n o t . w i t h . a . t h o u s a n d . s w o r d s

Not With a Thousand Swords
[by victoria p.]

Rating: G

Summary: Sirius is still too thin, with too-long hair and a grin that cuts like a razor.

Notes: For k. on her birthday. Title and quote from The Princess Bride.

Date: September 5, 2005

"And you cannot track that, not with a thousand bloodhounds, and you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords."

The memorial service is nearly over and Remus has begun to make his way back across the newly mown grass to a less crowded Apparition point, away from the lump of people surrounding Harry when he sees a familiar pair of shoulders in the crowd, shining black hair spilling over a collar. He closes his eyes and shakes his head -- this is not the first time he's imagined Sirius in the set of another man's shoulders, the tilt of his head, though every time he fervently hopes it will be the last.

He is tempted to give in to self-indulgence, to whine about the unfairness of it all -- the way his life has been shaped, continues to be shaped, by the presence and absence (mostly absence, he thinks ruefully) of Sirius Black -- if only to himself. But he doesn't, of course. There's no use and it doesn't make him feel better.

Today is a day to put the past to rest, to mourn and honor the fallen heroes of the last war, a day to look towards the future. Bill's hand rests on Fleur's belly, the joy on his face when the baby kicks making his scars seem negligible. Hermione's ring flashes in the sun as Ron raises her hand to his lips. Even Tonks has begun to heal after her long ordeal under the influence of amortentia, the combined fussing of her mother and Molly Weasley going a long way to ease her embarrassment, as well as the long-term effects of prolonged exposure to the potion.

And Remus feels trapped in between -- attempting to make a clean getaway, a fresh start, and yet still caught by the (im)possibility, the faintest touch of hope, that Sirius is alive, and here. He forces himself to move, to leave. Even if it is Sirius (and it's not, it can't be), he would be much more interested in seeing Harry, which is as it should be. Remus is long used to coming in second, first to James, then to Harry, and he never questioned it, had rarely seen the need. That was always the shape of Sirius's world, and Remus built around it.

He Apparates back to the small flat he's taken in Cambridge. He lives amongst Muggles, who don't fear him in quite the same way, and spends his time writing treatises on Defense Against the Dark Arts that still often go unpublished because of what he is. The world has changed, and yet it remains so very much the same.

He hesitates at the door, turns and walks away, down to a nearby pub he's discovered. Even in the June sunlight, the pub is dark and cool; it smells of stale beer and grease. He rests his elbows on the copper bar, grateful for its cold metallic solidity. Even at three in the afternoon, he spots one or two likely prospects, young men he is fairly certain could be convinced (cajoled, persuaded) into having sex with him before the sun goes down, who would even think they were convincing him when they did it. He smiles his thanks at the bartender and takes a sip of Guinness, amused at how easily he falls back into old patterns without Sirius -- without the war, Harry, someone -- to prod him out of them.

He is about to beckon to a blond with blinding white teeth (must be American, he thinks) when the door swings open and a tall, dark-haired man appears, backlit by the early summer sunshine. He looks like a phantom, a ghost, a long shadow thrown down into the dimness of the pub, and Remus shivers. He puts his pint down and heads to the gents; he can Apparate from there and no one will notice he's gone, not even the blond American. He is breathing heavily and his hands shake. He takes a moment to collect himself, because he has learned, the hard way, that life is not a fairy tale, unless it's the sort where the wolf eats the little boy and nobody lives happily ever after.

The door bangs open and shut behind him and he starts, but when he turns around, it is only another patron, an old man who'd been playing darts when he'd walked in. The old man looks at him askance, then strides to a urinal to do his business.

Remus Apparates then, almost without thinking, the instinct to run strong.

He lands in his kitchen, panting as if he has run all the way. Sirius is sitting at the kitchen table, long fingers wrapped around a half-empty pint glass.

"Shouldn't Apparate after drinking," he says mildly, though his eyes are stormy with a thousand secrets and emotions. Remus clutches the back of the nearest chair, thinking he might be sick.

"What-- How--"

Sirius shakes his head. "Not the right questions, but then, you always did get sloppy under pressure."

Remus gets hold of himself, pulls the chair out and sits down before his legs give way. "I never did," he responds, stung, though he was never as quick as James or Sirius at planning on the fly.

Sirius pushes the glass across the wood table, the dark brown liquid sloshing dangerously. "You need this more than I do, I think."

Remus takes a sip, his gaze riveted to Sirius's face, if it is, in fact, Sirius. "Why?" he asks. "And why now?"

"Because."

Remus shakes his head. "That's no answer."

"It's the only one I've got." Sirius rises, closes the distance between them. "It ought to be enough."

"It's really not."

"I know." Sirius's hands are warm as they comb through Remus's hair, fingers sliding down to brush his cheekbones, his temples, the slope of his nose, the very familiarity of the touch sending shivers down his spine. "Can you accept it anyway?"

Remus pulls Sirius down into his lap -- Sirius, who is still too thin, with too-long hair and a grin that cuts like a razor. He smells the same, like sweat and dog and endless hope, and his mouth is warm and hungry against Remus's when they kiss.

"I can," Remus whispers in his ear, and holds him close. "I think I can."

end

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