The Nature of Runaway Trains on a Dark and Stormy Night.
Wherein James decides his hair is not messy enough and tries for bed head, Peter writes sonnets, Sirius is angry and vulgar, and Remus…well, Remus gets soppy. There's toast though we're not quite sure why. We're working on that.
It's a fic that wanted to be a crack!fic but was ruthlessly repressed. Unfortunately, it wasn't ruthlessly repressed enough. The result, well. It's not pretty. And it's all J's fault. She wanted runaway trains after all.
Excessive use of the word 'fuck'. Um. Very mild slash. And violence. Well. The threat of violence, in any case.
"Well fuck."
Remus glanced up from his book and eyed his companion. It wasn't that the saying itself was unfamiliar or surprising, simply the way it had been said: quite randomly and oddly flat. "What is it?" he asked.
Sirius turned around and gazed at him with the most curiously bemused expression on his outrageously handsome face. He flipped his bangs out of his eyes, or, he would have if all his hair hadn't already been pulled back. Nervous gesture. "Fucking train just went off the fucking tracks."
Remus stared at him for a moment. "…What?"
"I fucking said," he repeated, "that the fucking train just fucking went off the fucking tracks."
"Sirius," a sleepy voice mumbled from across the compartment, "remember: Variation. Is. Key."
"Oh fuck off you fuckwad," Sirius snapped, "I'm perfectly fucking happy saying fuck all the fucking time I fucking want, I don't fucking give a flying fuck what you fucking say James fucking Potter."
James flicked him off and buried his head further beneath the jumper he'd stolen from Peter. Peter, meanwhile, shivered in a corner and was busily scribbling something on a piece of parchment. Remus who sat only a little ways from him thought that the words looked suspiciously like ode and flower and night blossoming beauty and, quite possibly, toast.
"You know," Peter started distractedly, still focusing on his suspiciously rose smelling parchment, "it isn't like we care if you use the word fuck. We aren't the ones that had a problem with it. That was your mum. Your mum isn't here. No need to carry on with the word fuck."
"Fuck you."
"Right then," Peter said blithely. His quill gave an overly loopy twirl. Remus was vaguely nauseas. Instead of puking his guts out however, he coughed pointedly.
"Um. Can we, possibly, get back to the matter at hand?" Everyone ignored him. "Yes, thank you." Remus, with the determination of one who does, indeed, give a fuck, got up off his cushioned seat, sighed as Sirius immediately stole it, and walked over to the window.
"Well fuck," he said, a moment later.
"Fucking told you so."
Remus spared Sirius an annoyed glance and then turned back around so as not to be distracted by the shininess of his eyes or the inky blackness of his hair. This would not become a soppy romantic fic dammit. No matter Peter's disturbing pastimes.
Remus quirked his head to the side and studied the odd landscape. After five years of taking this particular route to school, he was really quite familiar with the way one got from King's Cross Station to Hogsmeade.
The train was currently merrily chugging it's way through what, if he read the signs correctly, appeared to be Milan. Hunh. This could be a problem.
"Do trains normally make a habit of randomly veering off their charted course and again randomly appearing in a foreign country several seas and landmasses away? Or is it just me?" he asked.
"Only on dark and stormy nights," Peter happily chirped, doodling what looked like little daisies. Remus hoped it wasn't contagious, if it was, he just might have to kill him.
"Fucking dark and fucking stormy nights. Fucking trains go all fucking out of whack on fucking nights like those fuckers. Giving you all fucking weird fucking things. Like fucking fur rugs and rubber fucking ducks and fucking flowery hand lotion. But, fuck me, it's fucking sunny out. Probably just fucking bad directions."
Remus took a moment to ponder the nature of such run away trains as Sirius had just described. That didn't sound so bad, he thought. Dark and stormy, the train traveling through some random, far off place (like, say, Russia) where it would take hours to get back and things like Sirius Black sprawled naked and arrogant on a fur rug and flowery hand lotion and such terms like fuck me were in happy, decadent use.
He wasn't quite sure where the rubber ducks would fit in, but Remus was a genius, he could make it work.
Perhaps, he could write out a secret and captivating message on the bottom of their little duckie bottoms, something like: WANNA SHAG? or FETCH DOGGIE or SIRIUS, YOUR EYES ARE LIKE THE STORMY SEA, MAY I DROWN IN THEM, PLEASE?
Remus turned around to glare at Peter where he was busy tying an overly elaborate bow on his now rolled up parchment. Where were the fucking sporks when you needed them?
Remus had eyes to pop out.
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