Agreements
Remus’s day starts in the worst possible way.
He’s almost used to Sirius being at the pub now. Almost. But it still irritates him all the same.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Poppy is taking the situation gracefully in stride. She’s not happy with it, of course, but she knows how to be mature about it. Remus doesn’t, nor does he want to. He couldn’t care less if he causes Sirius discomfort with his attitude. In fact, it’s kind of desired.
There he is again, striding into the pub like he owns it. Well, technically, he does, but that hardly matters. He doesn’t care about the pub, so any ownership he claims is a show. He can do all he wants there, but the people in the village will never forgive him. Good.
“Morning,” the other man says. Instead of going into the office like he does most days, he walks to the counter and slams down a pile of papers. “There,” he says.
“And what’s this?” Remus asks dully, reaching for a cloth to wipe the tables. He’s already done it, but now he needs an excuse to leave Sirius to do his own thing. He turns on the tap and fills the cleaning bucket with water.
“My notes,” Sirius declares. “Well, most of them, anyway. Er—some of them.”
Remus raises an eyebrow and inspects the pile for a moment, just for the dramatics. Then he grabs the bucket and rounds the counter. “Wonderful,” he murmurs.
“Actually, I’m going to need your help,” Sirius says. Remus stops in his tracks, back still turned towards him.
“What?” he asks.
“I said, I’m going to need your help,” the other man repeats. “If you want to do that, of course.”
Remus huffs, turning back around and walking to where he’s standing. He places the bucket on the counter so hard that water splashes over the edges, some of it landing on the papers and turning parts of them a light shade of grey. “Well, you’re the boss,” he grumbles.
Sirius doesn’t seem too concerned about the papers. He lifts them up again and taps them against the counter, clearing his throat. “The tables and chairs.”
“What about them?”
“They need to be changed.”
“They’re perfectly good to sit on.”
“Who’s the one in charge again?”
Remus glares at him. “Fine, alright. That’s going to cost hundreds, probably thousands.”
“I’ve the money.”
“Of course, you do. Remind me again why you’re selling the place?”
“Again, nothing’s decided yet.”
“Yeah, yeah. And what’s next?”
“The walls.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Uh, why not?”
“No.”
“I’m going to need a bit more than that.”
“The walls,” Remus enunciates clearly, “are staying the way they are.”
“They’re ugly,” Sirius states. “The colour, the pattern... they’re cluttered.”
Remus looks at the brown wallpaper on the walls all around the space. Yes, it is a little ugly. That’s why he likes it. “Those signatures,” he says, pointing to the section of the wall that’s covered in writing, “they’re going to stay. They’re a part of the pub’s history.”
Alphard asked every single person who visited to sign the wall, famous or not. There are a few recognisable names up there, but most of them are just from village inhabitants or other mundane people who have visited from away. It’s an integral part of the pub, the signature wall.
“They’re not exactly... elegant.”
“Nothing about this place is elegant,” Remus huffs, “That’s the point!”
“Well, no one’s going to buy a place with ugly walls and writing on the tapestry.”
“Shame,” he shrugs. “They’re staying.”
Sirius bites down on his lip and glances between his pile of papers and the walls. Then he sighs, turning the page. “We’ll think about it.”
Secretly, Remus smiles to himself.
“And the menu...”
“Everybody loves the fish and chips,” Remus says. “And they come here for the beer, not to drink champagne.”
“That’s not for me to decide,” Sirius counters, “It’s the—”
“Yeah, I know. The new owners.”
“I’ll redesign the physical menus, though. Just to make it a bit less...”
“Tacky?”
Sirius nods, enthusiastically. Perhaps he thinks they’ve finally found some common ground, however small. “Yes, exactly,” he says.
“I like tacky.”
The other man huffs. “You’re just going to oppose everything I suggest, aren’t you?”
“If I disagree with all your suggestions, then yes.” He rounds the counter again and keys his employee number into the till. “I’ll go get the money,” he says.
He leaves Sirius there and retreats into the backroom, where they keep the money in a safety box. Remus runs a hand through his hair, frustratedly. He has tried denying it. He thought that if he just keeps ignoring it for long enough, maybe Sirius will simply disappear, and everything will go on as normal. But he’s still there, and the pub is still getting sold. It’s only a few measly weeks before the potential buyer will be there.
Naturally, Remus has thought about ways to stop Alphard’s nephew. He thought about making the place a mess, so that Sirius would deem it hopeless from the get-go and simply give up. He thought about organising a protest and inviting the whole village. But slowly, it has all started feeling pointless. Like Poppy said, some things are out of their hands – but that still doesn’t mean Remus isn’t angry.
He won’t continue working at the pub if it gets turned into a restaurant. Not only has he had his fair share of experience working in a fancy eatery, but it also feels disrespectful towards his old boss. Alphard wouldn’t care – he’d just hope for Remus to do what he needs to in order to get by. But it wouldn’t be the same. There would be too many good, sad memories.
He gets the money out and locks the safety box again, returning to the pub. Then he makes sure everything is ready for opening while Sirius keeps going through his papers. He looks far more stressed today than before, which was already a lot. Remus doesn’t feel bad, though. It’s all self-inflicted.
“The toilets need to be redone, too,” Sirius murmurs, more to himself than to Remus. He chooses not to answer. “Those green tiles... they don’t work.”
Remus raises his brows at the plates he’s now in the midst of stacking. The green tiles work perfectly. There’s nothing wrong with the green tiles.
“And the lamps...”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just tear the whole building down and start from the scratch if you’re not happy with anything here,” he snarls, unable to stop himself.
Sirius doesn’t even look up. “There’s not enough time,” he says.
Remus fights the urge to smack him on the head with a plate – just to knock some sense into him.
“Is it just you working today?” Sirius asks, then. He’s still focussed on the stack, somehow.
“Dorcas is coming in at twelve,” Remus replies. He glances at the clock. They still have half an hour before opening. “Poppy’s coming in to do the orders,” he adds. Technically, that should be Sirius’s job now, but he obviously doesn’t know how to do it. Poppy helped Alphard with them for years, and since she’s way more qualified, they agreed she would continue doing it now.
“Good,” Sirius mumbles, absently. “I think I need to pop out, I left my laptop at the house... I’ll try and look for something to replace the stools and the tables.”
“You can use Alphard’s computer.”
“That’ll take me twice as long.”
“Alright, then. But you’re leaving those papers here on your own responsibility.” Pointedly, Remus eyes the pile and then the unlit fireplace in the corner.
Sirius raises his brows, amused although he’s seemingly trying to hide it. “They better be there when I come back,” he says, already pulling on his coat.
Remus shrugs. “Can’t promise you anything.”
Sirius rolls his eyes and wraps his scarf around his neck. Then he heads towards the door. “Be good,” he calls over his shoulder.
“We’ll see,” Remus calls back. The door shuts with a chime. He watches through the large windows as Sirius heads down the pavement towards the inn. He folds his arms over the counter and rests his head there, cussing silently. It’s going to be the longest December of his life.
***
The rest of the day doesn’t go much better, and not even Dorcas’s arrival cheers him up. He retreats to have his lunch in peace, leaving her to guard the till. Only, instead of having settled into the office, Sirius has set his things up in the backroom. His laptop and three stacks of paper lie on the table, along with a half-drunk cup of coffee and his phone.
Remus walks over to the fridge and takes out his lunch – leftovers from yesterday. He pops the container into the microwave and stands waiting, hands on his hips and eyes on the other man’s work. Maybe he is planning on wrecking the whole place.
Sirius looks up after a moment. “Oh, am I in your way?”
Remus turns to the beeping microwave to take out his meal. “Hasn’t stopped you before.” He takes a fork from the drying rack and leans against the counter. “Found anything yet?”
“Nothing good enough,” Sirius says. His eyes are back on his computer screen.
“I’d take that as a sign,” Remus shrugs, shoving food into his mouth.
Sirius sighs. “I know you would. Want to sit down?”
Remus regards the table and, after a moment’s consideration, wrinkles his nose. “No,” he says. “Not at all, actually.”
Sirius nods at him. “Point received.”
Remus finishes his lunch quickly and returns to Dorcas far too early. She looks at him and frowns. “Your break lasted all of five minutes,” she observes.
“The grand idiot was in the room,” Remus murmurs bitterly, joining her in organising the bar. There are a few people there, but it’s still quiet. It’ll start filling up in the early afternoon, when people start feeling peckish at work or want a break from Christmas shopping.
“Go and have a walk, then,” Dorcas says. “You’re so wound up, it’s making my head hurt, too.”
Remus rolls his eyes. “Stop being dramatic,” he says.
There’s a gentle knock on the doorframe. They both turn to look at Sirius peering in. “Have a moment, Remus?” he inquires.
“Uh. I suppose.”
Screaming internally, he follows Sirius back into the breakroom, where he sits down in front of his laptop again. Remus remains standing behind him, wondering what stupid idea he’s come up with now.
“The bar counter,” Sirius answers his unasked question.
Remus huffs. “Do with it what you like. I don’t have any personal connection to it.”
Sirius hums, almost like he doesn’t believe him. “Well, maybe you should. It was made by my uncle’s friend. I found that written down in one of Alphard’s journals.”
“Journals?”
“These,” Sirius says, tapping a pile of notebooks on the table. “They’re not personal, just his way of documenting the pub’s journey. The bar counter was gifted to him by someone called Agnus Moore.”
“He never mentioned that.”
“Do you know who Agnus is?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Hm.”
Remus has his suspicions, but he doesn’t say anything aloud. He doesn’t know how much Sirius knows about Alphard’s life, and it’s not his place to tell him. Maybe he’s already aware. It doesn’t matter, though. It wouldn’t change his mind, in any case.
“It’s staying.”
Remus blinks down at him. “It is?”
“Yeah,” Sirius shrugs. “It’s nice, in good condition. Handcrafted. People appreciate that kind of stuff. It’ll bring the value up, for sure.”
And there he goes, taking another step backwards. For a second, Remus thought maybe there’s some part of Sirius that’s even slightly sentimental – but of course, that’s not the case. All he can see is money. Profits, value, the lot of it.
“And why did you tell me this?” Remus asks next.
“I need you to find Agnus Moore.”
He blinks. “Find him? How? Why?”
“We need those new tables.”
“Are you insane? In less than three weeks?”
“Well, I’m obviously not expecting him to make them from scratch,” Sirius tuts. “I’d just like to inquire what our options are. Maybe he can’t help us, but maybe he can.”
“Bloody hell.”
Sirius raises his brows, smugly. “You know this all is going to show on your payslip, right? All the extra stuff you do for me.”
“...I’m on it.”