Bassist Wanted
Remus drops off Teddy at Dora's place with his bass in the backseat of his car. He then drives just outside Chester, to what could either be a setup, a mistake, or a whole bunch of kids.
The house is very suburban, on first glance. Two cars in the driveway and a motorbike, two stories, old but well-taken care of. The path leading to the door is cobbled and overgrown, and the door is painted a cheery yellow that feels like something that should be on the southern coast.
Here goes nothing.
He knocks.
A few seconds elapse in which Remus contemplates leaving. It’s a stupid idea, coming here. He is from one of the most famous rock bands in the world. What is he doing starting from scratch? Who is he to answer an ad on the side of the road?
The door opens, and behind it is a fucking ten-year-old kid.
“God dam-”
“You look familiar,” the kid says, squinting behind thick-lensed round glasses.
“I-”
“You’re here for my dad right?”
Remus almost collapses in relief. A dad band. “Yeah, yeah, I am.”
The kid sucks in a deep breath and shouts, “Dad! It’s your bassist!”
“Thanks,” Remus says.
“No problem.” The kid shrugs. “You been here before?”
“Nah.”
“I swear I seen you somewhere.”
“Calm down, Harry,” a new voice says from somewhere within the house, getting closer, floor creaking with his steps. “You gotta stop grilling everyone that comes to the… door…”
He, assumedly James, trails off at the end of his sentence when his eyes fall on Remus. He’s the spitting image of his kid with darker skin and eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses instead of round ones.
Having not anticipated this aspect of meeting someone new, Remus has force himself to shake out of it first. He holds his hand out and says, “Hi. Remus Lupin.”
“James Potter,” he says, taking Remus’ hand and shaking rather vigorously. “You… uh… you didn’t say your name over the phone.”
“You didn’t ask.” Remus lets go of his hand. He shifts his grip on his bass in the other.
“I guess I didn’t.” James scratches the back of his neck. “Well, come on in. Harry, why don’t you head up to your room, yeah?”
“Can’t I watch practice?”
“You never wanna watch practice.”
“Yeah, but,” he jerks his head rather obviously to Remus.
“Next time, sprog,” James says. “Besides, Ron is coming over, isn’t he?”
“Yeah…” Harry says, dejected, climbing the stairs.
Remus watches the kid go, thinks about Teddy, probably already eating dinner with Dora. He wonders what he’s telling her, if it’s good, if he remembers his little Purim.
“Sorry, he uh…” James is still scratching his neck. “We’re all in the garage. Just follow me.”
Remus nods. He’s led through a sitting room, rather eccentrically decorated in oranges and teals and purples, posters on the wall of bands and movies instead of the typical suburban paintings. Then, they’re in a mudroom with dozens of pairs of shoes, some big and some small, photos and hand cut-outs.
James’ hand falters on the doorknob that leads to the garage. He sucks in an audible breath, then opens the door.
The garage has no cars in it, instead it’s padded with sound-proof slabs and filled with cardboard boxes, bikes and kid-things, and band equipment. Sitting on two foldable chairs is a woman and man. The woman has long, curly red hair and is smoking a cigarette. The man…
The man.
“Guys, this is Remus,” James says, padding down the stairs that lead onto the concrete floor, covered in mismatched carpet.
“Hey.” Remus raises his hand in greeting.
“Holy shit,” the woman whispers too loudly.
“So, this is Lily, my wife,” James says, motioning to her. She’s lithe, small, about 3/4 hair and 1/4 woman.
Lily stands up, her height not much greater than when she was sitting, and says, “You’re from Wolf.”
“Yeah,” Remus says. At least they’re not beating around the bush. He thinks this is better than pretending he’s an unknown. “Well, not anymore.”
Lily hums scrutinizingly.
“And then, uh,” James continues. “Sirius.”
Remus looks at Sirius. Nods. They’re not supposed to acknowledge each other outside of group. It’s supposed to be private. Anonymous. The world is so small that it’s laughable.
“So, he’s in the band?” Sirius says. He’s got his legs crossed, big black boots and black jeans, leather jacket on the back of his chair. His arms are covered in patchwork tattoos; his long hair is tied back in a ponytail.
“I’ve gotta audition, don’t I?” Remus says. “That’s what you said over the phone, James.”
“Well, I mean…” James trails off. “Do you really need to?”
“I dunno? What kind of music do you guys play? Maybe my style doesn’t fit, or…” or maybe this is a bad idea after all.
“You’re a professional bassist,” James says. “I don’t… I don’t think that means you need an audition.”
“No, Remus is right,” Lily says, emerging from the shadows with a glass of water in hand. “He should audition just like the rest of ‘em. Who knows? He might not be able to keep up.”
Remus scoffs. “I can bloody well keep up.”
“Yeah?” Lily crosses her arms. “Prove it, then.”
“I will.”
Remus gets a list of the band’s repertoire and reads it to find overlay, songs he knows as well, which is most of them. His time spent in rehab was either with a therapist or a guitar, and most of the songs on the list are popular, typical cover band shit. Free, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles. A few are even Wolf songs, only their most popular.
He decides on Just What I Needed by The Cars, fairly simple. The band gets all plugged in. James goes to his drums, Sirius up to the microphone, guitar slung around his body. Lily picks up a bright pink guitar and gives it a strum. She leans down and changes the levels on her amp.
“Okay, count us in, James,” Sirius says.
Remus wasn’t expecting them to be good, but they are. He’s better. His band was better. But they’re cohesive enough. They’re solid enough. They’re good at their instruments in the way people who have other careers are. They put just as much effort into it as it requires.
And yeah. Remus is better. Wolf was better. But this’ll do.
They play Smoke on the Water and Jeepster and I Feel Fine and Go Your Own Way. The band fits well together. They joke and correct each other and give suggestions and whisper inside jokes and Remus does not fit here anymore. He used to be somewhat of an unofficial leader during rehearsals. He was head songwriter. He was half of the rhythm section. He was named one of the best bassists of all time by Rolling Stone in ‘76.
He falls into the background now.
An hour later, James calls the rehearsal.
“You’re in, Remus, if you want it,” James says, tucking his drumsticks into a mallet bag.
Remus takes his bass off and says, “Sure.”
“You got a planner or something with you?” Lily asks. Her voice is so northern that it’s grating, just on the border of something that resembles Scottish.
“No, I don’t.” Remus sits down to put his bass back in its case. He’s on a crease in two different carpets.
“We play every Thursday night.” Sirius takes a seat beside Remus. “Occasional Wednesday. Occasional weekend.”
“I can’t do weekends,” Remus says, looking up at Lily, who has summoned a pad of paper from who knows where and is writing. “And that’s non-negotiatable.”
“That’s fine. Sirius picks up the bass when he’s needed,” James says.
Remus glances at Sirius, who nods. Singing and playing the bass. Those typically don’t mix great.
“The schedule and addresses.” Lily rips a paper off the pad and hands it to Remus. “No weekends.”
“Cheers,” Remus says, taking it. He folds it carefully and tucks it in the outside pocket of his soft-shell bass case.
“Nice to meet you, Remus,” James says kindly. “We’ve gotta go wrangle the sprog, but we’ll see you tomorrow. Next rehearsal.”
After a few more confirmations of rehearsals and times, Lily and James head back into their house. Remus finishes packing up and but looks to Sirius, who is carefully winding the chords.
“What happened to your other bassist?” Remus asks.
“He died."
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Nah, I’m fucking with you.” Sirius gives him a shove.
“Fuck.” Remus lets himself be pushed. “You had me there.”
“He just left, nothin’ else to it.” Sirius puts on his leather jacket and kind of squares himself, not like he’s looking for a fight or anything, just like he’s expecting something.
Remus zips his case and says, “You wouldn’t wanna grab dinner, would you?”
Sirius appears to contemplate for a second. Says, "Sure."
~
They drive separately to dinner, Remus in his sensible car with his empty backseat, and Sirius on a motorcycle. The sight of him putting on a helmet and gloves is enough to have Remus reeling, knowing that he won’t get that sight out of his head for a while.
They meet at a hole-in-the-wall type place and choose a booth towards the back, far from windows. It’s an instinct that Remus hasn’t gotten rid of yet, that need to be hidden, the sunglasses and ball cap, the endless turning of his head.
“So,” Sirius says after ordering a diet coke. “Small world, yeah?”
Remus snorts over his own soda. “Fucking tell me about it.”
Sirius sips his drink. Taps his fingers on the table. They’re used to too-bright rooms and chairs in circles and sobriety talks. This is a dim restaurant with greasy tables and ripped booths and tip-toes.
“Thanks for not… saying anything,” Remus says. “At rehearsal.”
“‘Course,” Sirius replies. “Privacy clause and all that. And you.”
“Right.”
The waitress comes to take their order. Her eyes linger on Remus for too long in the way that Remus has managed to identify. She knows who he is, but she’s kind enough not to mention it.
“So, how long have you been sober for?” Remus asks, his attempt at a joke.
“Can we not… can we not talk about that?” Sirius says. “We already get enough of it on Mondays.”
“What should we talk about?”
“You’re the one that invited me here.”
Remus shrugs.
“How was your Purim?” Sirius asks instead.
“Good,” Remus says. “Saw some family I hadn’t seen in a while. I didn’t have Teddy, my son, but I threw his own little party this weekend.”
“That sounds fun.”
“Which one of your friends is Jewish? The one who told you about it?”
“Oh, my friend Dorcas,” Sirius says. He’s still tapping his fingers on the table, a steady rhythm, 1-and-a-2-and-a-3… “We went to school together. I don’t see her much anymore, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“She lives in America. Boston.” 1-and-a-2-and-a-3-and-a-4… “And I don’t really get out to America. Ever. Been once in my life, that’s it.”
“Oh, where?”
“The Hamptons,” he says. “When I was young. My family took a vacation out there. Never really wanted to go back.”
“I hear you,” Remus says, finally relaxing. He lets his posture slouch, his hands dig into his pockets. “I used to have to go to America all the time, all over the country. It’s good enough to be there for a while, but when it’s been three months and you’re still there? God, it’s enough to drive a man crazy.”
“You toured there often?”
“Yeah, but we wrote an album there a few years back too. We rented a house in northern California, but couldn’t finish it there. You just get… you get sick of it after a while.”
“California?”
“Being stationary, I think.”
“You’re pretty stationary now.”
Remus bites back a smile. Shakes his head at the table. “Maybe it’ll do me good to be stationary in England for once in my life.”
“Didn’t like the life of fame?” Sirius teases.
“Tried it,” Remus says. “Didn’t work out.”
The food comes. Sirius digs into his fish and chips and Remus his burger. They don’t speak again until there’s only chips left on their plates, and they’re pushing around the excess.
“In your professional opinion,” Sirius says, holding up a chip like it’s a baton, “how’s our band.”
“Want honesty?”
“Yeah.”
Remus swallows his chip. Wonders how much honesty he should give. Says, “You’re good, you’re cohesive. It’s clear that you’ve been together for a while. You and Lily are absolutely solid as a guitar duo. James is a good drummer.”
“But?”
Remus grins. “But, James drags and pushes, he’s not consistent. You guys are good at your instruments, not great. You do just as much as you can. That’s fine for an amateur group.”
“Ooh…” Sirius clutches his heart.
“I've got another.”
“There’s more?”
“This ones personal.”
Sirius bites his chip. Says, “Do your worst.”
“You’re singing out of your range. You’re forcing the melody out. You’ve got a good voice, but it’s not rough like you’re trying to make it. You’re not a low tenor either, you’re a higher one. If you don't start singing songs in your range you're not gonna be able to sing in a few more years.”
“Damn.”
“You asked.”
~
Remus shows up to Addicts Anonymous on Monday with a bag full of spare guitar parts. As a bit of a hobby, he’s taken up guitar repairs for a nearby shop, and he keeps on taking on more and more repairs as a way to keep him busy. He ran out of parts over the weekend and had to stop by the music store on the way to his meeting.
“Doing drugs?” Sirius grins, peering into the reusable tote bag. He takes a step back to look at the bag and snorts. “Are you wearing your own merch?”
“Shut up.” Remus turns the bag around. “It’s the only bag I had.”
Sirius laughs and takes a seat. “You’re doing a shit job of hiding.” It’s across the table from his usual choice, coincidentally right beside Remus’ own unassigned assigned seat.
“Why are you sitting there?” Remus asks.
“What?”
“There.”
Sirius crosses his legs and deadpans, “I’m so attracted to you that I cannot keep myself away.”
“Glad to hear we feel the same way,” Remus replies, equally as sarcastic. “Can’t you tell. I’m brimming with it.”
Sirius snorts. “No use being anonymous.”
“Not when there’s so much sexual tension between us.”
“Couldn’t cut it with a hacksaw.”
Winston, an older gentleman addicted to pills, sits beside them, and that’s ultimately the end of that discussion.
~
“He wants you,” Dora says exhaustedly, voice crackled over the phone.
Remus flicks his cigarette out the window. “Just hand him the phone.”
“You can’t —“ Teddy lets out an ear-piercing cry, cutting Dora off. Remus pictures her pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head. His image of her has yet to change from the blue-haired ball of fire that he met several years ago into the brown-haired woman he now knows. Dora sucks in a deep breath and says, “You can’t rile him up. Please just tell him to go to sleep.”
“Dora, I’m his dad. I know what to do.”
“Fine.”
There’s crackling over the phone and the soft timbre of Dora’s voice. Remus wipes crumbs off his striped pants and swings his leg back into his apartment from where it was dangling over the edge.
And then there’s a heartbreaking sound and a tiny, “Daddy?”
“Hi there, mab,” Remus says. “How’re you holding up?”
“I muh-miss y-you,” Teddy says, hiccuping, shaking.
“Aw, I miss you too, mab. I’ll see you before you know it.”
“Really?”
Remus rubs his hand over his face and smiles. “Yeah.” He shifts forward. Imagines Teddy standing right in front of him, wearing his dino pjs and holding his favorite blanky. “Now you’ve just gotta head on back to bed. You’re sleepy.”
“No, m’not” he says tearily.
“What do I gotta do, mab? ‘Cuz I know I’m getting sleepy.”
There’s silence on the end of the line for so long that Remus thinks the line has gone dead until Teddy whispers, “Will you sing me a song?”
Remus laughs. “Yeah, I’ll sing you a song. Which one?”
He grabs his guitar from the other side of the window seat and strums it once. The wind flips back a few songs in his open notebook to something he wrote last week.
“I dunno.”
“How about you go lay down while I get ready?” Remus proposes. “You know, like you do here.”
“Okay.”
There’s more shuffling on the other side of the line. Remus puts the phone on his thigh and glances over at his notebook, chords and lyrics scribbled in between the lines, notes in the margins, just corners of ideas.
He plucks the strings and listens to Dora’s soothing voice, Teddy’s little one, the crunching of covers against the phone and the stretch of the cord.
“Ready?” Remus asks.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” He sucks in a deep breath, and starts.
Lay me down in the lions den,
among the poets and men.
Like the beat of a distant drum,
here it comes
If I can’t be a black widow,
I’ll be a dragon and burn it down.
If I can’t be a black widow,
I’ll be a dragon instead.
After a few songs, Teddy is sound asleep, and Dora is back on the phone. She’s smoking, voice hoarse. Remus knows that tone well. He lights his own cigarette and says, “Anything else?”
“Thank you, Remus,” she says. “I dunno, he just… gets like that sometimes.”
“I imagine it’s hard for him.”
“Yeah,” she whispers, and it’s so like Teddy that it makes Remus’ knees weak. “Are they, um… are they your songs?”
Remus takes a puff. Lets his hand fall outside his window, cold spring air against his arms. “Yeah.”
“So you’re writing again.”
“I never stopped.”
Dora sniffs. “Just… be good, okay?”
Remus could make a joke. He could. If it’s a few years ago, he would have. He would have laughed and left Dora in stitches and they would have fucked and then laid in bed for hours and he would write songs about her and they would be in love. Instead, he says, “Okay.”
“Goodnight, Remus.”
“‘Night.”
Dora hangs up first. Remus picks his guitar back up and strums random patterns until his fingers are sore and his cigarette is dead.
~
Tuesday night marks another band rehearsal, Remus’ second. They play the set for their gig tomorrow night, all cover songs. None are Wolf songs, which was mercifully decided after Remus saw a Wolf song on the original set list. He petitioned to have it taken off, and the band happily agreed. He doesn’t want to play a song he wrote, they don’t want to play his song in front of him.
It’s a tight sound, it’s really not bad, but it’s not Wolf. They can’t read each other with a quick step, with a short nod. Now Remus communicates himself with his words, and he’s never been very good at that.
James lets his kid sit in on rehearsals under the condition that he starts piano lessons. Lily says it’s a waste of time, he should just start on guitar; all cool kids make their way there eventually. Remus tells Harry that he started out on piano, and that basically seals the deal.
“Call it?” Sirius asks after they’ve run through the set for a third time, already taking his guitar off.
“Yeah,” Lily says. She points at Harry, then the door back to the house. “You. Bed.”
“But, muuuuuum,” he whines, stomping his little pre-pubescent feet on the ground.
She gives him a stern look. “Bed.”
He groans loudly, but gets up to go to bed, slamming the door behind him.
Remus laughs, shaking his head at the ground, taking off his bass. “You know, Lily, you’ve gotta teach me how to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Wrangle a kid like that. One of these days my boy won’t be so easy to wrangle.”
Lily puts her hands on her hips. “You’ve got a kid, Remus?”
“Yeah.” He puts his bass in the case. “I don’t really… advertise it, for obvious reasons, I guess, but yeah. His name’s Teddy. He’s four.”
“What else don’t we know about you, then?” Sirius says, probably aiming at good-natured but coming of a bit defensive. “Wife?”
“Nah, no wife.” Remus scratches his neck. He wants to give a pointed look to Sirius but is afraid it would appear to forward. He settles by glancing in his direction. “But, uh, that’s why I don’t want weekends. That’s when I have my boy.”
“Well, that makes perfect sense!” James says. “We’d love to meet him sometime, if you’d let us.”
“Yeah,” Lily continues, perhaps a bit over-excited, the nicest Remus has ever heard her talk. “Some friends and us like to go to the park on Saturday. The kids go play and we pretend to watch them.”
“I’ll think about that. Cheers.” Remus smiles.
“Perfect.” Lily reaches her hand out to James. “Well, we’ve gotta go make sure ours isn't lowering himself out the window. See you tomorrow, lads?”
There’s a general, “See you tomorrow”, and then Lily and James are tucked nicely back into their little cookie-cutter house and Remus is in the garage with the rejects.
Sirius, uncharacteristically silent, has already completely packed up and is sitting on the floor. After the loud rehearsal, Remus’ ears are ringing in the absence of sound. He’s too conscious of the family just beside him. If he was high this would all be so easy.
Soon enough, Sirius finishes packing up, and Remus stops fiddling with his zippers and sits beside him.
“You didn’t tell them about Teddy,” Remus notes.
Sirius nods. “Wasn’t my place.”
“I talked about him outside of therapy. You don’t have to hide things about me.”
Sirius shrugs. “Wasn’t my place.”
Remus bites his lip. Rubs his shoelace between his fingertips. “The sentiment still stands.” He knots his shoelace. Unties the knot. Considers knocking his foot into Sirius’. Decides against it. Says, “You asked if I had a wife.”
Sirius stands up, knees creaking on his way. He slings his guitar over his shoulder and looks down at Remus. “Do you wanna, like, do something?”
“Hmm?”
“I dunno, you look kinda pathetic. Kinda like you don’t wanna go home.”
“Thanks.”
“Nah.” Sirius reaches out a hand for Remus to grasp. “I know the feeling.”
~
Sirius takes Remus for a joyride on the back of his motorbike. Remus has been on motorbikes before, he’s an ex-rockstar for fucks-sake, but it’ll always freak him out a little bit. It’s his first time riding one sober.
They’re slow in the neighborhood, Sirius careful not to rev his engine, Remus still fitting the helmet around his head. It’s supposedly James’, found dusty under a pile of knee pads and elbow pads from his skateboarding phase.
Sirius takes a corner, and Remus slides his hands around his waist, shocked to find how small it is. Sirius wears oversized shirts, oftentimes accompanied with a leather jacket, never giving an opportunity to see it.
Remus finds himself wanting to see Sirius’ waist. His chest. His stomach. It’s warm, weirdly comforting to hug something. Being alone for so long makes it hard to remember that there was a time when he wasn’t.
Sirius stops at the traffic light and looks back at Remus, face mostly hidden by his helmet. “Where’re we going?”
“Wherever.” Remus smiles. “As long as it’s fast.”
Sirius laughs. He faces forward, revs the engine, and then they’re taking off, flying through the streets of quiet Chester. They deftly avoid the neighborhoods and flat complexes, sticking to the outskirts of town by the forests and abandoned fences.
Remus carefully lets go of Sirius’ waist, squeezing the body of the motorbike with his thighs, and spreads his arms wide. The cold spring wind whips through his jacket and the buttons of his shirt. It gets in his eyes and makes them watery. His hands merge into fists as he pumps them in the air and lets out a whoop.
They bike around for nearly an hour, going deeper and deeper into the British countryside. If they kept going, they’d get to Wales. Three years ago, Remus would have told Sirius to keep going. Don’t turn around. Don’t ever turn around. Just keep going until we’re in the Irish Sea and there’s water in our blood and seaweed in our lungs and then maybe we’ll emerge in Greenland and I’ll do something stupid like ask to hold your hand. We are untethered, you and me, we don’t belong.
There’s something to live for now. Remus is still getting used to that.
Soon, Sirius is slowing down, and they’re pulling into the Potters’ neighborhood. Adrenaline is still coursing through Remus’ veins. His body wishes it was cocaine. His brain is so glad that it isn’t.
“Hey, thanks,” Remus says, hand on his car door. “I really needed that.”
“Anytime.” Sirius is hanging off his bike, windswept and gorgeous. He would have made a perfect rockstar if he had the chance. “Get home safe.”
“Thanks,” Remus says. “You too.”
Sirius grins. Kicks his kickstand up. Remus gets in his car. Wishes he wasn’t going home alone again.
~
Poets and Men (Full Version)
Lay me down in the lions den
Among the poets and men
Like the beat of a distant drum
Here it comes
Impulse glass thrown at the ground
Let me read your palms
Passing notes under bathroom stalls
Here it comes
Walking along the side of a highway
Lined with birch trees
Shackled by the moon
And here it comes
If I can’t be a black widow
I’ll be a dragon and burn it down
If I can’t be a black widow
I’ll be a dragon instead
Dinosaur bones at the dig site
Don’t get left out in the cold
Thorn in my side. Star in my lung.
Here it comes
There’s an eye on the chalkboard
With a disconnected nose
This incessant knocking at my door
Here it comes
Drown myself in my own madness
Breathless, naked on the floor
Alone at the indoor pool
I guess I never learn
If I can’t be a black widow
I’ll be a dragon and burn it down
If I can’t be a black widow
I’ll be a dragon instead