All Right

Once again, Lupin has fallen asleep on your sofa. It would hardly be fair to blame him for it when you know that his exhaustion stems from a combination of weariness from his transformation and an all-night raid for him and other members of the Order while you feigned solidarity with the Death-Eaters. At times, you and Dumbledore agreed, it might be imprudent for Lupin to return to Grimmauld Place; the house's ownership is now a matter for Ministry experts to work out, since Black died without heirs and his closest cousins have all been legally removed from the right of inheritance.

You haven't minded allowing Lupin to visit nearly so much as you thought you might. Without Potter and Black to goad him, he can be quite civil, intelligent, not at all like the dark creature he becomes at the full moon. When you finished fetching tea, you had been looking forward to discussing invisible potions that would allow a wizard to track a marked object - very useful in defense against the dark arts - and you cannot deny a certain irritation when you see that Lupin has dropped off before you've even found time to sit down. He has certainly made himself at home, sprawled over your cushions, flushed and rumpled like an unkempt student.

Given his evident fatigue, you can't send him back to Grimmauld Place in such a state even if you could disregard concerns for his safety. There are blankets on the bed in the room reserved for visiting guests, so letting him stay the night will inconvenience you very little. You won't even need to involve any bothersome house-elves. Besides, you like the idea of him beholden to you, and you're already looking forward to breakfast, when Lupin will turn his appreciative smile on you and then have little choice but to acquiesce when you request his assistance with your potions.

Kneeling, you gaze at the werewolf's face peaceful in sleep. His limp arms drape in front of his chest and his long legs bend at the knees so that his feet can press the armrest. It seems a shame to rouse him even to direct him to a more comfortable bed, but you know the flat cushions provide no real comfort for a long night, and the room will grow chilly once the fire has burned down. Asleep, Lupin looks younger, with the lines on his face smoothed and his prematurely greying hair faded in the dim light. His self-deprecating slouch has never fooled you, though: Lupin can be overbearing and aggressive, posturing and making demands when one would expect a dark creature to avoid drawing attention to himself. Yet sometimes when your eyes meet, there's an odd shyness - not the disdain that his beloved Black was always so willing to offer.

Carefully you close your hand around his forearm, squeezing. "Lupin," you whisper.

His eyes open and try to focus. There is no hitch the steadiness of his breathing; perhaps he believes that he is still asleep. Yet he smiles encouragingly at you, turning his palm over to press yours. "Severus."

"Come to bed," you say.

Those words wake Lupin fully. He sits up, eyes fixed on yours, and his lips part, making his whole face look as if he wants to ask a question. You think that perhaps he is still stupid from sleep and didn't understand your words. Then he grins a bit, but he's staring as if he doesn't recognize you, studying you very closely as though it is necessary to be certain that you're not secretly a vampire or some other creature which might devour him in his sleep.

It's ludicrous, really, for a werewolf to appear so suspicious, and you redden slightly in resentment. "Are you coming, or would you prefer to spend the night tossing and turning out here?"

At your blush, Lupin's smile explodes across his face, even though he still looks bewildered. "All right," he murmurs in a low, hoarse voice, not a voice you've ever heard him use before. Inexplicably, it gives you chills. That and your reaction to the intensity of his stare make you wonder whether you are as overtired as he is.

When you straighten, Lupin reaches for your hand, and after a moment of confusion you help pull him upright, so that you're nearly nose to nose for a moment as he stumbles to his feet. He lets out a complicit-sounding laugh before you turn to lead him out of the room. Oddly, since it's not completely dark with the fire burning down, he's still holding your hand.

Then, as you pull him around the corner, you realize you what you said to him. What he thinks you were suggesting. Where he thinks you're taking him. What he thinks you want do with him there.

You stop short, all the breath rushing out of you, as if someone has used an Immobilus spell to halt your movement. Lupin bumps into you from behind, laughing again, that same thick throaty buzz that makes you shiver. The goosebumps strike your neck and chest while at the same time you feel perspiration prickling your armpits and groin.

How typical of a werewolf to attribute a lewd meaning to an innocent offer - this is why you've always thought it best to keep your distance from such a creature, even if he feigns affability when the moon is not full. And does Lupin really think of you as the sort of man who'd simply invite another man to his bed? That is a misconception that you must clear up at once. So you turn.

He's beaming at you. He's delighted with you. Wide awake now, looking as if it's his birthday and you've just confessed that you have presents for him in the other room. That's when it occurs to you that he said all right. Before you even got around to figuring out what you'd asked him, he'd already agreed.

You wish your throat weren't so constricted, because you're sure you could set him straight with a few words if only you could breathe properly. "Severus," whispers Lupin, searching your face again, and your disgust must be starting to surface because his smile wavers. "Were you joking?" he asks, as if you would have made such a suggestion even in jest.

Abruptly his fingers tug free from yours. A flicker of sadness twists his mouth and the pain of betrayal makes him shut his eyes before he opens them again, narrowed, and sets his lips in a forced, menacing grin. "The joke's over."

There's your chance to regain your dignity, even to scoff at his absurd belief that you, the Head of Slytherin House, would stoop so low as to proposition a werewolf, but the moment the warmth has gone from his face and voice, you want it back. You want it back more than your privacy, your reputation or whatever else you thought might be at risk; you want it back more than you want to explain things to him. The depth of the longing shakes you, rising up from a place in yourself you hadn't thought existed, not since you took the Dark Mark at least.

Because you still can't inhale with your usual efficiency, you just shake your head no, which makes you dizzy. You stumble helplessly against the wall, and Lupin sees. He steps closer, reaching out, then checking himself, but your rebellious hand has already encountered his again, and the two of you stand for a few moments staring in the dimness at your interlocked fingers. You think about how he looked earlier in the evening on your sofa when you noticed the splay of his fingers against the cushions, the ripple and stretch of his muscles, the lines fading from around his eyes. You hadn't realized that you were watching so closely.

Evidently you hadn't realized a great many things.

So gradually that you don't even notice the movement, Lupin comes to rest beside you against the wall, his shoulder barely brushing yours - not crowding you, perhaps under the mistaken impression that you may be panicking. His arm feels solid and warm. Exhaustion strikes you with the same force that depleted him earlier, and you must fight an impulse to lean against him, allowing him to support you for a moment...to lead *you* to bed and take the weight of decision from you.

"Tired?" he asks quietly. Gratefully you nod, finding that you can meet his eyes when he steps back. "Me too." There's a kind of regret tugging down the corners of his smile but his eyes are warm again, as is his hand, holding your clammy palm against his own. You're breathing more easily now, which is such a relief that you ignore for a moment the color flooding your face and the shameful weakness in your knees. Even without Legilimency you can read his uncertainty, the confused desire and fear of rejection; whatever else he may be thinking, he is not scoffing at you.

Neither of you speaks again until you step forward, keeping your fingers laced with his, to lead him to your bedroom. By the time you're finished putting out the candles and spelling the kettle so that there will be tea as soon as you wake, Lupin is stretched out on his side on your bed, fast asleep. Or at least, if he isn't really sleeping, he's leaving it up to you whether you want to find out.

You lie down beside him, adjusting to the way his weight changes the angle of the mattress. You're wearing more clothing than usual to bed but not so much that you couldn't sleep comfortably. It's strange to be able to feel and smell him so close to you in your own room, though if you are going to be completely honest with yourself, the feeling is quite pleasant even when you try to remind yourself of who and what he is.

In the darkness you think about what he'd thought you wanted - what he'd thought he had agreed to do. And how happy he'd been. And how foolish you've been. Now that you can breathe, you can let yourself remember his smile, your physical reactions to it not just tonight but for a long time, those chills you couldn't explain but that never happen in anyone else's presence, and you know it's not fear of the wolf that's been constraining you. When you chance a look in his direction at his calm, presumably sleeping face, you feel none of the hatred you harbored while Black was alive. You're uneasy that perhaps someone else might have noticed the change - it would merely be humiliating if anyone in the Order knew, but it might be deadly if discovered by other associates, for Lupin as well as for yourself.

Despite all the anger you have stored up over the years, you have no wish to hurt him. If you recollect the happiness draining out of his face - something like how you imagine a man must look facing a Dementor, all his joy sucked away - your chest tightens again. It's a very unpleasant feeling, much harder to accept than the way you begin to perspire when he stares at you. Now that you know what it means, you're embarrassed that you didn't notice before, concerned that you have such a vulnerability...and filled with hope, that most dangerous of feelings, which triggers foolhardy decisions and sparks so much disappointment.

Across the blanket, Remus lets his arm uncurl toward you. Despite everything you know, you think that it will be all right, and when his fingers weave between your own, you dare to hope that perhaps it will be better than all right.

You fall asleep like that, side by side, hand in hand.