fatigue, as the world moves in a dream-like limbo.
Passing taxi cabs outside throw squares of light across the walls. Yellows and oranges slide down the walls, following the angles of the room, across Remus sleeping figure on the bed, and fall among the shadows on the floor. Below them, the streets of London are are throbbing with life; the Muggles are out to enjoy a night on the town, unaware that there's a war raging around them, unaware that they could be caught in the cross-fire at any moment.
Sirius pads slowly around the foot of the bed and over to the window, making to pull the flimsy curtains across the window – he would barricade them inside this flat if he could, but his conscience will keep him fighting until the war ends or until he ends, whichever comes first. Above the tattoo parlour across the street, a neon sign glows green and ghostly-evil and fuck help him if that doesn't remind him of a Dark Mark each time he sees it.
He drops gently down onto his side of the bed beside his slumbering mate. He pulls the duvet over Remus's bare shoulders and tucks him in, pausing for a moment to trace a thumb across Remus's jaw. The touch earns him a murmur and a sigh, and Remus curls into his hand, before licking his lips and settling back into sleep. Then Sirius gets up to wash the dishes, just so he can block out the fears that are screaming in his head.
* * *
He was dreaming, of course, but that doesn't make it any less real.
Sirius opens his eyes and gasps in a sharp breath. He feels stunned, as though he's just rocketed upwards from the depths of some suffocating ocean and taken his first breath. He jerks his head up from where it had been resting on his chest moments ago, and struggles with sleep-heavy limbs to push himself into an upright position.
James Potter's anxious, owlish face appears in the edge of his field of vision.
"How long was I asleep?" Sirius asks.
"Not long, 'bout five minutes."
James looks away from Sirius and out over the moonlit moorland to the small cottage they're supposed to be surveilling. The cottage appears derelict – window-panes smashed and tiles loose on the roof – but Mad-Eye's had a tip-off that hinted that this cottage is a meeting point for Death Eaters, so they wait.
"When were you going to wake me?"
James just shrugs and continues staring into the middle distance.
They've been here for four nights in a row now, hunkered down beneath an old oak, and they haven't caught a single glimpse of any suspicious activity. The moor has been deserted since they arrived, aside from the occasional wild animal scurrying across the open and scaring the shit out of the two of them. He's restless, but there's the tingling sense of magic in the air that reminds Sirius that the cottage isn't a complete dead-end.
"They must know we've found out about this place," James mutters, as the morning light begins to break over the eastern horizon. "That's why no one's been back here."
'Yeah, probably," agrees Sirius, the overwhelming feeling of futility creeping up on him again.
He studies his friend out of the corner of his eye. James looks beyond weary, dark circles shadowing his eyes. Stress tugging the lines of his face, distorting the boyish features into a haggard imitation of what they had once been. No twenty year old should look like this, thinks Sirius. James shouldn't be looking this old, not until he and Lily had grandchildren and he and Sirius could spend their retirement going to every Puddlemere United match, while growing fat on Remus's home-baking. Peter would be there too, but what exactly he'd be doing Sirius can't imagine – still tagging along like an overgrown schoolboy probably.
Anyway, James shouldn't look this tired until they're really old, like ninety years from now or something.
As the sun fully clears the distant hills, and the early birds start to chirp in the trees, there's a soft pop beside James. They immediately spring to their feet, wands at the ready, and the intruders mimic their actions.
"The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies," Benjy Fenwick and Gideon Prewett say, reciting the password for the Order of the Phoenix.
"And still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise," reply Sirius and James in unison.
Their identities confirmed, James and Sirius prepare to disapparate, leaving Benjy and Gideon to continue the surveillance during the day-time hours. They don't stay much longer – the days of friendly chats have long since passed.
"See you again on Tuesday," James asks, though it's not really a question.
"Yeah," says Sirius as he zips up his jacket. "Tell Lily I say hi."
"I will, and you tell Moony the same."
"I will if he ever appears back home again."
"He's not back from his mission yet?"
Sirius shakes his head.
"He'll be okay – you know Dumbledore won't let him tell you where he has to go."
"Yeah," says Sirius, trying not to let those thoughts of treachery fill his mind again. "See you, Prongs."
He turns on his heel and feels the numbing pressure of apparition consume his body. It's there for the briefest of moments and then gone, as Sirius finds himself in a side-street just off of Piccadilly Circus. With no real destination in mind, Sirius begins to head west, thinking vaguely of visiting Hyde Park before the inhabitants of the sprawling city wake-up and head to work.
Truthfully, though, he'd rather get drunk. So mind-numbingly, thought-bleedingly drunk that he will be physically incapable of dwelling on Remus's many unexplained absences, of thoughts of traitors and lies. But, it being only 5am, there are no pubs open and even the dodgy Soho off-licences are closed. Maybe, if no one's about in the park, he'll change into Padfoot and chase the pigeons. Just so he can feel awake again, feel his heart pumping blood through his veins.
As Sirius crosses the road, he notices a man dressed in a brown leather jacket follow him. He picks up his pace slightly and hopes he's just being paranoid.
Last week, James had asked him to be best man at his and Lily's wedding. It's not that Sirius was surprised to have been asked – he'd been destined for that role ever since he first met James Potter on a scarlet train one September morning – but the very fact that there was going to be a wedding at all surprised him.
It hasn't taken him long to come around to the idea though, after all nothing says 'fuck you, Voldemort' more than a pureblood marrying the muggle-born girl of his dreams.
The leather-jacket guy's still following him as Sirius approaches the park. He doesn't check traffic as he hurries across the road to park gates. He doesn't run, even though he wants to. He doesn't stop and challenge the guy to a duel either. This isn't fucking Hogwarts anymore.
* * *
"Sirius."
Sirius blinks slowly awake.
Remus is standing over him, a hand braced on each arm of the chair where Sirius has crashed. His face is very close. His lips look soft and pink in the dim light. His eyes contain a million shades of golden brown, glinting like long-lost jewels, one eyebrow arched in curiosity.
"Didn't mean to wake you," he says, voice sleep-warm and deep, laced with a trace of amusement. "But why are you sitting with the leak bucket in your lap?"
Sirius glances down and his arms are indeed curled around the empty red bucket that's in his lap. He's back in their make-shift flat, Mr Pickering's council tax bill lying on the coffee table.
He takes a breath and looks up at Remus again. "Is this real?" he asks. "How did I get I here – I was just going to go to the park…"
"I don't know I've only just woken up," says Remus, crouching down so he's at Sirius's eye-level. "You feeling okay?"
Yeah, I'm fine, it's just –" Sirius doesn't know how to explain it. Is he dreaming now, or was he never with James on the moor, did Padfoot ever get to chase the pigeons in Hyde Park? It doesn't matter he decides, looking at Remus again; even if this is a dream, a pseudo-Remus is much better than no Remus.
He clears his throat, "What time is it?" he asks so psuedo-Remus doesn't think he's gone completely round the bend.
"Just after 3am."
Placing the bucket down on the floor, Sirius shifts forward slightly. He runs his hands up Remus's strong arms, over his shoulders and down onto Remus's chest. He can feel Remus's heart through the thin cotton t-shirt, feel it pumping the blood through his veins.
"I'm really awake," Sirius says, as though only realising it for the first time. "You're really real."
Remus snorts quietly, "Have you been drinking?"
"No, it's – I just had a bad dream that's all."
"Yeah?" says Remus lightly. "Anything I can do to help you forget?"
Remus looks up at him through lowered eyelashes, a slight blush colouring his cheeks, but Sirius can see the mischievous glint in those dark eyes. With that look, Sirius knows it will be easy enough to touch him now. Remus has a way with looks, actually. Small, amazing expressions that make Sirius want to alternately jump him and play the good-housewife forever.
This has to be reality, Sirius thinks as he draws Remus somewhat awkwardly into his lap and bring their mouths together. And for a while there's only warmth and darkness and need and exchanged breaths.
For that stretch of time the outside world doesn't exist, there's no Order, no weddings and no fear as Sirius's mind is consumed with Remus, and only with Remus.
Eventually, the light of another dawn creeps through the window, but there are no early birds to herald its arrival here. Instead there's the dull drone of cars as the Muggles of the great city, wake up around them. But it doesn't matter, Sirius is oblivious to it all.
He feels truly awake again.
END