Work Text:
Remus’s car makes a grinding noise as he turns into the parking lot for Black’s Garage. He shuts the car off and sits there for a second with both hands still on the wheel, staring at the open bay door like he can magically gain enough car knowledge to diagnose whatever’s wrong with it. Unfortunately, he knows exactly four things about his car: it’s a 2005 Honda Civic, it’s blue, the gas goes on the left side, and it starts when he turns the key. Recently, that last part has started to feel less like a guarantee and more like a suggestion.
The sign above the office door says BLACK’S GARAGE in peeling white letters, with REPAIRS, TUNE-UPS, TIRES, and OIL CHANGES painted underneath in smaller script. It looks like the kind of place people recommend because they know a guy, not one of those polished chain shops with a designated waiting room, a snack machine, and a little coffee bar pretending to be a perk. Remus had found it after a neighbor mentioned it offhandedly, saying the Black brothers were honest, quick, and cheaper than the places by the highway. That had been enough for him, mostly because a guy at Pep Boys had once asked what kind of oil he wanted and Remus had responded, with complete sincerity, “the car kind.”
He gets out, pockets his keys, and crosses toward the office. The air smells like hot asphalt, metal, rubber, and cigarette smoke, all of it baking together under the late afternoon sun. Somewhere inside the bay, music crackles from a radio, distorted guitar spilling out over the clank of tools, and Remus recognizes AC/DC before he even reaches the door. The bell above it gives a little jingle when he steps inside, but the room is empty, so he looks through the big interior window into the bay to see if he can get someone’s attention.
Remus spots him immediately, and his stomach does a little flip.
A man is bent over the open hood of a dented truck, one scuffed boot planted on the bumper, overalls shoved down and tied low around his waist by the sleeves. His white tank top is filthy, streaked with grease and sweat, the cotton clinging to the broad shape of his back and shoulders as he reaches deeper into the engine. His dark hair is twisted up messily with a pencil speared through it, loose strands stuck to the back of his neck, and a cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth. He looks like every bad decision Remus has ever been too sensible to make, concentrated into one person and set loose in a garage.
Remus stops with one hand still resting on the doorframe. The man has another cigarette tucked behind his ear, black eyeliner smudged around his eyes, and motor oil staining the fingers curled around his wrench. A cheap little radio is clipped to his hip, tinny speakers pushing out “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” over the clank of tools. When he shifts his stance, the tied sleeves of the overalls slip a little lower on his hips, showing the waistband of black boxers and a narrow strip of skin above it. Remus feels his knees weaken and clenches his fists at his sides, trying very hard not to look like he’s staring, even though he absolutely is.
The man straightens after a minute and wipes one hand on a rag that looks like it has never once been clean. He glances toward the office window, spots Remus standing there, and smiles slowly around the cigarette. It isn’t a polite customer-service smile—it’s the kind that makes it very clear he knows exactly what Remus has been noticing and has no intention of making it easier on him.
“You lost,” he calls through the open doorway between the office and the bay, “or you got a car that needs something?”
Remus has to clear his throat before he can answer. “Car,” he says, which isn't his finest conversational work, but it’s technically true. He gestures vaguely toward the lot like that might help. “It needs an oil change. Probably. I mean, definitely an oil change, but also maybe something else, because it’s been making a noise.”
The man walks into the office, boots scuffing against the concrete, and leans one hip against the counter. Up close, he’s even worse. There’s a smear of grease along his cheekbone, his eyelashes are dark with liner, and his tank top has ridden up enough that Remus can see the sharp line of his hip where the overalls are tied. Just above it, the edge of a tattoo peeks out against his skin, all black ink and curved lines disappearing somewhere Remus has absolutely no business looking.
He takes the cigarette from his mouth, taps ash into a coffee can on the counter, and says, “A noise.”
“Yes,” Remus says, eyes snapping back up. He’s already regretting every choice that brought him here, which is impressive, considering all he’s done so far is enter a building and fail to describe an engine sound. “A noise.”
“What kind of noise?”
“Uh, it sounds kind of like—” Remus stops, already aware that he’s about to make himself look ridiculous, but there’s no dignified way to describe the sound now that the man’s standing there waiting. He makes an awkward grinding, high-pitched whine with his mouth, one hand lifting uselessly like that might somehow help translate it into mechanical terms. The second it leaves him, he wants to walk backward out of the garage and keep walking until he reaches another state.
The man stares at him for half a second, cigarette paused between his fingers, and then he mimics the sound back almost perfectly. His version is louder and more dramatic, dragged out until it sounds less like a car problem and more like a dying appliance in a haunted basement. Remus blinks at him, caught somewhere between embarrassment and laughter, and the man breaks first, laughing in a way that isn’t mean. Somehow that makes it worse, because Remus can feel himself smiling back like an idiot.
The man props his elbow on the counter and looks delighted, as if Remus has just handed him the best part of his day. “That’s helpful,” he says, still grinning. “I’ll just go tell the engine to stop doing that and we’ll call it good.”
“I know that’s not specific,” Remus huffs, rubbing at the back of his neck. Heat crawls up into his face even though the man’s amusement feels strangely warm instead of cruel. “It’s not like I know what it is or what it means, which is why I’m here. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” the man parrots back. His eyes flick briefly toward the lot and then back to Remus, still bright with amusement. “What’re we working with?”
“2005 Honda Civic,” Remus says, grateful to finally know an answer. “Blue.”
His mouth twitches. “Blue’s important.”
“I thought so.”
“Name?”
“Remus,” he says automatically, then realizes a second too late. “Unless you meant the car, in which case it doesn’t have one.”
The man puts one hand to his chest like he’s been wounded. “Your car doesn’t have a name?”
“It’s a car.”
“It carries you places.”
“It also makes grinding noises and costs me money.”
“So do a lot of people,” he says, grinning. “Doesn’t mean they don’t deserve names.”
Remus looks down at the cracked counter, trying not to laugh too obviously. “I’m starting to think you’re going to judge me more for the unnamed car than for not knowing what’s wrong with it.”
“Oh, absolutely.” The man sticks out his grease-stained hand, there’s a scar cutting across the knuckle of his thumb. “Sirius Black. I run this place with my brother, but he’s off today, so you get me.”
Remus takes his hand before he can talk himself out of it. Sirius’s grip is rough and warm, his palm callused, his fingers dark with motor oil even after the half-hearted swipe of the rag. Their handshake lasts a second longer than it strictly needs to, and Remus feels the contact all the way up his arm. “Remus Lupin,” he says, and Sirius’s mouth curves like he likes the sound of it.
“Remus Lupin,” Sirius repeats, slow enough to make it feel like something else. “Alright. Civic out front, yeah? Keys in it?”
“In my pocket,” Remus says, pulling them out. Then, because apparently his mouth has decided to become independent from his dignity, he adds, “I’m very advanced. I know where keys go.”
Sirius laughs again and pushes off the counter. “Good. That puts you ahead of at least three customers I’ve had this month. Pull it into the second bay when I wave you in, and we’ll see what kind of tragic little noises your unnamed blue Civic is making.” He pauses at the doorway, glancing back with a slow sweep of his eyes that makes Remus’s face go hot all over again. “Unless you’d rather stand there staring a little longer. I don’t mind the audience.”
“Sorry,” Remus says too quickly. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” Sirius’s eyes flick down and back up, taking him in with no real hurry. “I don’t mind. It’s not every day I get to put on a show.”
He turns toward the bay door, waving Remus after him like he expects to be followed. Remus does follow, of course, because apparently that’s who he is now: a man with a nameless Civic, no useful car knowledge, and an immediate, dangerous interest in the mechanic currently making his way across the garage with a cigarette between his fingers and AC/DC crackling from his hip. Sirius stops near the second bay and points toward the lot. “Come on,” he says. “Pull it in when I signal you.”
Remus gets back into the car feeling like he’s somehow already lost a game whose rules were never explained to him. Sirius stands ahead of him in the bay, one hand lifted, guiding him in with casual gestures that make Remus embarrassingly eager to obey. He inches forward slowly, watching Sirius’s hand more carefully than he’s ever watched a traffic signal in his life. Sirius points left, then immediately corrects himself with a grin. “Keep it coming. Little to the left. No, my left.”
Remus’s face heats even though Sirius looks far too amused to be genuinely worried about the car. He adjusts the wheel, moving the Civic into place with the kind of focus usually reserved for parallel parking during a driving test. Sirius gives him another small signal, then makes a fist and taps the hood twice when the car’s where he wants it. Remus puts it in park and turns the engine off, and before he can fully prepare himself, Sirius is leaning into the open driver’s side window with one forearm resting on the door.
Up close again, he’s impossible. The garage already smells like oil and hot metal, but Sirius brings smoke and sweat with him, something warm and human beneath all the sharper things. His eyeliner’s smudged darker at the outer corners, and the pencil in his hair looks like it’s only one wrong movement away from falling out. Remus keeps both hands on the wheel, mostly because he doesn’t trust them to do anything normal.
“Pop the hood for me, darlin’.”
The endearment lands like a spark on dry grass. Remus reaches down blindly, fingers brushing between the different levers tucked beneath the dash, none of them labeled in any way that feels helpful. He takes a breath, offers one silent, desperate prayer to whatever minor god oversees embarrassing yourself in front of hot mechanics, and pulls the first one his fingers catch. Somewhere outside the car, his gas door clicks open.
Sirius looks at the gas door, then looks back at Remus through the open window. His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t laugh, which somehow makes Remus feel even more ridiculous. He walks over, clicks the gas door shut with one grease-stained finger, and leans back down with a smile that’s all warmth and barely restrained amusement. “Try again.”
Remus squeezes his eyes shut for half a second. “Right,” he mutters, reaching down again. “That was obviously a warm-up.” He finds another lever, sends up a second silent prayer with significantly less confidence behind it, and pulls.
The trunk pops open.
“For fuck’s sake,” Remus says, dropping his head back against the seat.
That’s what finally gets Sirius to laugh, low and delighted as he walks around the back of the car. He shuts the trunk with a solid thunk, then comes back to the driver’s side looking far too pleased for someone witnessing another man’s complete mechanical humiliation. “Well,” he says, resting his forearm on the roof and dipping his head to meet Remus’s eyes, “there’s only one more option.”
Remus reaches down one last time with the grim determination of a man defusing a bomb. His fingers close around the final lever, and when he pulls, the hood releases with a soft, merciful click. Sirius’s grin goes crooked at the sound, bright with approval in a way that makes Remus’s stomach dip all over again. “Third time’s the charm.”
“There are several levers down there,” Remus says, because the dashboard deserves at least some of the blame.
“I know.”
“Maybe I meant to do that.”
“We both know you didn’t,” Sirius says, but his voice is gentle enough to take the sting out of it. He straightens and steps back from the door, still smiling like Remus has just made his entire afternoon better. “Come on. You can watch if you want, or you can sit in the office, which is honestly pretty boring.”
Remus gets out with every intention of sitting safely tucked far, far away in the office, but apparently he’s not interested in safe. The engine bay looks like a foreign country to him, all hoses and boxes and metal arranged in a way that probably makes sense to someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Sirius props the hood higher and leans in, pointing with one oily finger as if this is normal, as if Remus’s attention isn’t completely divided between the engine and the way Sirius’s tank top pulls tight across his shoulders. The pencil in Sirius’s hair shifts slightly, threatening to fall, but somehow stays put.
“You know what kind of oil it takes?” Sirius asks.
Remus looks into the engine bay, then at Sirius, then back into the engine bay. “The kind that goes in a blue 2005 Honda Civic?”
Sirius pauses, and then his whole face lights up with another laugh, soft and fond this time. “That’s the best answer anyone’s given me all week. Most people come in here pretending they know everything, then ask me if the radiator’s the battery.”
“I don’t even know what or where either of those are,” Remus admits.
“That’s cute,” Sirius says, and Remus’s face heats immediately. Sirius notices, because of course he does, but he only smiles and points under the hood. “Your Civic takes 5W-30. Conventional would work, but synthetic’s better long-term, especially since she’s not exactly fresh off the lot.”
“She?”
Sirius glances sideways at him. “You didn’t name her, so somebody has to give her a little respect.”
Remus folds his arms, mostly so he has something to do with his hands. “You’re very emotionally invested in my car.”
“I’m emotionally invested in all neglected machines.” Sirius reaches for a drain pan and nods toward the lift, his smile shifting back into something teasing. “You wanna learn something, or do you just wanna stand there looking pretty and confused?”
Remus’s mouth opens, but nothing useful comes out right away. Sirius’s grin sharpens, pleased with himself, and Remus hates that it works. He hates even more that he steps closer instead of stepping back. “I can learn,” he says. “Probably. Depending on how complicated you make it.”
“I’ll start easy.” Sirius presses the drain pan into his hands, their fingers brushing again. “Advanced lesson one. Hold this.”
Remus looks down at the pan. “I feel like I’m being trusted with something important.”
“You are,” Sirius says. “The pan catches the old oil, which means it saves me from cleaning a giant mess off my floor.”
Remus nods. “I can do that.”
“Can you?”
“I can probably do that.”
Sirius’s smile tilts, warm and pleased. “Good answer,” he says, and then he slides beneath the car on a creeper like he hasn’t just casually rearranged Remus’s entire nervous system.
Remus nearly drops the pan before anything’s even happened. He tightens his grip and pretends the sudden heat in his face is because the garage is warm, which is almost believable if he doesn’t think about it too hard. Sirius doesn’t say anything about it from under the car, but Remus can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Go grab the other creeper and get under here. It should be by the truck I was working on earlier.” Remus looks toward the truck Sirius had been working on when he first came in and spots the creeper half-tucked beneath the front bumper, waiting there like another bad decision on wheels.
He carries the pan over first, setting it down carefully, then retrieves the other creeper and lowers himself onto it with significantly less grace than Sirius had managed. The little wheels squeak under his weight as he pushes himself beneath the Civic, and he’s immediately drawn to the underside of the car, all pipes and hoses and metal shapes that mean absolutely nothing to him. Sirius lies beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch, close enough that Remus can feel the heat coming off him in the narrow space beneath the car. The whole thing should feel practical and maybe a little uncomfortable, but instead it feels strangely intimate, like the Civic has become a very stupid excuse for them to be this close.
“Alright,” Sirius says, shifting onto one side so he can point above them. “See that bolt right there? That’s the drain plug. When I loosen it, the old oil’s gonna come out, and the pan’s gonna go right underneath it.” Remus follows the line of Sirius’s finger even though half the metal shapes still look exactly the same to him, nodding like he’s absorbing any of it in a useful way. “Oil might still be warm, so don’t put your hands under it unless you wanna have a very bad afternoon.”
“Okay,” Remus says, quieter than he means to. Sirius is close enough that every small shift of his shoulder makes Remus aware of how little room there is between them, and his voice scrapes low beneath the car in a way that has no right to do anything for him. The underside of a Civic should not feel like a place where anything could happen, and yet Remus is suddenly very aware of Sirius’s arm beside his, the shape of his mouth in profile, and the cigarette-smoke still clinging to his shirt. He tightens his hands around the pan and decides, very firmly, to look at the drain plug instead.
“So what’re you doing?” Sirius asks, turning his head to look at him expectantly. “Repeat it all back to me.” Remus blinks, caught off guard by the sudden test, then looks back toward the bolt like it might offer him moral support. “Put the pan under the drain plug,” he says, counting it off in his head as he goes. “Don’t touch hot oil. Don’t make your floor worse.”
Sirius’s smile spreads slow and pleased. “Good boy. You’re a quick learner,” he says, eyes flickering down to Remus’s lips and then back up again. Remus bites back the sound that tries to crawl out of him, turning it into a rough clearing of his throat at the last second. He knows it’s not as subtle as he wanted because Sirius’s smile tilts into something sharper. Remus tightens both hands around the pan and stares very hard at the drain plug, as if intense focus on car maintenance might save him from whatever his body has decided to do with Sirius’s approval.
Sirius smirks and shifts to grab his wrench. The muscles in his forearms move under grease-streaked skin as he works, and Remus tries not to stare too obviously, which is difficult when Sirius is right there beside him and apparently built to ruin people in confined spaces. The wrench catches, metal clicking softly against metal, and Sirius glances over once more before turning it. “Alright, I’m gonna loosen it now. Make sure it’s lined up and be ready to move it if it’s not.”
“I’ve got it,” Remus says, then immediately regrets how breathless he sounds. He adjusts the pan with both hands, careful to keep it centered beneath the bolt, and gives Sirius a small nod even though his pulse is beating hard in his throat. When the oil starts pouring out in a thick, dark stream, it hits the pan with a wet, heavy sound that makes Remus tense on instinct. He moves it slightly to keep anything from splashing out, partly because he doesn’t want Sirius to have to clean it off the floor and partly because focusing on the oil means he’s not focusing on Sirius humming along to Led Zeppelin right beside him.
After a moment, Sirius turns his head on the creeper and looks at him, eyes bright with amusement. “So,” he says, like they’re making small talk at a bar instead of lying underneath a Honda Civic, “come here often?”
Remus glances over despite himself, then immediately regrets it because Sirius’s mouth is far too close from this angle. “Not usually, no,” he says, trying to keep the pan steady and his voice even at the same time. “I try not to make a habit of crawling under cars with men I just met.”
Sirius laughs, low and pleased, and the sound echoes faintly beneath the car. Remus stares harder at the oil, because looking at Sirius’s mouth from here feels like a bad idea in every possible direction. “I’m gonna look at some stuff under here while it drains,” Sirius says, shifting beside him and reaching for another tool. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about, though. It won’t be on the final test.”
Remus’s eyes flick back to him despite himself, the words pretty head landing almost as badly as good boy had a minute ago. “I’m sorry,” he says, because apparently that’s the only part of the sentence his brain can safely grab onto. “Test?”
Sirius reaches up to check something Remus can’t name, his forearm flexing as the wrench turns, and Remus has to force himself not to track the movement too obviously. “How am I gonna know you learned anything if I don’t test you?” Sirius asks, like this is perfectly reasonable.
“That feels like something you should’ve disclosed before I agreed to participate,” Remus says, adjusting the pan again even though it doesn’t really need adjusting.
Sirius grins without looking away from whatever he’s doing, entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re doing fine,” he says. “So far, you’re passing.” That almost makes Remus miss the pan entirely, and he catches himself at the last second, jaw tightening as he refocuses intensely on the oil.
Sirius tinkers with a few things under the car while Remus watches the pan, listening to the drip slow from a steady stream to an occasional patter. Sirius called him good once, and Remus has apparently become the sort of person who would rather stare at used oil for five uninterrupted minutes than disappoint a mechanic he met fifteen minutes ago.
When the flow finally stops, Sirius reaches up, retightens the plug with a practiced turn of the wrench, and gives it one last check before nodding toward the open bay. They slide back out from under the car, Sirius with easy, practiced grace and Remus with significantly less dignity.
Remus grabs the pan before he stands, holding onto it carefully with both hands like it’s still his one sacred responsibility. Sirius sits up on his creeper and looks at him, hair still pinned messily with the pencil, grease on his cheek, mouth curved in a smile that makes Remus’s stomach dip.
“Look at that,” Sirius says. “Steady hands.”
Remus swallows, fingers tightening around the edge of the pan. “I’m very gifted at not spilling,” he says, and it comes out drier than he feels.
“Clearly.” Sirius slides out fully and takes the pan from him carefully, their hands brushing again. “You did good. Most people panic when oil starts coming out. You're a natural at following instructions.”
Remus’s mouth goes a little dry, but he manages to lift an eyebrow and say, “Who’s to say I wasn’t panicking?”
“That’s adorable,” Sirius says, and the ease of it makes Remus’s face heat all over again.
“It’s not,” he says, though the argument has no real strength behind it.
Sirius dumps the oil and sets the pan aside before wiping his hands on the rag hanging from his back pocket. “It is,” he says, still smiling. “You want a cigarette, or are you too responsible?”
“I haven’t smoked in years.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Remus looks at the cigarette Sirius pulls from behind his ear, then at Sirius’s mouth, which is an immediate mistake. Sirius’s eyes track the movement, and his smile turns slow enough to make Remus’s stomach dip. “You can say no,” Sirius says, voice lighter than his expression. Remus takes the cigarette anyway, because apparently today is about proving he has no survival instincts at all.
“I didn’t say no.”
Sirius doesn’t hand him a lighter. Instead, he lifts his own cigarette to his mouth, takes a drag, then leans in and touches the burning tip to Remus’s until it catches. They stand close enough for Remus to see the dark rings around Sirius’s gray eyes, close enough that the smoke curls between them before drifting toward the open bay. The first inhale burns, and Remus coughs despite his best effort not to, which makes Sirius grin like he’s been handed another gift.
“Careful, darlin’.”
“I’m fine,” Remus says, voice rough.
“Sure you are.” Sirius takes the cigarette back when Remus offers it, fingers lingering for a second longer than they need to. “You always this nervous around mechanics, or am I special?”
Remus’s breath catches, but he recovers fast enough to lift an eyebrow. “That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether all mechanics flirt this much with paying customers, or if that’s just part of your full-service package.”
Sirius goes still for half a beat, and then his grin turns bright and wicked. “There he is,” he says, looking entirely too pleased. “I knew there was a mouth on you somewhere.”
Remus looks away because if he keeps looking at Sirius, he’s going to say something significantly worse. The trouble is that looking away only gives him a view of Sirius’s hands as he picks up the new oil filter, rubbing a little clean oil around the gasket with his thumb. His fingers are strong and calloused, blackened at the edges, and Remus watches the movement before he can stop himself. Sirius glances up and catches him doing it.
“Eyes up here, sweetheart.”
Remus’s face burns. “I was watching the lesson.”
“Were you?”
“I was trying to.”
Sirius laughs, grabs the oil pan again, and ducks back beneath the car. “Alright, then hold the flashlight and prove it. Aim it right here for me.” Remus does as he’s told, standing close enough that Sirius’s shoulder brushes his thigh every time he shifts. “Good,” Sirius says, voice warm beneath the car. “Just like that.”
Remus holds the flashlight steady and tries very hard not to let those three words rearrange anything else in him. Sirius explains the oil filter as he works, telling Remus how old gasket material can stick, how the new filter needs a clean surface, and how too tight can be just as bad as too loose. Remus listens more than he expects to, because Sirius doesn’t make him feel stupid for not knowing. He explains things like Remus is capable of understanding them, which is somehow just as dangerous as the eyeliner, the filthy tank top, and the fact that he’s still humming along to the radio under his breath.
Once the filter’s changed, Sirius slides back out from under the car and gets to his feet with the same irritating ease as before. He leads Remus to the front of the Civic, then leans over the engine, pointing with one oily finger. “Alright,” he says. “Tiny tour before I finish her up. That big black box with the red and black knobs is your battery. Yellow handle here is your dipstick, which checks the oil level. Pull it out, wipe it, put it in, and pull it out again. You want the oil mark to be between the two little notches here.”
Remus leans in and nods slowly, trying to look like the explanation has entered his brain in a useful order instead of immediately tangling itself around Sirius saying pull it out, wipe it, put it in. There’s probably a mature way to stand beside a filthy, gorgeous mechanic while he explains basic car maintenance without his mind diving straight into the gutter, but Remus has apparently missed whatever class covered that. “Right,” he says, because it’s the safest possible word and still comes out a little strangled. “Between the notches. Very technical. Extremely scientific.”
Sirius’s mouth twitches like he knows exactly which part of that got to him, but he lets Remus have the illusion of dignity for one merciful second. “This cap is where the oil goes in, this reservoir is coolant, and this one with the little windshield symbol is washer fluid, which I’m guessing is the only one you’ve ever personally touched.”
Remus looks at the washer fluid cap. “I resent that.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No.”
“Then resent it quietly.” Sirius points to a round black housing near the side. “That’s the air filter housing. Pretty self-explanatory, since the air filter literally lives in there, but it keeps nasty shit from getting pulled into the engine. Super easy to replace, and next time I’ll let you do it while I stand around looking pretty and judgmental.”
“I thought that was my job,” Remus says.
Sirius reaches for the funnel, casual as anything, like he’s not actively making Remus lose years off his life. “You are pretty,” he says. “You’re just not nearly judgmental enough yet.”
Remus opens his mouth, then closes it again, because that’s the second time Sirius has called him pretty. Sirius pours fresh oil into the funnel like he didn’t just say that with the same tone someone else might use to announce the weather. His forearm flexes, tendons shifting under grease-streaked skin, and Remus has to grip the edge of the car to keep from doing something embarrassing. Sirius’s gaze flicks toward his hand on the fender, then toward his face, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Pop quiz,” Sirius says.
Remus blinks. “What?”
“Pop quiz. I teach, you answer. That’s how learning works.”
“I’m not sure I consented to testing.”
“You walked into my garage with a nameless car and no car knowledge,” Sirius says, tapping the yellow handle of the dipstick with one finger. “Testing was inevitable.”
Remus narrows his eyes, but there isn’t much force behind it when Sirius is leaning against the fender like that, cigarette between his fingers and amusement tucked into the corner of his mouth. “That feels legally questionable.”
“Good thing I’m a mechanic and not a lawyer.” Sirius’s smile widens just enough to make Remus regret giving him anything to work with. “What’s this?”
Remus looks at the yellow handle, then back at Sirius, already too aware of the way Sirius is watching him. His brain stalls for half a second under the weight of that attention, which is ridiculous because Sirius has literally just told him the answer. “The… dipstick?”
“Good,” Sirius says, warm and immediate. “And what do we do with it?”
“To check the oil level,” Remus says, then keeps going when Sirius only raises his eyebrows and waits. “You pull it out, wipe it, put it back in, pull it out again, and check where the oil sits between the marks.”
Sirius’s expression warms with something that looks dangerously close to pride. “Perfect. Look at you. You really were paying attention.”
The praise hits so hard Remus has to shift his stance, his knees going weak before he can fully stop them. Heat moves through him in a bright, humiliating rush, sinking straight to his cock, and he grips the edge of the car like that might make him seem steadier than he feels. Sirius sees it. Of course Sirius sees it. His eyes sharpen, amused at first, then interested, and his mouth curves around the cigarette like he’s just learned something useful.
“That do something for you?” Sirius asks softly.
“No,” Remus says, much too quickly.
“Liar.”
“Ask another question.”
“Oh, he wants another one.” Sirius takes a slow drag from his cigarette and leans more comfortably against the fender, entirely too pleased with himself. “Alright. Big black box, red and black cables.”
“The battery,” Remus says, relieved that at least this answer comes easier.
“Good boy.”
Remus’s grip tightens on the edge of the car. The words go straight through him, warm and low and devastating, and for a second he forgets how to do anything except stand there and take it. Sirius doesn’t move closer yet, but the air between them changes anyway, tightening into something charged and obvious. The radio crackles at Sirius’s hip, the guitar riff distorted under the hum of the lights, and Remus is suddenly too aware of every inch of space between their bodies.
Sirius points again, softer this time. “Air filter housing. What’s it for?”
“It holds the air filter.”
“Close,” Sirius says, and his voice goes gentle instead of teasing. “Try again, baby.”
The correction makes Remus’s stomach flip nearly as much as the praise. There’s no mockery in it, no impatience, just Sirius watching him like he knows Remus can get there and wants to see him do it. Remus swallows and looks back at the engine bay, forcing himself to remember the actual explanation and not just the way Sirius had said pretty head a few minutes ago. “It holds the air filter so you can change it when it gets dirty, and it keeps stuff from getting into the engine.”
“There you go.” Sirius smiles, slow and pleased. “That’s exactly right. Clever boy.”
Remus makes a small, helpless sound before he can stop himself. His cock twitches hard against his zipper, and the heat in his face gets worse, spreading down his throat and into his chest. He feels lightheaded again, the same way he did when he first walked in, only worse now because Sirius is looking at him like he’s proud. Like Remus getting the answer right is something Sirius actually wanted from him.
Sirius goes very still. Then his gaze drops, just briefly, to the front of Remus’s jeans before coming back up to his face. “Oh,” he says, quieter now. “You really like that.”
Remus closes his eyes for half a second. “Apparently.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“It feels like there might be,” Remus says, voice strained, “when I’m almost collapsing because you told me I identified a plastic box correctly.”
Sirius laughs, but it’s low and fond rather than sharp. He steps closer, reaching out with two knuckles to gently tip Remus’s chin up, and the touch leaves the faintest smear of grease near his jaw. “It’s not just the plastic box,” he says. “It’s that you listened. It’s cute as hell.”
Remus looks at him, pulse kicking hard in his throat. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep being cute.”
“I’m trying very hard to be normal.”
“You’re failing,” Sirius says, smiling. “But I like it.”
Remus should say something clever. He should flirt back, preferably with something that makes him sound like a functional adult and not a man coming apart over the words try again or good job. Instead, he just stands there with Sirius’s hand near his jaw and the smell of smoke curling between them. Sirius’s eyes drop to his mouth again, and this time he doesn’t bother pretending it’s accidental.
“One more question,” Sirius murmurs. “What’s the first thing we did when changing the oil?”
Remus’s brain feels fogged with want, but he forces it to work. “We… loosened the drain plug?”
Sirius’s smile deepens. “Perfect. You’re a natural at this.”
Remus exhales shakily.
“My good boy,” Sirius adds.
Remus’s knees buckle for real that time, just a little, but enough that Sirius catches him by the elbow. His hand is warm and firm, thumb pressing into the sensitive skin on the inside of Remus’s arm. For a moment neither of them says anything. The open hood shadows them from the front of the shop, and the whole garage seems to narrow around Sirius’s hand on him.
“Fuck,” Sirius murmurs. “I should finish your car.”
“You probably should,” Remus says, though his voice doesn’t sound convincing even to himself. His face is burning, and his cock is fully hard now, straining against his jeans. There’s no hiding it anymore, not from Sirius, not with him standing this close and looking at Remus like he’s already decided what he wants to do about it.
“If I don’t,” Sirius says, eyes dark and steady, “I’m gonna do something very unprofessional.”
Remus’s pulse jumps. “How unprofessional?”
Sirius’s mouth curves around the edge of a grin. “Depends where you put bending you over the hood of your car and having my way with you on the scale of unprofessionalism.”
The words hang there between them. Remus could step back. Sirius is giving him room to do it, his hand still steadying but not holding, his body close but not crowding. That gentleness makes Remus want him more, makes the flirting feel less like a game Sirius is winning and more like something they’re building together.
“Fuck,” Remus breathes.
Sirius’s eyes drop to his mouth again. “Exactly.”
“Yes, please.”
For a second, Remus thinks Sirius is going to kiss him over the open hood of the car. Instead, Sirius lets out a slow breath and steps back, like it costs him something. “Let me finish this first,” he says, voice rougher than before. “I can’t lose focus just because you look pretty when you’re flustered.”
Remus stares at him. “You think I’m pretty?”
Sirius gives him a look like the answer should’ve been obvious from the moment Remus walked in. “You came into my shop, admitted you know nothing about cars, held a drain pan like it was holy, and almost folded because I praised you for remembering what a dipstick is. Yeah, Remus. I think you’re pretty.”
Remus has no idea what to do with that, so he watches Sirius finish the car instead. Sirius fills the engine with fresh oil, checks the level, makes Remus read the dipstick back to him, and praises him every time he gets it right. Every correct answer Remus manages to give earns him another “that’s it, love” or “good, just like that,” and each one makes his stomach flip worse than the last. When he fumbles one, Sirius only smiles soft and says, “Try again, sweetheart. You got it,” which somehow lands just as hard.
By the time Sirius lowers the car from the lift and wipes down the fender, Remus is vibrating. His cock has been hard for twenty straight minutes, and every time Sirius praised him, he felt it like a physical touch. Even though Sirius has barely done more than brush his fingers over Remus’s wrist or steady him by the elbow, Remus feels touched everywhere. It’s ridiculous, honestly, the way his body has decided that basic automotive instruction is foreplay now, but Sirius keeps looking at him like he knows exactly what he’s done and is only barely pretending not to enjoy it.
Sirius nods toward the sink mounted on the back wall, an old utility basin stained gray around the drain. “Come on,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “Let’s get your hands cleaned up before you accidentally wipe oil on your face.”
Remus follows him over, aware of the black smudges on his fingers and the way his pulse still hasn’t settled. Sirius turns on the water first, cold pipes knocking behind the wall before it runs clear, then reaches for the gritty orange soap sitting on the ledge. They stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink, close enough that their elbows bump when Remus reaches for it. Sirius laughs under his breath and catches Remus’s wrist, turning his hand palm-up beneath the water with a gentleness that makes Remus’s pulse jump all over again.
“Here,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over a stubborn streak of grease near Remus’s knuckle. “You missed a spot.”
Remus watches Sirius’s fingers move over his skin, rough and careful at the same time, and has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making an embarrassing sound. “I could’ve gotten it,” he says, though his voice doesn’t do much to support the claim.
“I’m sure you could’ve,” Sirius says, still cleaning his hand like it requires personal attention. “You’re very capable.” He glances over, eyes flicking to Remus’s mouth for half a second before returning to his hand. “You proved that already.”
Remus exhales through his nose and looks down at the sink like the swirl of gray water is suddenly fascinating. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“That,” Remus says, because he refuses to explain praise to the man actively using it against him.
Sirius smiles, slow and knowing, then lets go of Remus’s wrist only to wash his own hands. “Maybe,” he says. “You make it easy.” He scrubs the grease from under his nails, forearms flexing, water running dark over his skin before it clears. Remus tries not to stare at the movement, tries not to think about those hands on him, and fails badly enough that Sirius doesn’t even need to look over to catch him.
The garage has gone quiet around them. No customers have come in, no phones have rung, and the light outside has shifted into late afternoon gold through the high windows. Sirius dries his hands on a clean rag and looks at Remus like he’s deciding whether to be responsible or reckless. The pencil is still in his hair, barely, and his tank top is damp at the collar, clinging to the hard line of his chest.
“Shop’s dead today,” Sirius says quietly.
Remus’s heart starts pounding.
“I can lock the front,” Sirius says. “If you want.”
Remus nods before he can overthink it.
Sirius doesn’t move right away. His expression softens, the flirt still there but steadier underneath. “Words, love.”
“Yes,” Remus says, breath catching. “I want.”
Sirius holds his gaze for a moment, then nods once. He walks to the front door, flips the sign to CLOSED, turns the lock, and pulls the bay door down until the whole garage dims to fluorescent light and shadow. The radio keeps crackling at his hip as he comes back, slower now, all that easy confidence pulled tight into something focused. When he stops in front of Remus, he’s close enough that Remus can feel the heat coming off his skin.
“Still good?” Sirius asks.
Remus nods, then remembers. “Yes. Still good.”
“There he is,” Sirius says softly.
Then Sirius kisses him.
It isn’t as careful as Remus expects, but it isn’t careless either. Sirius cups the back of his neck with one hand and keeps the other at Remus’s waist, firm but light enough that Remus can move away if he wants to. Remus doesn’t want to. He grabs the front of Sirius’s filthy tank top and pulls him closer, and Sirius makes a low sound against his mouth that sends heat racing through him all over again.
The kiss tastes like smoke and coffee. Sirius backs him gently against the side of the Civic, his body solid and close. Remus’s hands slide up Sirius’s chest, over the thin cotton, then around his shoulders, and the pencil in Sirius’s hair shifts dangerously when Remus’s fingers catch in the loose strands. Sirius breaks the kiss just enough to breathe a laugh against Remus’s mouth, low and rough, one hand still curled at the back of his neck.
“You’re trouble with your hands,” Sirius murmurs.
Remus swallows, fingers tightening once in Sirius’s shirt. “I thought steady hands were the whole point of the lesson.”
“They were,” Sirius says, smiling like he’s already decided Remus has passed something entirely different. “But now you’re touching things you don’t know how to fix yet.”
The words land heavier than the joke they’re dressed up as. Remus feels it in the brief pause after, in the way Sirius’s smile holds but doesn’t quite sharpen, like maybe he hears it too and decides not to take it back. Then Sirius kisses the corner of Remus’s mouth, slow enough to make the moment tilt back toward heat, and nudges closer until his voice drops against Remus’s jaw. “Don’t worry, love. I’m very patient with beginners.”
Remus laughs, breathless and unsteady, and Sirius kisses him again before the sound fully leaves his mouth. This time the kiss is slower, deeper, Sirius pressing close until Remus can feel the hard line of him, the strength in his arms, the roughness of his fingers at the back of Remus’s neck. Sirius’s thumb strokes once behind his ear, and Remus shivers so hard Sirius notices immediately.
“You’re sensitive,” Sirius says, voice low.
“You’re smug.”
“I’ve earned it.”
“Debatable.”
Sirius grins and kisses him again, short and filthy. “The back office has a couch,” he says. “Cleaner than the floor.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“Still true.”
Remus lets Sirius take his hand. The office is small and cluttered, with paperwork stacked on the desk, a mini fridge humming in the corner, and an old leather couch pushed against the wall. Sirius shuts the door behind them and turns the lock, and the sound seems much louder than it should. When he turns back, the flirtation is still on his face, but his voice is quiet when he asks, “Still okay?”
Remus steps toward him instead of answering at first. Then he remembers Sirius asked for words before, and something about that makes him feel steadier rather than embarrassed. “Yes,” he says. “I’m okay.”
“Good,” Sirius says. “Tell me if that changes.”
“I will.”
Sirius smiles, softer now, and closes the space between them again. The next kiss is slower at first, like he’s giving Remus time to settle into it, but Remus is the one who gets impatient. He pulls at Sirius’s tank top, and Sirius laughs into his mouth before walking him backward until the couch hits the backs of Remus’s knees. Remus sits because there’s nowhere else to go, and Sirius follows him down, bracing one hand on the cushion beside him.
“You looked so sweet out there,” Sirius murmurs against his jaw. “Trying so hard to pay attention.”
Remus tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut before he can stop them. Sirius’s mouth moves along the exposed line of his throat, warm and slow, and Remus feels every word as much as he hears it. He should probably be embarrassed by how easily Sirius has found the exact thing that makes him useless, but there’s no room for embarrassment with Sirius pressed this close. There’s only the weight of his body, the smoke still clinging to him, and the low scrape of his voice against Remus’s skin.
“Got all shy every time I told you that you were doing well.”
“Don’t,” Remus says, but there’s no force behind it.
“Don’t what?” Sirius asks, mouth brushing his throat. “Tell you that you’re good?”
Remus shivers, and there’s no hiding it this time. His hands tighten in Sirius’s tank top, pulling at the dirty cotton as if keeping Sirius close might somehow keep the rest of him from falling apart. Sirius notices the reaction immediately, because Sirius seems to notice everything, and the sound he makes is low and pleased. It’s not a laugh, not quite, but it’s close enough to make Remus’s face heat.
“There it is,” Sirius says, sounding pleased in a way that makes Remus feel weak all over again. “You like it.”
“Yes,” Remus admits.
Sirius’s hand slides to his waist, warm even through his shirt. “Then I’ll keep saying it.”
Remus’s breath catches before he can stop it. Sirius’s thumb presses into his side, not hard enough to hold him there, just enough to remind him that he could, and the thought sends another flush of heat through Remus’s whole body. Sirius watches his face like he’s learning him in real time, putting together every little reaction Remus wishes he had the dignity to hide. When his mouth curves, it’s not quite a smirk anymore, but something darker, something that makes Remus’s hands curl uselessly in the front of his shirt.
“Jeans off,” Sirius says.
Remus moves too fast to make it graceful. He shoves them down along with his boxers and pulls off his sweater, kicking everything aside until he's bare on the couch and breathing hard. His cock is already hard and leaking, and the air feels cool against skin that has been too hot for too long. Sirius watches him with dark eyes, quiet for one second, then reaches back and yanks his own tank top over his head.
His chest is broad and muscled, skin shiny with sweat, grease streaked along his collarbone and Remus wants to touch it with his fingers and then his mouth. Sirius unties the arms of his overalls and lets them fall, stepping out of them without ever looking away. It should feel too quick, too much, too soon, but Remus is already so far gone from the garage, from the quiz, from the sink and Sirius’s hands and every low, approving word, that all it does is make him ache harder. Sirius crowds him back onto the couch, pushing into his space like Remus belongs there underneath him.
Then Sirius drops to his knees between Remus’s spread thighs, and the sight of him there makes Remus’s thoughts scatter completely. His eyeliner is smudged, his hair is coming loose around the pencil, and his mouth is still curved like he knows exactly what Remus is thinking. One big, calloused hand wraps around Remus’s cock and strokes him slowly from root to tip. Remus’s head drops back against the cushions, his hips twitching up before he can stop them, and the sound that leaves him is already broken.
Sirius’s hand is warm and rough, still marked faintly with the kind of grease that never quite washed away. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Remus’s body gives itself over to the touch, but Sirius looks pleased by it instead of amused. His thumb drags over the slick head, spreading the bead of precome in lazy circles that make Remus’s thighs tense. Remus’s breath comes unevenly, his fingers digging into the couch cushions because he doesn’t trust himself to touch Sirius yet.
“Fuck—”
“Easy,” Sirius murmurs. His thumb drags over the slick head, spreading the bead of precome in lazy circles that make Remus’s thighs tense. “I got you. Been thinking about this since you walked in here. Since you got every answer right on that little quiz and looked at me like you were gonna come in your jeans just from being told you’re good.”
Remus whines, the sound cracking in his throat before he can swallow it down. The praise sinks into him hotter now that they're in private, no potential customers interrupting, no open bay door, no engine between them. There's nowhere for it to go except through him. Sirius seems to know it too, because his mouth softens for half a second before he lowers his head.
He leans in and licks a slow, wet stripe up the underside of Remus’s cock, tongue pressing firm along the vein. Remus’s hands jerk against the couch cushions, searching for something to hold on to, and Sirius looks up at him through dark lashes like he’s waiting to see what Remus will do with himself.
“You were perfect out there,” he says, mouth close enough that Remus feels the words as much as hears them. “My clever boy. My good boy.”
Remus loses his next breath completely. Sirius swirls his tongue around the head, then takes Remus all the way into his mouth in one smooth glide. Hot, tight, wet heat envelops him. Remus’s hands fly to his hair before he can think better of it. His fingers thread carefully around the pencil tucked there, trying not to ruin the messy knot, trying to keep one last bit of control over himself even as Sirius hums around him and sends the vibration straight through his body. His thighs start to shake, and Sirius only works him deeper, one hand firm at the base, mouth filthy and impossibly good.
The more Sirius takes him apart, the harder it is for Remus to be careful. His grip tightens in Sirius’s hair, and the pencil finally slips free, clattering to the floor somewhere beside the couch. Remus barely registers the sound. Both hands fist into Sirius’s hair, holding on as Sirius takes him deeper, nose pressing close, throat working around him. The sight alone is almost enough to undo him.
“Fuck—Sirius—” Remus gasps, hips twitching despite himself.
Sirius pulls off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, hair fallen into his face now that the pencil is gone. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins up at Remus, wicked and breathless and far too proud of himself.
“Not yet,” he says, voice rough. “Want you coming on my cock the first time. You gonna be good for me and take it?”
Remus’s whole body goes hot at once. “Yes—fuck—yes, please,” he gasps.
Sirius stands and reaches for the desk drawer, yanking it open. He pulls out lube and a condom, then shoves his boxers down, and steps out of them. His cock is thick and heavy, flushed dark, already hard enough that the sight of it makes Remus’s hole clench helplessly. Sirius catches the reaction and his mouth curves as he rolls the condom on and slicks himself with a generous palmful of lube.
He moves back between Remus’s thighs with his eyes dark and focused, all the teasing stripped down. Remus watches him through the haze of his own want, still breathing too hard, still feeling Sirius’s praise under his skin like a second pulse. There’s a brief pause where Sirius looks at him, really looks, and Remus understands without needing to be asked again.
Sirius pushes his thighs wider, firm but careful, and Remus follows the pressure immediately. “Hold your legs for me,” Sirius says, voice low and steady. “Just like that. Good.”
Remus does as he’s told. He hooks his hands behind his knees and pulls himself open, exposed in a way that should probably make him self-conscious, but it doesn’t. Not with Sirius looking at him like that, not with his hand warm against the inside of Remus’s thigh, not with every soft murmur of praise making Remus feel less embarrassed and more wanted. Remus’s cock twitches against his stomach and he has to bite down on a sound when Sirius circles two wet fingers around his hole.
Sirius takes his time. He teases the rim first, slick and slow, watching Remus’s face as if every shaky breath and small sound matters. Then he presses one finger in, gentle but steady, and Remus moans at the stretch, at the cool slide of lube and the careful pressure of Sirius working him open. Remus’s head tips back against the couch, his hands tightening where Sirius told him to hold himself open. The sensation is intimate enough to make his face burn, but Sirius’s expression stays steady, warm underneath the hunger.
“Talk to me,” Sirius says, close enough now that Remus can feel the heat of him. “You okay?”
“Yeah—fuck—yeah,” Remus breathes, already trying to move closer. “More.”
Sirius gives him more. A second finger slides in beside the first, stretching him slowly at first and then more when Remus’s body starts to give. Sirius scissors them carefully, patient and thorough, his free hand stroking the outside of Remus’s thigh. When he crooks his fingers and rubs right against that spot inside him, pleasure sparks sharp and bright behind Remus’s eyes.
Remus whines, high and needy, pushing down onto Sirius’s hand before he can stop himself. Sirius’s expression goes darker at the sound, but his voice stays steady, praise settling over Remus like a hand at the back of his neck.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Taking it so well. You’re doing perfect. Breathe for me, baby.”
Remus tries. He really does. He drags in air and lets it out shakily while Sirius keeps working him open, adding more lube, easing him wider until three fingers slide in with less resistance. By then Remus is rocking back against his hand, helpless little sounds falling out of him, too desperate to be embarrassed by how badly he wants it. Sirius watches him for a long moment, breathing harder now, his thumb pressing into Remus’s thigh like he is holding himself back as much as he is holding Remus steady.
When Sirius pulls his fingers out, Remus makes a small, protesting sound before he can stop it. Sirius leans over him, close enough that Remus can feel the heat of his body, and lines himself up. The thick head of his cock presses against Remus’s hole and Remus’s hands tighten behind his knees as his whole body seems to pause around the first push.
Sirius goes slow. Inch by inch, he presses in, stretching Remus open with a burn that's perfect and overwhelming and almost too much until it isn’t. Remus’s mouth falls open, but no sound comes out at first, not until Sirius finally bottoms out with his hips flush against him and they both groan at the same time. For a second, everything narrows to that fullness, to Sirius above him, to the steady weight of him inside.
Sirius doesn't move right away. One hand strokes soothingly down Remus’s chest, grounding him, while the other stays braced beside his head. His face is tight with restraint, but his voice is careful when he asks, “You okay?”
Remus nods, breathless and already aching for more. “Move,” he says, voice wrecked. “Please move. I can take it.”
Sirius pulls back and thrusts in again, long and deep, the couch creaking beneath them. Remus’s hands slip on his own thighs, useless with how hard his body jolts, and Sirius catches one wrist before he can lose his grip completely. He pins it above Remus’s head, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to hold him there, steady and open beneath him. The new angle lets Sirius drive deeper, his cock dragging over that spot inside Remus with every thrust until Remus’s breath starts breaking apart in his chest.
“Look at you,” Sirius says, voice rough with want. “Taking my cock so good. Such a good boy for me. You feel that? Right there?”
He shifts his hips and finds the angle again, hitting Remus’s prostate on every stroke. Remus cries out, the sound high and helpless, his whole body jolting against the couch. Pleasure flashes through him so bright it borders on too much, and all he can do is take it, pinned under Sirius’s weight and the steady rhythm of his hips.
“Yes—there—fuck, Sirius—please—”
Sirius leans down and kisses him hard, swallowing the broken sounds before they can get any louder. His tongue pushes into Remus’s mouth in the same rhythm as his cock, messy and demanding, and Remus clings to the kiss like it is the only thing keeping him in his body. Then Sirius reaches between them and wraps his hand around Remus’s leaking cock, stroking him fast and tight, his thumb pressing over the head on every upstroke. Remus makes a sound against his mouth that Sirius answers with a low, pleased groan.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” Sirius says against his lips, each word rough and hot. “All open and desperate for me. My clever boy who learns so fast. Come for me, baby. I got you. Wanna feel this tight ass squeezing my cock when you do.”
The filthy words tip Remus over. He comes hard, back arching off the couch as pleasure tears through him. His cock pulses between them, spilling across his stomach and chest in thick, hot ropes. His body clenches around Sirius, dragging a rough sound out of him, and the praise Sirius murmurs into his mouth barely makes sense through the white heat of it. Remus shakes with it, broken moans spilling out as Sirius keeps him there, fucking him through every last pulse.
Sirius doesn't stop right away. He slows instead, grinding deep, dragging it out until Remus is whimpering from the overstimulation and trying to press closer and get away at the same time. When the tremors finally ease, Sirius pulls out carefully, one hand still braced beside Remus’s head. He strips the condom off and strokes himself quickly with a slick hand, eyes locked on Remus’s come-streaked skin like the sight is enough to finish him.
With a low groan, Sirius comes hard, painting hot stripes across Remus’s stomach and chest, adding to the mess already there. His shoulders tense, then drop, and for a second he stays bowed over Remus, breathing rough against his neck. Remus lies beneath him, sticky and spent and too loose to move, one hand still caught above his head until Sirius seems to remember and lets go. The first thing Sirius does after that is kiss the inside of his wrist, quick and quiet, right where he had been holding him down.
For a long minute, the only sound is both of them catching their breath. Sirius leans down and kisses him again, slower this time, tender enough that it makes Remus’s chest feel strange after everything else. He reaches for a clean rag from the desk, wipes Remus down as carefully as he can, then cleans himself up before sitting back on his heels. His hair is wrecked, his eyeliner worse, his mouth still swollen, and he looks at Remus with a softened kind of satisfaction that makes the whole room feel quieter.
“You still with me?” Sirius asks.
Remus nods, though it takes him a second to make his body cooperate. His limbs feel heavy and loose, like Sirius has taken him apart and left him spread out across the couch in pieces. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “Just… wow.”
Sirius laughs quietly, not teasing so much as pleased, and reaches for the cigarette that had somehow survived behind his ear. He lights it, takes one drag, then offers it over with his eyebrows raised in silent question. Remus takes it because saying no feels impossible after all of that, and because the taste of smoke already feels tangled up with Sirius in his head. The first inhale burns less this time, and the smoke curls between them while Sirius watches him with a softened sort of focus that makes Remus feel almost more exposed than he had a minute ago.
Sirius reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind Remus’s ear with one finger. There’s still a faint trace of grease near his knuckle, not enough to smear, but enough that Remus notices it. “You did good,” Sirius says, voice lower now, gentler. “Real good.”
Remus huffs a laugh, because if he doesn’t, he might do something more humiliating. “At the car stuff or the sex?”
“Both.” Sirius’s thumb brushes Remus’s bottom lip, light enough to barely count as touch and still enough to make Remus go quiet. “You want another lesson sometime? I can teach you how to change a headlight. Change a tire. Jump a battery. Replace an air filter.” His mouth curves, the teasing slipping back in at the edges. “I can quiz you again, if you want.”
Remus looks at him properly then. Sirius’s eyeliner is wrecked, his tank top is crooked where he’d dragged it back on, and there’s still grease on his cheek that neither of them bothered to wipe away. He looks like trouble, but not the kind Remus wants to avoid. He looks like trouble Remus wants to learn by heart.
“If I know how to do all that,” Remus says, managing to find a little of his voice again, “then what would I need a mechanic for?”
Sirius pauses like he’s considering that with great seriousness. “You’re right. I take it back. No more learning for you.”
“Sirius,” Remus says, looking directly at him now. “I want that.”
The joke fades just enough for something warmer to show through. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Sirius’s smile turns slow and pleased, but softer than before. He reaches for a pen on the desk, takes Remus’s wrist, and turns it palm-up with the same careful confidence he’d used at the sink. The pressure of the pen tickles slightly as he writes his number on the inside of Remus’s forearm, but Remus holds still and watches the numbers appear against his skin. Sirius blows on the ink once, unnecessarily, then looks up through his lashes like he knows exactly how unnecessary it was.
“Text me when you get home,” Sirius says.
“So you know the Civic didn’t betray me?”
“That.” Sirius caps the pen with his teeth. “And because I want your number.”
Remus smiles before he can stop himself. “You could’ve just asked.”
“Could’ve,” Sirius says, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “This was more fun.”
They get dressed slowly. Remus’s legs are still a little unsteady when he stands, and he has to pretend he’s only taking his time with his jeans because the denim’s twisted, not because his knees feel unreliable beneath him. Sirius notices anyway, because Sirius seems to notice everything about him, but he doesn’t tease him for it. He only bends to pick the pencil up from the floor, twists his hair back into a messy knot, and shoves it through like nothing about him has been wrecked except the smudged liner around his eyes and the swollen shape of his mouth.
By the time Sirius opens the office door for him, Remus feels mostly put together, or at least as close as he’s gonna get. They walk back out into the garage side by side, the air cooler beyond the office, smelling again of oil and rubber and metal instead of sweat and smoke and skin. The Civic sits there with the hood closed, looking perfectly innocent, as if it hasn’t just been responsible for Remus losing his mind in an auto shop. Sirius does one last check, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the fender, and hands Remus the keys.
Their fingers brush again. It shouldn’t matter after everything, not after Sirius’s hands have been on so much more of him than that, but the small contact still makes Remus’s stomach flip. Sirius’s mouth curves like he sees it happen, though this time he’s kind enough not to say anything. He just lets the keys rest against Remus’s palm for a second longer before letting go.
“All set,” Sirius says. “Fresh oil, new filter, fluids checked. Nothing looks terrifying, but if the grinding keeps happening, bring it back and I’ll take another look.”
“Okay,” Remus says. He reaches for his wallet because it gives his hands something normal to do, something familiar and practical after everything else has thoroughly rearranged his ability to think. “Uh, what do I owe you?”
Sirius laughs softly and waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.”
Remus pauses with his wallet halfway out of his pocket. The words land strangely after everything, not badly, exactly, but enough to make his face heat for a different reason. “No, I’m paying you,” he says, a little too quickly. “For the car. I mean, for the oil change. Obviously not for—” He stops, horrified by his own mouth, and looks down at his wallet like it might open a hole in the floor and let him disappear.
Sirius’s expression shifts, the teasing softening into something steadier. “Hey,” he says, gentle but firm enough that Remus looks up. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” Remus says, even though his face is still burning. “I just don’t want it to be weird.”
“It’s not weird.” Sirius leans one elbow against the open driver’s side door, close but not crowding him, and his mouth curves just a little. “The oil change is on me because I want it to be, not because of what happened in there.”
Remus looks at him for a second, the words settling somewhere warm and careful in his chest. “That still sounds like very bad business.”
“Maybe,” Sirius says, looking pleased that Remus is letting himself smile again. “But I make the rules here.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Extremely.” Sirius taps two fingers against the roof of the Civic and adds, softer, “Consider it a first lesson discount.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s very fake.”
“You’re very bad at running a business.”
“Maybe,” Sirius says. “But I’m great at customer retention.”
“Sirius.”
Remus doesn’t know what he means by it exactly, only that it comes out quieter than he intended. Maybe it’s supposed to be a protest. Maybe it’s supposed to be a thank you. Maybe it’s just Sirius’s name because Remus has already discovered he likes the shape of it in his mouth, which is a deeply inconvenient thing to realize while standing halfway inside his car.
“Remus?”
“Yeah?”
Sirius’s smile goes crooked, warm at the edges. “Text me when you get home,” he says. “That’s what you owe me.”
Remus looks at him for a second, still too aware of the number written on his arm and the lingering shakiness in his legs. He should probably say something casual, something easy, something that doesn’t make it obvious his pulse has picked up all over again. Instead, he tucks his wallet back into his pocket and says, “That’s a very low invoice.”
Sirius’s grin widens. “Don’t complain. I’m giving you a deal.”
“Feels like bad business.”
“Feels like repeat business,” Sirius says, and Remus hates how quickly his stomach flips at that.
Remus shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he opens the driver’s side door. “Fine,” he says, glancing back at Sirius as he slides behind the wheel. “I’ll text you when I get home. But only because I’m apparently very invested in paying my debts.”
Remus gets into the car, and it starts on the first try. No grinding, no skipping, just a smooth, quiet engine that makes him feel a little ridiculous for how grateful he is. He looks up, ready to make some joke about Sirius being annoyingly good at his job, but Sirius is already leaning through the open window, one hand braced on the door. Remus barely has time to breathe before Sirius kisses him, quick but warm, tasting faintly like smoke and still lingering long enough to make Remus’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
When Sirius pulls back, his smile is softer than it has any right to be. “Drive safe,” he says, voice low. Then he steps back and taps the roof twice, putting a cigarette between his lips as the radio keeps crackling at his hip.
Remus shifts into reverse, one hand curling around the back of the passenger seat as he looks over his shoulder, but his eyes still flick to Sirius before he starts moving. Sirius is already reaching up to fix the pencil in his hair, overalls tied low, tank top filthy, looking exactly like the kind of bad decision Remus intends to make again.
Remus backs out slowly, careful not to embarrass himself by hitting anything after surviving the whole oil change ordeal, and Sirius watches him go with that crooked, knowing smile still on his mouth. By the time Remus turns the wheel and pulls toward the street, his engine is running perfectly, but his hands are not quite steady.
Remus makes it two blocks before he has to pull over. The car is fine, which is somehow the funniest part. It runs beautifully, smoother than it has in months, while Remus sits behind the wheel with Sirius’s number written on his arm and the taste of smoke still faint on his tongue. He stares at the ink until his smile gets too big to ignore.
He takes out his phone and types before he can overthink it.
Remus: This is Remus. The one who knows what a dipstick is now.
The reply comes less than a minute later.
Sirius: Clever boy. Knew you’d text.
Remus exhales shakily and tips his head back against the seat. The words shouldn’t hit as hard through a phone screen as they did in Sirius’s voice, but apparently his body has decided there’s no meaningful difference. He stares at the message until his face gets warm all over again, then another one appears before he can decide how to respond.
Sirius: Come by tomorrow. Lesson one. Bring those steady hands.
Remus laughs under his breath, alone in his newly quiet Civic.
Remus: I thought today was lesson one.
Sirius: Today was orientation.
Remus looks at the message for a long moment, then puts the car back in drive. He came in for an oil change and left knowing more about his car than he had that morning, with Sirius’s number written on his arm and the terrible certainty that Sirius Black could probably get him to memorize an entire engine diagram with nothing but a crooked smile and the words good boy. The manual probably says he won’t need another oil change for months, but Remus already knows he’s going back much sooner than that.
He’s going to need a lot more lessons.