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Sirius Black isn’t afraid of much.
If he were, he’d probably be in another line of work. Or any line of work, if he were afraid of unemployment. No, what he does now isn’t work, it’s a hobby. A passion, maybe. Because even if he isn’t afraid of much, he does have two great passions in life.
Great Passion Number One: dangerous things.
Great Passion Number Two: telling authority to go fuck itself.
“If only you could see me now, James,” he mutters to himself, army-crawling through a little tunnel in the bowels of the Ministry. Why does the Ministry even have bowels? He makes a mental note to tell James some joke about being a bowel obstruction later. Preferably when Lily isn’t around, so he doesn’t get whacked upside the head about it.
The holding cells for the Condemned and Deadly Creatures are as far from sunlight and fresh air as the Ministry can make them. After one too many “liberations,” aka thwarted executions, the Ministry had stopped simply sending an executioner to wherever said condemned creature was, in favor of shipping them in to holding cells before the Big Day. Thus far, they must be rather thrilled with this plan, because thus far, it has put anyone who wants to thwart said executions in a very difficult position.
Or so the Ministry thinks.
The bowels open up at last into a wider area - Sirius tells another joke in his head that he probably wouldn’t even say around James - and before he’s quite ready, it slopes dramatically downward, sending him tumbling through the maintenance tunnels, landing facefirst on the stone floor of Level 12 with a low, annoyed grunt.
The world spins for a moment, and he fumbles awkwardly, hoping frantically that he hasn’t broken his wand. But no, it’s here, safe and sound, still tucked into the magically-enlarged pocket of his jeans. He wraps his fingers around it, then sighs, staying facedown for another few moments while the world rights itself. Whatever horrific beast they’ve got in here probably won’t kill him that fast, anyway.
He’s expecting a warning snarl, growl, or disturbing clicking sound. He’s not expecting the light male tenor voice of his first and only love to say politely, “I refuse to believe there is no more graceful way you could have done that.”
Sirius feels his blood stop pumping at the sound of that voice. He hardly dares to move - but he can’t stay still, not when that voice is a thousand starlit nights, a cup of tea on a chilly afternoon, a conspiratorial wink over a too-short parchment for Professor Binns. That voice is earnest intelligence, softly biting sarcasm, and threadbare sweaters.
That voice is also half a biscuit gone stale on a little plate on the table of Sirius’s flat, because if he tosses it in the bin, then Remus really isn’t coming back for the rest of it.
Sirius straightens up with no attempt at reclaiming his lost dignity, settling back in a hopefully elegant-looking sprawl. “Remus. Fancy seeing you here, old man.”
The epithet is accurate, he sees, and tries not to let his face turn in dismay. Remus looks worn and tired, shabby and old. He’s pale from being underground, but the shadows under his eyes are livid purple to match the bruises around the silver manacles on his wrists.
Remus spreads his hands as much as he can, a wry smile on his prematurely lined face. “I’d say you have me at something of a disadvantage, but no need to be understated about it. What are you doing here, Sirius?”
Sirius wishes he had that half a stale biscuit in his pocket. He’d like to throw it at Remus. Of all the ways he’s imagined meeting him again - of all the thousands of ways he’s imagined it - this was nowhere. His mind races, trying to put the pieces together. “You…you’re the Pernicious Class?”
Remus’s lips twitch. “When I asked you what you were doing here, I rather assumed that the question was largely rhetorical. You’re saying this isn’t a rescue attempt?”
“No, it…it is,” Sirius admits. He looks over his shoulder, belatedly feeling as though he ought to be setting up security spells of some kind, knowing they wouldn’t do him much good within these walls anyway. The plan has to change, now that it’s Remus, doesn’t it? Does it? Should it?
He makes up his mind quickly. He always does.
“Yeah, rescue attempt. Er, rescue success-to-be. What kind of spells have they got on you?”
“Spells?” Remus asks mildly, as though it’s a matter of academic interest alone. “They took my wand, and it’s nowhere near the full.”
“Brilliant,” Sirius says, grey eyes lighting up. “I love when they’re really stupid. Highly desirable trait in one’s enemies, I find. Underrated, if anything.”
“Sirius, if I agree that you’re very dashing and very witty in perilous situations, would you kindly stop faffing about and get me out of these cuffs? Or are you waiting for me to beg?”
Sirius’s eyes catch Remus’s. The biscuit had been eight months old by the time he’d finally Vanished it, unable to bear the thought of seeing it mouldering in his rubbish bin, because he’s a sentimental sod who never learns from his mistakes.
Eight months, because he’d never believed Remus would really leave and stay gone.
“For heaven’s sake, Sirius,” Remus snaps, catching some hint of what’s going through his head in his face “I’ll grovel or whatever you like once we’re out of here, don’t get us caught thinking about the past.”
“Don’t make any great effort on my account,” Sirius snaps, pulling out the enchanted lockpicks he’s carried for the better part of three years now, going to work on the right cuff first. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt the emotional constipation you’ve been cultivating so carefully for so long.” Damn, that would be a good punchline to his Ministry Bowels joke. Somehow. Eh, he’ll workshop it with James.
“Emotional - oh, that’s rich, coming from you.”
The lock slides obediently open. Remus blinks down at the cuff, startled out of his bitterly building tirade. “That was smooth. How’d you do that?”
“Shan’t tell you if you’re going to keep being a prat.”
“I’m the prat?”
“Well, I’m saving your pathetic life, so yes, I’d say you get to be the prat.”
“If you came down here to save my life, how come you looked so surprised to see me? Don’t think I didn’t notice!”
Sirius feels his face heat up as he tickles the lock with the pick, until the left cuff comes free. “Didn’t know it was you. Didn’t even know it was a werewolf. They just marked it as a Creature of Near-Human Intelligence, Pernicious class.”
A flash of that old, weary hurt ghosts across Remus’s face, but he’s been called worse by important people too many times to fuss over every little occasion. Then again, Sirius rather doubts this counts as a “little” occasion, what with the execution date in the morning. “Wait,” Remus says, frowning. “Then what’s it got to do with–”
“No time,” Sirius says to cut him off, and because it’s true. He pulls out a little wafer, offering it to Remus, taking one for himself. “Eat this. It’s a - you know what, it’s a really good bit of magic, but we haven’t got time, so I’ll explain later.”
He swallows his own in less than a second. Remus eyes his suspiciously, and Sirius almost shouts at him, but finally he opens his mouth, chews, and swallows.
A second later, the Ministry spins, the world goes sideways, and Sirius feels as though he’s being ripped off of the planet entirely. He has a split-second’s vision of Remus blurring into nothingness, the sense of being squeezed through a tube of Barry Brilliantine’s Beaming Brushpaste, and then nothing, as the world slowly rights itself again, and Sirius finds himself staring up at the familiar ceiling of his flat. A harsh panting lets him know that he isn’t alone, as does Remus’s croak of, “What in the hells was that?”
“Oh, good, you made it.”
“Was that in question?” Remus’s voice spikes up at the end, dangerously close to hysterical. Then he and Sirius catch each other’s eyes, and after a tense, weighted second, they both start to laugh. Terror, anxiety, danger, and exhaustion all combine until their sides are heaving, the ridiculousness of the situation finally catching up with them.
Once he’s back under some semblance of control, Sirius stands, wiping tears of laughter out of his eyes. He doesn’t bother asking if Remus wants a drink, only pours him a small brandy, pouring another for himself from the same bottle. “How’d you get caught, anyway? Thought you were staying away from Real Humans.” He isn’t bitter. Definitely not. His voice just makes that sound sometimes.
“After what you saw tonight, you can’t still be cross with me.”
“Sure I can. Watch this.” Sirius frowns at him, then offers his glass, which Remus clinks with his own.
If possible, that stupid joke makes Remus look more exhausted than when he’d been chained to the wall. “I was wrong. Tell them to come pick me up, I can’t deal with your jokes. But - really, SIrius. You know it was never that I didn’t…”
Sirius waits, but when Remus doesn’t finish his sentence, he suggests, “Didn’t want to make it work? Didn’t want to fight for us? Didn’t want to admit how devastatingly handsome I am? Didn’t want to get used to three squares a day and a bed without holes in it? Give me something to work with, Moony.”
“Didn’t want to stay.”
He’d known the words were coming. They don’t cut any less for all of that. “And this is why,” Remus continues, unhappily. “The way they treat my kind these days, it wasn’t safe.”
“Yeah,” Sirius says, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “And me, I’m always after safety, and a nice quiet life.”
Remus looks pained for a moment, then puzzled. “You…who did you think you were rescuing tonight?”
Sirius shrugs. “Someone who didn’t deserve to be in that cell. Figure I did all right on that account.”
“But - why? Why’s it your concern?”
“It should be everyone’s concern!” Sirius snaps, some of the frustrated anger of the past four years bleeding into his voice. He doesn’t look at Remus. If he does, he’ll unravel, the way he always does when Remus gives him that sorrowful, pathetic look, like he isn’t even worthy of Sirius’s anger, but he’ll take it anyway. About as much fun as hitting a bag of wet paper.
Irritated, Sirius makes an abortive little move as if he’s going to grab a cigarette, forgetting he doesn’t have them on him anymore. Remus notices, of course, and asks, somewhat severely, “How long have you been smoking again?”
“‘M not,” Sirius mutters, flopping down in his favorite armchair. “Seeing you just reminds me of all the awful choices I used to make.”
The blow lands. It isn’t a fair hit. Sirius hears Remus suck in a swift, pained little breath, and he’s glad, and he’s devastated, and he’s sorry. Before Remus can say anything else, Sirius holds up a hand. “Foul on the pitch, that was out of order.”
Remus slowly lets out the breath he’d been sucking in, and nods. “Well. You did save my life, so I suppose I owe you a dig or two. So, that’s what you do, now? Go around sticking your neck out for dangerous beasts?”
It’s that voice he can’t escape. Sirius remembers what it sounds like in his ear, breathy and excited. More, he remembers what it had sounded like four years ago, when he’d just opened a packet of biscuits, and they were nearly all gone.
~
“I don’t care, Moony–”
“You will. You’ll care when just being a Known Associate of mine gets you locked up, you’ll care when we can’t live anywhere decent, when I can’t afford to feed us–”
“When have I ever needed you to feed me?”
“Can’t you see I’m trying to do the right thing?”
“How can it be the right thing if we’re not together?”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize that only Sirius Black is allowed to make noble sacrifices for those he loves, when was that codified into Wizarding Law?”
~
“Yes.” Sirius meets Remus’s eyes, finally, and his jaw is set. “Yes, that’s what I do now. I’m not letting them be right about thinking anyone who isn’t just like them is worth putting down. If the only people who stand up for part-humans and non-humans, what sort of message does that send? And how long before they start coming after Muggleborns, or Animagi?”
“They won’t come after Animagi, you’re just wizards who know one really good spell–”
“And you’re just a wizard that was attacked as a child!”
Remus glares at him. Sirius thinks that anyone marked for death for being terrifying should be rather better at glaring. Remus opens his mouth as though he’s going to say something, and closes it. Then he does it again, giving Sirius a queer look. Finally, he asks, “You do realize I’ll have to go on the run now, right?”
“Pardon me for saving your life, next time–”
“So,” Remus interrupts, “I won’t be able to rent a place.”
Sirius throws up his hands. “Right, right, and you won’t want to rely on charity, I’ve doomed you, I’m the worst–”
“What you are is not listening,” Remus says, and grabs him in a long, fierce kiss that steals the breath right out of his lungs. “Can I move back in?”
“Oh,” Sirius says. Hopefully, his brain will start working soon, though it has never exactly been quick to do so when kissing is involved. “I…I’ll have to go to the shops. I’m out of biscuits.”