Paper Wings

Making Water Falls

Remus stood with his face thrown back towards the sky. At his feet was the bale of dry, dusty hay he had just pulled from the antique farm truck. He caught his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, forearm slick and steaming. Little bits of seed and shaft clung to his skin.

Shadows fell long over the grass in the cool April evening. Only a few more bales to unload, then he would finish the chores around the stable yard and head home. He looked out at the distant fields, dotted with grazing sheep, then exhaled and pulled another bale off the truck.

As Remus tossed the final feed out for the animals, something shifted in the corner of his field of vision. He looked sharply toward the far edge of the paddock, which was bordered by dark grey rocks and a small copse of trees. He saw nothing moving, but neither could he shake the prickling sensation at the back of his neck.

No need for nerves. It's just the moon.

Waxing full, the moon was climbing over the eastern horizon, reflecting the golden glow of the afternoon sun. Scanning the tree line again, Remus considered driving over for a better look. But that would require extra minutes in the rusty old truck while it jumped, bucked, and stalled under his inexpert hand; he thought better of it.

Just anxious. Just the moon.

The spring grass whispered in a gentle breeze, disturbed by nothing more celestial than a grazing herbivore. Remus rolled his head and gently rubbed the soreness from his neck and weary shoulders.

Then he heard a loud bark.

Suddenly his entire body was taut as a bowstring. His breath caught, and his eyes snapped back to the edge of the field. The bark was joyful, friendly, welcoming. Remus jogged a few steps towards the trees, a lump growing in his throat and a smile creeping over his lips. His heart fluttered in his chest. Amidst the boulders, a wagging tail was heading towards him -- a shaggy, black, wagging tail.

"Sirius?" he called hoarsely.

There was an answering bark.

Heady, as though he'd just finished a glass of Fizzy Wine, Remus hurtled towards the sound, his feet pounding on the muddy, rocky soil.

Then the dog's head emerged from behind the rocks. It had a black and white, fox-like face, with floppy ears and a broad grin. It was just the sheepdog.

"Toby," Remus choked, stopping dead in his tracks. He rested a shaking hand against his eyes as the dog bounded up to him, tail wagging. "What're you doing back there?" He reached down reflexively to pat the furry head. "Getting into trouble?"

The dog jumped up eagerly, front paws landing on Remus' stomach, pushing him back a step. Remus rubbed the shaggy shoulders and set the animal down. He walked back to the truck and opened the door for Toby -- the county's friendliest and least reliable shepherd -- to jump inside.

***

Remus opened the door to his cottage, left his muddy boots on the threshold, and slumped onto the couch. Shapeless red cushions yielded to his weight. He considered preparing something to eat, or removing his sweaty clothes before climbing up to shower, but every option required more energy than he could muster. During the past two weeks of working on Blythe's farm, Remus had discovered muscles that he had never really realised he had.

And every single one of them was queued to register its complaints.

He'd been thankful, at first, for the pure physical exhaustion brought on by work at the farm. Too tired to think, he would arrive home after dark, eat whatever food Mrs. Blythe pressed upon him, shower, and fall into a dreamless sleep until just before dawn the following day. Too tired to worry, too exhausted to wonder, he was eminently thankful for the distraction of the job -- and he rather liked the sheep with their bleating little lambs.

He walked down the hill every morning, climbed it every night. Life fell into a soft, easy rhythm. And though he piled the daily Prophets in the corner without reading the headlines, though he assiduously ignored the empty shopping bag folded in the corner of his room, though he slept on only half of the bed, no one was any the wiser.

He'd told Mr. Blythe, yesterday, that he would be travelling for the weekend, visiting a cousin in the city who needed periodic care. Mr. Blythe assured Remus that he understood completely, having a niece of his own who required much of his time, especially after her parents had passed away.

Remus lay on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling until his eyes closed. Body limp and sagging, a deadweight fallen into the sea of sleep, his mind wandered through old dreams.

***

Remus.

Go away, 'm sleeping.

I did. Wake up.

So tired.

Wake up. I made you breakfast.

Hands caught his firmly as he tried to brush them away. The domestic smell of baking bread? -- tickled his nose.

***

Remus rolled onto his side, squeezing his eyes closed tighter, trying to remember his dream.

The scent of overly-toasted toast seeped through his sleep-thick thoughts, and warmth enveloped his toes.

Instantly, he was wide awake and reaching for his wand. Fire. Dizzy, his head reeling, he leapt to his feet, knocking a wool blanket to the floor. Three breaths later, a Dousing Spell on the tip of his tongue, he froze in the kitchen doorway, heart thudding dully against his ribs.

"Sirius?"

Sirius was bent over the oven as clouds of billowing smoke poured out. He stood upright and emerged from the haze, eyes slightly bloodshot, holding a loaf-shaped lump of charcoal.

"I tried to warm it up," he said by way of explanation, prodding the black bread tentatively.

"Sirius?" Remus repeated, appalled by the harsh rasp of his own voice.

"So they tell me." Sirius flashed him a roguish wink then smiled.

Remus closed his eyes and opened them again. Sirius was still there. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, his hair short and dark, his smile hopeful.

A thousand questions rose and fell in Remus' mind, and he released the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. The air left his lungs in a gentle rush. "Sirius. For the love of --" He shook his head. "What are you doing here?"

"Making breakfast," Sirius answered, brandishing the scorched loaf.

Remus tilted his head, but did not step into the kitchen. If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up.

"It's a little crisp," Sirius said hesitantly.

Remus stared with no idea how to respond.

Sirius' hands dropped to his sides. "I...I can go."

"No," Remus said quickly. "Don't." He felt as though the world had spun on its head, performed a series of complicated gymnastics and Apparated into another reality while he was sleeping. He shook his head and pressed a hand to his eyes until little stars erupted in the corner of his vision. When he removed the hand, Sirius and the overcooked loaf were still there. "I just...didn't expect." He raised one eyebrow and looked at the burnt bread in Sirius' hand, at Sirius looking up at him with wide, grey eyes, and nearly laughed aloud. "So, breakfast?"

"Toast!" Sirius replied, bouncing the loaf on the table, upsetting two glasses of milk, and sending a tangerine rolling across the wood.

It began as a grin, a hint of snicker, a hitch of breath, and it grew to fill the sunlit kitchen. Remus laughed until all the madness of the world finally disappeared in a whorl of hiccoughing sound. There were tears in his eyes as he pushed away from the door. He wiped them away and finally stepped into the room.

"Right. Breakfast, less one loaf of bread." Sirius sat him at the table and proffered food; eggs, fruit, and tea.

Remus leaned back, savouring the moment. Sirius was in his kitchen, alive, well, innocent, and cooking. The questions were there -- Where have you been? Why didn't you write? Why didn't you tell me anything? Where did you go? -- but as the minutes ticked by, most faded into the sights and smells of home.

He watched Sirius eat, examining each gesture and shift of weight, the mannerisms he'd forgotten in the months they'd been apart. He studied the tension in Sirius' wrist as he poured a glass of milk, watched his eyes narrow with concentration while the eggs sizzled in the pan. He relearned Sirius' long fingers, now peeling an orange, now slipping each section into his mouth, saw the lips purse while he chewed quietly, smiling when the juice exploded on his tongue. Remus watched him sip his tea, stir in more honey, sip again, swallow carefully, memorised the roll of his hands as he spun the new wand between his fingers, admired the light reflecting in the irises of his eyes, pale and bright as this perfect morning.

Sirius smiled, comfortable now, as though he'd lived here always. He told Remus about the time he'd spent in London, his journey back to the farm. Last night, he met Toby, and scented Remus' presence on the strange dog, known he was close. He followed the trail to the cottage; the lights were on, but Remus didn't answer the door. He'd come in the back way, found a blanket, decided that breakfast was in order, and left to buy food.

"...and that's all," he finished with a sweeping gesture that narrowly missed his teacup on the table.

"That's all." Remus paused. The sun was high in the sky. New buds were ready to burst in the trees outside the kitchen window. A sparrow lit on one of the branches and began to hop around. Dappled shadows shifted with the breeze. "That's all," he said again.

Except it wasn't. The story may have ended, but Remus still didn't understand how it began.

"Sirius?" he asked.

Sirius stopped with his teacup at his lips, the muscles in his neck almost imperceptibly tense. He raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Why?"

Sirius was silent, letting the word float between them.

Why?

Remus knew the answer to every question but that. He recalled the weeks before the Potters went into hiding, the fights, the deceptions. He replayed every horrible moment in his memory. They were excuses, but not reasons.

"You didn't trust me," Remus pressed when Sirius didn't answer. He kept his voice false, light. "When you made the switch." He stared at the sunlit garden. The sparrow was gone. "Why?"

Sirius swallowed, his Adam's apple shifting up and down. "It was...it was their lives on the line," he said, voice breaking. "Lily and James...and Harry." He paused again, and drew a ragged breath. "I had to be certain."

It wasn't an answer. Remus looked into his eyes. He saw regret, sadness, but no plea for forgiveness.

"You weren't certain that I--?" He nearly choked on the words.

Sirius looked guiltily at the floor. "I--" his voice broke. "I heard things. I couldn't ask you. Couldn't even find you. They said," he paused and took a deep breath, "horrible things."

You're no better than the rest of those monsters!

Sirius barrelled on, his eyes stormy-grey, his hands shaking. The teacup rattled in its saucer until he let it go. "It was -- I can't even remember who said it -- Moody or Rogers or Kensington, who told me once, years ago, that it was always from our blind spot we were hit hardest. It was you. You were my blind spot, Remus; I loved you so bloody much." He stopped abruptly and swallowed a sip of tea. When he set the cup back in the saucer, his hand was steadier. "I had to be certain."

The sunlight spilled across the wooden table. For a long while, they sat in silence, recalling the secrecy, lies, mistrust.

"I'm Sorry," Sirius finally said. No more than a whisper.

Remus felt a half-smile creep across his lips. "I'm sorry I believed them when they took you away."

The smile grew, and mirrored Sirius' own. "It's really all down to them, eh?"

"What do they know?"

Sirius laughed, loud and bark-like. "Nothing, and I plan to keep it that way." It was an old line, silly, loaded with memories of four boys darting through halls, hiding behind suits of armour, staring blankly ahead as the soup began to sing or let rip a god-awful stench. They finished breakfast in companionable silence.

Eventually, Remus stood to clear the dishes, running warm water in the sink. The garden was full of birdsong.

***

Sirius insisted that Remus kip and puttered downstairs while Remus slept the afternoon away. He sorted through their old books -- on new shelves now. He folded the blanket, then opened it to cover the wretched red couch then, noticing several stains in its woven pattern, folded it again. He ran his fingers through the folds of Remus' old travelling cloak, wondering where it had been to in the months of his absence, tidied up the kitchen -- breaking one teacup and fixing it with a quickly muttered Reparo.

Now soft, orange evening light fell through the room. As the sun set, Sirius felt a familiar unease and excitement ripple through him, replacing the silent distractions of the afternoon. He paced, sat down to read, stood, selected another book and tried again.

The smell of burnt toast, soap and Remus lingered in the cottage air. Something moved above him, and Sirius listened to the heavy footfalls come down the stairs. Then Remus was standing opposite him, outlines ginger and sharp, and his heart steadied in his chest.

Sirius grinned when Remus approached. "I was about to come get you," he said, closing his book and setting it down. "The sun's setting."

Remus grunted. Sirius watched him answer with a subtle sway of limbs, eyes -- too sensitive -- blinking in the light, nostrils flaring.

"I thought we could go exploring tonight." He looked hopefully at Remus and gestured to the forest beyond the front garden.

"Sirius," Remus said quietly. "That isn't safe. I'm going out there alone. I've a cage -- just out back." He indicated vaguely at the living room wall.

Sirius couldn't hide his disappointment or the sinking fall of his gut. "But," he protested weakly, "but in the forest, we always used to...I always kept you safe. Me and--" James.

"I know," Remus sighed. "But this isn't then. I need to know--" He paused. "I need to be certain."

There was only the slightest hint of bitter irony in the words. Sirius nodded, not meeting Remus' eyes. His shoulders sagged. He knew.

Remus brightened. "After tonight, we can protect an area of forest, ward it off. We'll do it -- when we have time. But tonight, alone."

Sirius held out a hand.

Remus crossed the room and took it. Remus was warmth, pulse racing through his fingertips, skin rough and calloused. The knot in Sirius' throat swelled to bursting. Remus lay his other hand against Sirius' cheek. Sirius stiffened, then was still. He held the moment as long as he could.

"We have time," Remus finally said, and with one final smile, slipped out into the deepening night.

***

If Remus wanted to be alone, then fine, Sirius thought. If Remus didn't trust him, thought he would run again -- he would show him. He would stay right here.

Sirius sat at the desk, gritting his teeth, looking anywhere but outside. He wished that he could stuff his ears, plunge the world into silence, block out the screaming howls that rattled the cottage windows.

He paced the room, shook his head, walked into the kitchen, ran warm water, watched it spill into the basin. It did not drown the howls. He considered using magic, but left his wand untouched. He walked upstairs, then down. He found his hand on the doorknob, ready to open the door but thought better of it and, with a growling sigh, turned away.

He glanced out the kitchen window. Moonshadows fell from the forest and garden. He could just make out the edge of the cage and its sinister outline along the ground.

His neck itched. His shoulders were tense. He paced the small cottage again. Outside, Remus howled.

The moon was high, the shadows all but gone. Sirius reached for the door again, and this time, something inside him melted. Mistrust and grudge forgotten, Moony was calling him. He opened the door.

Stepping outside, Sirius closed his eyes, exhaled, and felt the smooth shiver of transformation through his body, felt his paws land on the dewy grass, droplets of early morning mist clinging to his coat. He sniffed the air, inhaling the scents of the forest, the cottage, the wolf. He trotted around the side of the house.

Remus was huge, larger than he remembered, and angry. Heckles raised, droplets of blood flecked his snout, teeth, tongue, and he pitched himself at the bars of the cage, jaws snapping on anything and everything which they found purchase. Sirius approached slowly, softly, swallowing his fear.

This was the stuff of his nightmares.

Remus stopped, watched his approach, fur bristling, teeth bared. Then he charged the cage, furious and howling, the werewolf threw Remus' body against the bars.

Sirius came closer, step by deliberate step, until they were nose to huffing nose. They sniffed, and recognition bloomed. A grin spread slowly, replacing the lupine growl.

They began to play as best they could through the iron bars, hesitant at first, then rolling and rollicking, tails wagging, tongues lolling. Sirius even found a stick. They tugged on each end, batted at each other, huge paws against the moonlit sky. Finally, they collapsed, exhausted, onto the ground, side by side in the deepening night.

The hours fell away like rinse water. In the cool, grey light before dawn, Remus lay huffing steamy breath into the cool morning. He shivered once, twice, and then began to spasm and change. With a last, desperate glance at Sirius and a soul-shearing groan, his body shifted, bones rearranging themselves beneath Remus' blue-tinged skin as the sable coat retreated.

Then there was only Remus, shaking on the floor of the cage, exposed to the chill morning sky and making small noises in the back of his throat. Sirius was human and in the cage with him. It took only a heartbeat, maybe less. He flicked his wand and lifted Remus -- weightless under the Levitation spell -- held him tight, afraid that he would blow away on the morning mist. Soft sounds of protest escaped Remus' lips.

"Shhh," Sirius breathed onto Remus' neck. Some of the tension ebbed, his shuddering shoulders stilled.

"Mmm...Pads," Remus murmured against his collar bone as they made their way to the cottage.

"'M here, Moony."

Remus looked up at him, brown eyes clearing in the glowing dawn. "I'm sorry," he said, with half a smile.

"For what?" Sirius chided gently.

"For not--" His explanation was broken by a jaw-splitting yawn. "For not trusting you."

Sirius walked another few steps before responding. Remus was still looking at him sleepily. "Y' daft tosser," he finally said. "I never should have--"

But Remus cut him off. "It's okay. Right?"

"Yeah, it's okay," Sirius said, holding Remus closer, and in that fresh, spring morning, he knew it was true.

***

After only a few hours of sleep, Sirius felt a heavy weight across his back. His breath caught, and he clutched at the sheets under his fingers. Sheets. Bed. Remus. He exhaled, rolling over, under and away from the body stretched out beside him. A soft sigh escaped Remus' lips as he drew his arm back in.

Sirius stood and padded across the cool wooden floor, settled on the chair in a pool of sunlight and watched, wondered whether Remus was dreaming.

Remus was stretched out on the bed, just wandering that line between sleep and wakefulness. One arm was cast across his chest, which rose and fell regularly. Four thin scrapes shone pink in the morning glow. A nearly-healed silver burn ringed his neck, and two more circled his wrists. His eyelids fluttered, lips parted slightly. The blanket was crumpled around his waist, hipbones just visible. His skin was pale beneath the freckled tan across his shoulders, muscles trembling ever so slightly.

Sirius felt surge of possessive pride and a powerful longing. A little more world-weary, perhaps, a few more scars, but this was his Moony all the same.

Remus turned and murmured in his sleep. His lips moved soundlessly, then relaxed into the faintest of smiles. The white sheen of a soothing salve was smeared across his cheek. Sirius had healed the small cuts and bruises; the proper spells and treatments came back to him easily despite months of disuse.

"Mmm--Morning," Remus yawned, wincing. Languidly, he opened his eyes.

Sirius moved to the edge of the bed. "How are you?" he asked.

Remus closed his eyes, wriggled his fingers and toes then sat up against the headboard, the sheets slipping down, legs drawn in. He took a deep breath, rubbed his right shoulder, rotating the arm slowly, and smiled. "I'm fine," he said simply, mildly surprised.

Sirius wasn't convinced. "You gave that cage quite a beating, last night, trying to--"

"Trying to get at you?" Remus raised an eyebrow. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. "Cocky bastard." Then the grin disappeared. "Really, though," he insisted, "I couldn't be better." He squeezed Sirius hand and stood up slowly, leaning on the bedside table.

"You should rest." Sirius was at his side in a moment, hand on his shoulder. Remus sank back down to the bed.

"I know."

"You're shaky," Sirius added with a tender grin

"It's a beautiful morning," Remus protested half-heartedly.

"You're a stubborn bugger."

"Mmm." Remus smiled. "At least help me downstairs, to the sofa."

"That thing is hideous."

"I'm rather fond of it."

Before Sirius could think of a reply, Remus was there, mouth pressed against his, tongue slipping between his parted lips. Remus' arms were around him, holding, eyes closed. The initial surprise disappeared in rush of colour and heat, and Sirius was kissing back, breathing Remus' breath, listening to Remus' heartbeat against his chest, running his fingers through Remus' hair.

When they finally drew apart, Sirius was breathless, awed as a man who'd leapt from a cliff and found he could fly. Remus leaned against him, a welcome weight and heat in the morning sun. Then laughing, with elbows and affectionate jibes, limbs entwined over smiles and stumbles, they made their way downstairs.

***

FIN (except for the epilogue, of course)