It’s raining.
Of course it is; somehow it seems like it’s always raining these days. Not that Sirius has much experience with rain anymore, cooped up as he is. .
Not that Sirius has much experience with anything, these days, unless one counts de-gnoming one of the many spare guest rooms of the House of Terrors (how those little bastards got into the house, Sirius has no bloody idea).
It’s raining, and the house is painfully empty, unless one counts the obnoxious house elf muttering about what a failure Sirius is - as though Sirius doesn’t bloody know that, thanks - and he can feel his mood getting progressively worse as the day trudges on.
By the time he hears keys in the lock he’s contemplating his, by now, usual session of firewhisky and early night, despite the voice in his head sounding suspiciously like Moony insisting this is a bad idea. The thought of dealing with this or that Order member right now is… unpleasant, to say the least.
He hopes it’s Moody, as the man, though armed with his own alcohol and a distrustful gleam in his eye, isn't exactly judgmental.
He supposes he could even deal with Tonks or Kingsley, if need be, even though he isn't prepared to deal with anyone active at the Ministry, right now.
It’s not like he’s had much of a say over who he deals with in over a decade anyway.
The door opens, finally, with a displeased creak. Sirius makes a half-hearted mental note to look at the hinges, someday – probably – and then he freezes in place, paralysed.
Remus looks…
Well, frankly, he looks like shit.
He’s pale, and jagged scars poke out from his tattered sleeves that Sirius doesn’t remember being there before Remus had left. He looks like he’s barely managing to stay upright, and he… he shouldn’t be here, Sirius knows that much, because while he wasn’t sure how long Remus would be gone, it was supposed to be a fortnight at least last week. And it’s too soon, and Sirius isn’t complaining, per se, but if Moony is here, it’s because something got terribly fucked up.
“Moony-” he starts, crossing the distance between them in two wide steps.
“I’m fine,” Moony announces, calm and quiet and almost believable.
And then he promptly collapses into Sirius’s arms.
Brilliant.
Bloody brilliant.
-
Injuries have always been a part of Remus.
Scars and bruises and malnutrition and pain and exhaustion, Sirius knows, have accompanied the other man his entire life. The years he was left alone, abandoned and betrayed by everyone he used to love (and Sirius doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop hating himself for that) haven’t exactly made things better.
Still, there’s only been a few times when the injuries were bad enough for Moony to admit to them.
-
They must have been sixteen at most – Sirius isn't entirely sure. He would like to be, but the dementors didn’t exactly leave him intact, and since those years at Hogwarts were among the best of his life, those memories aren’t in the best shape anymore – and it was one of the rare bad moments. He thinks, bitterly, that that’s probably why he remembers it so clearly.
James had been injured during a Quidditch match only a couple of days before the full moon, and the injuries were enough that he was kept in the Hospital wing despite his protests. A good thing too, that, considering he was barely able to stand, no matter how many times he stubbornly attempted to leave.
They all spent the day in the Hospital wing, until a frowning Madame Pomfrey ushered them away. Remus sighed and intertwined their fingers and insisted that it was irresponsible – “bordering on suicidal, Pads,” – to accompany him during the full moon without Prongs, vehemently ignoring all of Sirius and Peter’s protests, making them both promise they won’t follow. The promise hurt, but they gave it to him anyway, because Remus looked exhausted and heartbroken and fucking scared, and Sirius had never been able to say no to him. By the time Sirius was allowed to visit the Hospital wing again – now hosting two of the people he was closest to in the world – he had worried himself sick. The reality was only moderately better than his thoughts.
Broken bones. Internal bleeding.
And heartbreak in his face as Remus admitted, for the first time Sirius could remember, that he was in pain.
-
The incident in the sixth year.
His first field trip to the werewolves, when Fenrir Greyback unexpectedly showed up.
The night Sirius almost gained his freedom back.
And now.
-
The morning finds Sirius worried out of his mind and Remus slowly gaining consciousness, and thank Merlin for that, because the idea of having to summon Madame Pomfrey yet again makes Sirius feel sick.
Not that he’s been enjoying his newly acquired position as a healer, either.
It was inevitable though, considering the bleeding scratch marks all over Remus’s chest and abdomen needed to be stopped immediately.. Even so, Sirius definitely doesn’t relish the memories accompanied with healing at all, thank you very much.
“I’m fine,” Remus mutters, frustrated, and he makes a passable attempt to rise from the bed before he lets out a barely audible whimper before back onto the cushions. “Maybe I should rest for a second,” he admits, and Sirius doesn’t really manage to hide his wince at that, because if Moony is willingly staying put, then it’s much worse than he’s letting on. Moony must sense his worries, because he lifts his hand, reaching for him.
“Nothing a couple of paracetamols can’t fix,” he says, his lips curving up in an attempt of a smile, and Sirius crosses his arms across his chest. “I assume this will work as well.”
“I don’t know what that means,” he replies.
Moony rests his head back against the pillows and sighs.
“It’s a muggle painkiller,” he explains.
“I hope it’s a good one,” Sirius says, unable to keep honesty from his voice despite the frustration, and Remus sighs.
“One of the better ones,” he assures him. And then, quietly, “I’m sorry for scaring you. It got a little more violent than I expected.”
“A little more violent,” Sirius repeats dryly. “You’re held together by bloody pins, Moony.”
“Greyback isn't the friendliest fellow,” Moony replies, and Sirius feels his blood run cold.
“I’ll kill him,” he growls.
Moony sighs. “No, you won’t. It’s a job. And it's better when he… better me than some poor muggle who's just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Moony-” Sirius starts, before falling silent when Remus shoots him a pleading look.
“I’ll need to see Dumbledore soon,” he says. “Can we not- I just… I need you,” he admits eventually, whispered like a secret, like Sirius doesn’t need him too. The admission silences Sirius better than any spell.
It’s not over, but rage isn't what Moony needs right now.
It might not be what Sirius needs right now, either.
“C’mere,” Remus whispers, the tiniest trace of something between amusement and despair seeping into his voice.
Sirius thinks he should argue, should protest and shout and demand that Moony is kept safe, that Dumbledore stops sending him on bloody suicide missions that seem to be eating him alive, making Remus relive his worst nightmare, over and over again.
But here, in the gentle silence of the house that doesn’t feel so lonely anymore, he realises it can wait.
Tomorrow, he’ll fight, will burn the world down for the safety of the man he loves.
For now, he climbs into the bed, buries his face into the crook of Remus’s neck, breathes him in, and lets himself be held.