Disclaimer: They're not my characters, and I'm not making any money from this.

A/N: This is a companion piece to "I Love Him," told from Sirius' POV. Like "I Love Him," it assumes a romantic and sexual relationship between Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, and contains mild to moderate slash content.

...And I Love Him

I wake up in the middle of the night, and I'm not afraid. I smile.

Ever since Azkaban, I haven't slept well; no real surprise there. I didn't exactly enjoy the sleep of the charmed in prison. Being on the run for the year after Buckbeak and I escaped from Hogwarts wasn't much easier, since it rarely - all right, never - meant a warm, comfortable bed. Even as Padfoot, with a nice fur coat, I could never really get the cold of Azkaban out of my bones.

After that, I lived for a while with Moony at his place - a bizarre Muggle concoction, three rooms, and "pre-fabricated," whatever that means. (The Ministry has no way to assess its value since it's apparently not a real building, so he can get away with owning it, despite the restrictions on werewolves having property.) Then we moved into Grimmauld Place. At Moony's – where I once again slept in the arms of my one and only lover – when I woke at night, I was immediately afraid. It was the same here, too, to start with. I certainly didn't have warm memories of the comforts of home to drive away the cold.

But one evening, Moony came home with a nice, brand-new, crispy-clean set of pajamas and made it perfectly clear that I was expected to wear them. I've always hated the damned things, since before we were in school even. I'm much happier in a pair of boxers – or even sleeping in the nuddy. I refused.

He gave me a heavy sigh, the kind that let me know I was terribly trying his patience, and said, "Just try it for one night, Padfoot."

I have to admit that it pleases me endlessly that just as I'm the one person who can make him come so hard and so loud that he destroys our silencing charm, so too I'm the one person who can frustrate him and make him lose patience. A thousand Weasleys with a thousand pranks apiece would never shake him, but I can drive him crazy with a simple 'no.'

But since I'm no fan of marital discord – in mine and Moony's case, anyway; there are a few select cases in which I approve of it heartily – I agreed to wear the damn pajamas. My plan: I'd wear them once, denounce them in the morning, and be done with it.

I went to bed grumbling ("Oh, be nice, Paddy, and you'll get a lovely blowjob in the morning," wheedled my mate), sure I'd wake up twisted and tangled and bloody uncomfortable. But when I woke in the night, for the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid. I was warm – hot and sweaty, even – but I felt safe and secure. Apparently, as far as my body is concerned, there's preciously little difference between the bone-penetrating cold of Azkaban and the night-time chill you get when your lover is hogging the covers. But it knows the difference between coldness and warmth: coldness is ever-present danger, fear, and terror; warmth is comfort, security, and a snoring werewolf.

So I admitted defeat, and kept the pajamas.

Now when I wake in the night – even when my Moony is away on one of his missions – I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid now, and happily, and I'm not alone either. My eyes, once opened, are immediately drawn to the dying embers of a ball of light – a Luminescence Charm that Moony casts only when I've gone to bed after having one of my episodes. (That's what Moony calls them, anyway. He was quite annoyed with Tonks when she told us that the Muggles call them "periodic psychotic breaks" – or something like that, anyway. No sweets for Tonks for a week after that: no one breaks Moony's house rules, not even the Weasley twins, not even Molly.)

So I know I've had an episode. I really can't remember it, though I vaguely remember crying at Harry.

Harry. I hope –

I shake Moony. He's awake instantly.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, lover," I tell him. "I was just trying to remember what happened today. Was Harry...?" Suddenly, I can't ask him what I need to know.

"He was there for part of it," Moony admits.

"The bad part?"

"I'm afraid so."

"The worst part?"

"Yes, love. But I think he's all right. Talk to him in the morning, let him see you being your old annoying self. Trust me, he'll forget it even happened."

"Do you think so?" I know Moony would never lie to me, but I can't quite believe him.

"He's young," says Moony, "and what's more, he wants to forget. Once he sees you're back to normal, he'll make himself believe that it didn't happen, or at least that the worst of it didn't." He shrugs.

Funny thing about my Moony: when we were kids, he always insisted on wearing pajamas. Even when he knew I was going to creep into his bed or he into mine (pretty much every night, really) he still insisted on wearing the damn things. Divesting him of them became a little game, but once we'd finished loving he'd try to struggle into them again, no matter how tired he was. (I took it as a challenge to wear him out thoroughly every time we made love, to keep him out of the things, but still somehow I'd wake up in the morning hand find him half-dressed. Once he'd tried to put his bottoms on his top and had stuck his arms through the lugholes and trapped himself; how he fell and stayed asleep like that I don't know. I'd laughed so hard that Jamey and Peter came to find out what the matter was.)

But now... now, my Moony sleeps in the nude. Claims he has for a while now, too. I'm happy, because one pair of pajamas to struggle with when we want to make love in the middle of the night is plenty.

We cast the silencing charm together – we discovered long ago, in school, that combining our magics far more than doubles the strength of the spell – and I briefly wonder how long it will take before we shatter the magical silence we've created. (In truth, we've only done it twice. The first time only Dumbledore was in the house and that canny old man never gave us a single hint that he'd heard a thing; the second time we had a nearly full house – not the children, thank Merlin – but Tonks hadn't been able to meet our eyes without giggling for quite a while, not until Alastor Moody chewed her out for being immature and then launched into the most pornographic joke I've ever heard in my life.)

The charm held this time, which is just as well, since the kids are here.

Basking in the afterglow, he smiles at me, and snuggles close. "You're warm," he murmurs. "Nice."

"It's your sinful nudist ways that keep you cold, Moony," I tell him. He chuckles. There's no zealot like a convert.

"Full moon in a few days," I say.

"Mmmph," says Moony.

"Are you going to spend it here?"

"Yes."

"Good."

I don't need to say, "I'll change into Padfoot and stay with you the whole time," because he knows I will. I don't need to say, "I'll try to keep you from hurting yourself," because he knows that I will. I don't need to say, "I'll carry you upstairs afterwards, and bathe you and treat whatever wounds you do get, and put you to bed with gentle kisses," because he knows I'll do that, too.

"I love you," I tell him. I don't need to say that, either, because he knows it, but I like to.

"I love you, too," he whispers. If it's a race to see who falls asleep first, then he's won.

I stroke his hair. He's strong for me when I need him to be. And I'm strong for him when he needs me to be.

He loves me.

And I love him.