Disclaimer: I'm not JKR, these characters aren't mine, and I'm not making any money from this.

A/N: This story assumed a romantic relationship between Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. There is mild slash content; the rating is chiefly for dramatic content, however. Coping with physical ailments is not pretty.

I Love Him

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place is chaos: the Weasleys are teasing each other, and Harry and Hermione are laughing right along with them (thank goodness; that boy needs to laugh more). Sirius seems to be in his own little world. I think the noise is too much for him. I think there are too many people in the room. But he's trying to acclimate himself to noise and to real people, in preparation for his eventual freedom. Otherwise I'd chase them all out.

A teacup breaks, shatters on the floor. No one seems to notice - no, that's not quite right; Molly is yelling at Fred and George for breaking it. Sirius sighs heavily, fetches a dustpan and hand-broom, and goes to sweep up the wreckage. I'm still sitting at the table, just watching him. Despite the physical pain he feels every day - another remnant of Azkaban, one he'll probably never be rid of - he still moves with exceptional grace, like a cat padding across the room. When he and Jamey and Peter were learning the Animagus spell for me, I was certain that Sirius would be a tiger. Or a panther.

I watch him squat beside the shattered teacup, ready to sweep. Suddenly he's still. Is his hand quivering? I'm not sure.

Yes, it is. He's trembling now. I immediately leave my seat and go to him, wrap my arms around him. His whole body is shaking now, as he stares at that damned teacup.

He's my world, and has the center of my attention. I have only peripheral awareness that Molly is shooing everyone else out of the kitchen. I don't know if she wants to spare Sirius his dignity or is ashamed of him. I don't care, either.

Sirius looks up from the teacup and stares at me.

"Moony?" His voice is raw and ragged.

"I'm here, Padfoot." I'm as comforting as I know how to be.

"They're dead, Moony." His voice is a hiss. He stares back down at the teacup, and I realize now he's looking at the broken remains of a teacup in the house at Godric's Hollow.

"I know," I say. I hold him close.

"I can't find the baby."

I stoke his hair. "The baby's fine, Padfoot. Breathe. Try to breathe."

But his breath is shallow and rapid. "Where's the baby?" It's a scream now, not a whisper.

Harry pushes in through the kitchen door. He must have stayed close; I can imagine him pulling away from Molly, maybe yelling at her.

"Sirius?" He kneels on the floor, beside his godfather.

Sirius glances up at him; a look of agony splashes across his face. "Oh, Merlin, Jamey," he whispers, "I'm so sorry. I can't find the baby." He grabs Harry's face and pulls him close, pressing his forehead against he godson's, something I must have seen him do a thousand times with Jamey when one or the other of them was upset.Often it was after James had been shot down yet again by Lily.

"I'm not Jamey," says Harry quietly, and I vaguely wonder if that's the first time that he's ever spoken his father's nickname. "I'm Harry."

Sirius pulls back a little, and strokes the messy hair. "I can't find the baby," he repeats.

There's a sudden smell, like burned peanuts, and I realize that Sirius has lost control of his bladder; another remnant of Azkaban. A small yellow pool develops beneath him.

Harry pulls back, a little horrified.

"I'm sorry, Jamey!"

He's getting worse instead of better; I've never seen one of these episodes last so long. I grab Harry and drag him back. "He needs you now," I hiss at him.

Then I drop to my knees and lean into Sirius. I hold him right against me - never mind now that I'm kneeling in a puddle of piss - and I whisper in his ear. "That's not Jamey, my love," I tell him. "It's the baby. The baby's all grown up."

He puts his arms around me. His grip tightens, and he buries his face in my shoulder. He's crying now. I still can't tell if the episode is over or not, if he's still weeping over the bodies his friends or if he's crying because he's ashamed.

He looks up from my shoulder, to the frightened teenager next to me.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he whispers.

He's back.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," says Harry. I can't tell if the boy believes it - he still looks shocked by what he's seen - but at least he says the words. I wish Sirius would believe them, but I know he won't.

I take out my wand, clean up the mess that hasn't soaked into my robes, clean Sirius, clean myself. I help my lover stand. "We're going to bed now, Sirius," I say quietly. His slips his arms down, around my waist. We stand together for a long moment.

At long last, we break apart, but still snuggle close together. His head is bent down to rest on my shoulder, his arm is about my waist. My arm is around his. We go out the kitchen door, Harry trailing along behind us.

Molly hasn't done her work very well: they were out of the kitchens, but Hermione and various Weasleys line the hallway like some kind of perverse honor guard. Sirius won't meet their eyes.

We go upstairs, Harry still following behind. We got to our bedroom; Harry waits in the door. I don't think he's ever understood that it's our bedroom before this.

I get Sirius ready for bed - out of his clothes, into a nice set of clean pajamas. He sits on the side of the bed - he still hasn't looked at Harry once - and I sit behind him. I brush his hair; he loves that, has loved it ever since we were at school together. It's part of our ritual.

He leans back, half-sitting, waiting for me. I don't give a damn if Harry's still watching: I lean into Sirius and kiss him. Our kiss lingers, and there are a few tender caresses, but Sirius is in no shape for lovemaking, not even the tender, gentle, healing sex we've become accustomed to.

I slide back the covers of the bed, and he slips in. I pull the covers up, tucking him in. I sing to him a little, smoothing his hair, until he falls asleep.

I stand, watching him. I can only imagine that there's a look of complete adoration on my face.

I hear a cough from the doorway. I'm a little surprised that Harry's still here. I look at him, and nod. He comes into our bedroom, and stands beside me.

He looks down at Sirius, who's sleeping peacefully now.

"How do you find the strength to take care of him like that?" he asks me. Foolish boy.

"I love him."