Reckoning
There is broken glass in Remus’s hair. It’s under his hands and on his shirt. It’s everywhere, scattered all over his kitchen floor, digging into his palms.
In front of him, not even five feet away, crouches Sirius Black.
The Sirius Black that Remus remembers is a complete inversion of the Sirius Black that is getting to his feet in a pile of broken glass in the small confines of Remus’s kitchen. The Sirius Black of yesterday would brush off his clean, slim trousers and toss his head back and make a joke, but the Sirius Black of today just stands in his gray prison jumper and tattered pants and looks. His eyes are sunken in his head, more steely gray than blue. His clothes are ratty and torn, and his hair is dark and lank and oily. His cheeks are hollowed out as if they were scooped out with a spoon, and his face is lined with a beard. His skin is sallow and pale, almost gray, an echo of the pallor that it once was.
Remus realizes that they’re probably both in shock. Everything does feel a little fuzzy, anyway. Maybe he’s dreaming, because Sirius - Sirius fucking Black - cannot possibly be standing right in front of him, solid and shockingly real.
Sirius Black, the murderer.
Sirius Black, the man who led the leader of the most violent gang in London straight to his best friend’s house. Sirius Black, who laughed in the street before setting off a bomb right beneath Peter Pettigrew’s feet.
Sirius Black, who obliterated all of him, all except for a single finger.
Remus’s brain suddenly kicks into gear with the force of a bullet. He doesn’t think twice before throwing himself at Sirius, hands outstretched, fingers reaching for his throat.
They fall to the floor with a crash, Sirius slamming into the pile of broken glass and scattering more of it across the linoleum floor. Remus wraps his hands around his neck, squeezing the air out of his windpipe, feeling the skin bend and pull under his fingers. Something tugs on his arm, a feeble shove. Sirius’s eyes are wide and terrified and his lips pull back in a grimace. His mouth moves in an attempt to speak, but Remus presses a knee to his collarbone, breathing hard.
“Lily and James. Your best friends. Lily and James,” he spits, tightening his grip as Sirius flails beneath him. “ You killed them. You murdered your best friends in cold blood. You murdered Peter. You left me.” The words tear themselves from his throat. Sirius gasps for air and shakes his head, trying to pull his hands off of his neck.
“ N-no,” he finally chokes out, and Remus releases his hold. He slides off him, falling hard onto the floor and ignoring the shards of glass that jab into his side.
Beside him, Sirius clutches his neck, chest heaving as he gasps for air. Bruises are already starting to bloom around his neck, and Remus’s hands ache.
“Listen to me, Moony.” He takes another deep breath, looking up at the ceiling and pushing himself up with shaking arms. He turns to look at Remus, and their eyes lock, angry amber to deadened gray.
“Don’t call me that,” he growls. “I’m giving you one chance to explain yourself.”
“I didn’t kill Lily and James. I didn’t kill Peter. I swear on my life.” His voice is dry and cracked, a hollow echo of what it once was. If Remus could bring himself to feel pity for him, he would.
“On your life, huh? Do you want to test that again? Because if you’re lying, I’ll kill you myself.”
Sirius looks alarmed. He swallows roughly and shakes his head, tossing long locks of greasy, limp hair out of his face.
“I’m not. Peter Pettigrew was the one who led Riddle to James’s house. He was the one who gave them the address, and they changed to him at the last moment after they moved because they knew Riddle would come looking for me first. But Peter–” He breaks off, coughing loudly into his fist. His eyes are haunted, filled with anger and hate and that same cold gaze of betrayal that Remus often recognizes in himself. “Peter was working for him all along. He was a spy, an agent of Riddle’s, a pawn in this stupid bloody gang war.”
“So that’s why you went after him.” Remus hates that it seems right. His mind twists and turns, trying to make sense of it all.
“Yes. He was the one all along. The rat in their ranks. The mole.”
They sit on the floor and absorb the moment of silence that stretches between them like thinning putty. It pulls and stretches until it can’t anymore, and Remus feels something in his chest come loose.
“I don’t believe you,” he says in spite of it, sitting up and brushing glass off his body. Sirius frowns at him.
“Yes you do. I still know you, Remus, and I see it on your face. You want to believe me so badly, and you don’t know what to do.”
“Fuck you.”
“Likewise.”
Remus feels a treacherous spark of relief. At least he's still got his sense of humor.
“The police are looking for you. Where will you go?” he asks, getting to his feet and leaning on the counter to regain his bearings. Sirius struggles to get up, and Remus reluctantly offers him his hand.
“I’m staying here,” he says, putting his weight on the counter opposite so that they face each other. It still feels like an arena to Remus, but he bites down his desire to fight. His hands tighten on the edge of the countertop, knuckles going white. His fingers still ache.
“No, you aren’t. I’ll be accused of harboring a criminal.”
“Remus. You’re the only one I have.”
“Oh?” Anger rears its mangy head in Remus's chest. “You act as though I wasn’t completely alone for two years with absolutely no one and nothing to save me. You act as though I didn’t turn to drinking and smoking and other awful things that I don’t care to mention just to help myself get through the pain, every fucking day.”
“I didn’t mean– I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“Of course you didn't. How could you have known? You weren’t part of my life then, but now you’re asking to be in it again, and I can’t agree to that.” He turns away and tries to ignore the burn of tears in his eyes. Everything has changed so fast .
“I’m still staying. There’s literally nowhere else I can go.”
“You can go back to prison, like you’re supposed to. I could call up the police right now if I wanted to.”
Sirius reaches across the gap between them and latches onto Remus’s arm, his grimy, long nails digging into his sweater.
“You wouldn’t. Please, M–Remus.” Remus stubbornly keeps his head turned away. He knows if he looks down at Sirius he’ll see puppy-dog wide eyes and that beseeching expression on that gaunt, weathered face. He can’t take that right now.
“You should go. Find someplace else to hide away, but not with me. You can’t just expect me to welcome you back with open arms after how long I spent thinking you betrayed and murdered your own friends, your family–”
“I understand, please, I do, but can’t we just live together and have space so you don’t have to deal with–”
“No.”
Memories swamp him abruptly, carrying him away in a wave. He remembers before, when he’d hear Sirius’s soft footsteps in the hallway at night and the silent indifference that he held Remus at for so long. He remembers the icy glares, the distrust, the sound of a motorcycle revving and the painful lack of ‘I love you, goodbyes.’ He thinks of the cold sheets beside him at night where Sirius once lay, and the way they held each other at arm’s length for months, and the arguments and the shouting and the smashed plates on the floor. He thinks of it all and hates the thought of going through it again, every part of him recoiling at the idea of the man he once loved being so close and yet so far.
“I can’t.”
Sirius releases his arm and steps back, his face shuttering closed, unreadable. Remus notices that he’s barefoot, and sees blood seeping across the tiles, slippery and red. His own arms and legs sting with bits of glass, and he makes the bad decision to reach out and grab Sirius’s shoulder. Every touch is filled with a broken memory, ones that Remus doesn’t want to dwell on.
“Here, I’ll at least get you cleaned up.
He pulls him out of the kitchen and supports his weight when Sirius can’t stay steady on his feet anymore. They hobble into the bathroom together, and Remus sits him down on the toilet lid, getting the water started for a bath and grabbing some towels and soap. Sirius looks down at his feet.
“I’ll go clean up the kitchen,” he says, heading for the door. Sirius’s hand snakes out suddenly and clasps around Remus’s wrist, pathetically weak and frail. His long fingers are freezing cold.
“Stay. Please.” His voice breaks, and he coughs again, a horrible rattling sound that racks harshly through his chest.
“I… okay.”
The water runs and runs and runs until the tub is full. Sirius shrugs off his clothes shamelessly, bearing unfamiliar scars on his arms and paper-thin skin that just barely stretches over his ribcage. His shoulder blades jut out like knives and Remus tries to avoid looking at the harsh outline of his hips as he helps Sirius into the tub, lowering him gently into the water. It quickly turns red with swirls of blood from Sirius’s feet and hands.
“I’ll get you some old clothes of mine. They’ll probably be too big, but I think they’ll do.”
Sirius just nods, leaning his head back on the edge of the tub and closing his eyes. A small smile ghosts across his lips, fleeting and sweet.
“Thank you.”
☆ ☆ ☆
After the bath, Remus leaves Sirius to rest on the couch and works on cleaning up the kitchen. He puts on rubber gloves to protect against the glass, and once he’s swept up everything, he pulls up a tarp he’s dug out of the closet over the broken window. Frigid air still seeps in from outside, but it’s not enough to cool the whole flat down. Still, he turns up the thermostat carefully, deciding to take the extra expense.
When he returns to the living room tired and weary, Sirius has the TV on.
Anyone with information about the whereabouts of Sirius Black will receive a sum of seven-thousand pounds sterling upon giving a report to the London Police Department.
“Well. What do you think about turning me in now?” asks Sirius with a wry laugh. He looks a lot better but is completely dwarfed by Remus’s black turtleneck and jeans, his thin wrists and ankles poking out in harsh contrast to the bagginess of the clothes. Remus does his best not to flinch. At least his hair still looks as silky as he remembers.
“I’ve decided not to.”
“Really? You’ll be able to pay for probably a few months of rent with that money, judging by the size of this place. It’s a pretty good deal, if you ask me.”
“Shut up.” He kicks his legs up on the ottoman across from them and glares up at the TV, watching as a redheaded newswoman gives the weather report as though nothing is wrong. Remus feels yet another wave of surrealism crashing down around him.
“So I’m staying then?” asks Sirius, persistent as ever. Remus fights the urge to roll his eyes. Christ, he really hasn’t changed that much.
“You bastard. I told you to shut up. I’m watching the news now.”
Sirius finally relents and they sit in awkward silence, bathed in the harsh light of the screen, two men separated by two years and thousands of wounds that Remus fears may never heal.