Three Weeks Outside Time

"You want to know by what mysterious means
I reached the moon?--well--confidentially--
It was a new invention of my own."

--Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac

Chapter One

Before they'd gone out, Sylvie Lupin had drawn him aside and said to him in a hushed voice not meant to be overheard, "Thank you, Sirius, for everything you've done for my son. You and James and Peter. His father and I were so worried when we put him on the train five years ago, but each summer he's come back to us looking so happy--and healthy. His transformations have gotten easier, I think," Remus' mother had gone on, her large dark eyes--uncomfortably like her son's--filling with tears. "I don't know what the three of you have been doing, but I think it's more than Nick or I have ever been able to do. I love Remus so much," she'd whispered, and the tears had begun to spill down her cheeks, embarrassing both of them. "We both do. Nick and I. But we--" She'd noticed his discomfort then, finally, smiled ruefully, and finished, "--so, thank you. So much." Then she'd kissed his cheek--which had also felt strange because her lips were so like Remus'--and sent him on his way.

He hadn't told Remus about that scene. When he'd asked what his mother had wanted with him, Sirius had replied with a smirk, "What do all women want from me?" and earned himself a dunk in the river. He'd managed not to think about it all during their hike, their swim, and their unfortunate attempt at making supper. Now as the night wore on and he found himself unable to sleep, Mrs Lupin's words came back to him and refused to be shunted away again.

Rubbish, all of it, he decided after minimal reflection. She made him and James and Peter sound like bleeding hearts, and Remus like a charity case. What had she and her husband imagined they'd do when they realised their roommate was a werewolf? She couldn't know about Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Remus wouldn't have told her. So, what did she suppose they did, send him flowers once a month? Remus was a decent bloke. Better than decent. It was too bad he'd been dealt such a rotten hand; the least his mates could do was make it fun for him, as best they could. Nothing they could do about the painful transformations, unfortunately, but they could keep him company, try to keep him from tearing himself to pieces in the absence of human prey. Besides, he liked being Padfoot, and it had been great fun going under everyone's noses researching and then performing the difficult Animagus spell. The risk was what made it fun and the fact that Remus would benefit what made it the right thing to do.

Satisfied for the moment, Sirius reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a mashed pack of cigarettes. Remus didn't smoke, but Remus was asleep and not about to complain if he had a fag or two out in the open air. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke out slowly, lifting his eyes to watch the pale curtain rise and fade against the sky.

It was a lovely night. He never got to see stars like this in London; until his first camping trip at Hogwarts he'd never even realised what he was missing. Remus might be less keen on the view, though, he reflected as his gaze flicked to the waxing moon, hanging like a great toothy grin against the glittering backdrop. It would be full in four nights.

"Don't you mess with my mate," he said darkly as he snuffed his cigarette against the dirt. "We're onto you. I seriously doubt anyone's going to miss you. Overrated things, tides."

The sound of his voice and the fact that the object he addressed was thousands of miles away, made him lonely. He hated being the last one to fall asleep, always had. He considered rousing Moony, but decided against it; the other boy had gotten himself pissed enough on the whisky they'd nicked to make waking him not worth the effort. Sirius had consumed as much, if not more, but instead of knocking him out, the alcohol made him jumpy, restless. He felt it in his blood, a trickle of fire dripping into his heart.

He wanted to be up and running. Instead he found himself watching Remus as he inhaled and exhaled deeply, the thin lips half-parted, the dishevelled light-brown head resting heavily on limp, delicate wrists. Moonlight spilled down onto his exposed neck, and for some reason this made something inside Sirius burn with more than the firewhisky. He crawled forward, over the dirt, on his elbows and placed himself between the sleeping boy and the moonbeam.

Fuck it, he thought, he couldn't blow up the moon. This pointless little act was all he could manage. He couldn't save Remus, could only try to interpose himself between him and danger. Sylvie Lupin didn't know what she was talking about.

Anyway, if anything, Remus had saved him this summer, by inviting him to spend August with him in Scotland instead of at his family's house in London, where he'd no doubt have stifled by now. His usual saviour, James, was off in Tasmania, the lucky ponce; he'd rather chew off his own leg than spend more than two days with Peter, however nice Mrs Pettigrew was to him; and for some reason he and his girlfriend Catriona were having problems. Again.

He'd gone to Cat first, actually, when his own parents had begun to drive him mental. He hadn't seen her since the end of June and though he hadn't exactly been missing her he'd almost been able to convince himself for a day or two that it was good to be with her again. Her parents had been away, which had been fortunate because he hadn't felt up to skulking around, after having spent most of July doing just that in his own house. So, they hadn't skulked. They hadn't talked much, either. They'd done a lot of clubbing, a lot of drinking, and a lot of fucking. And bloody awful it had been. Stupid Cat, he thought. Or maybe he was the stupid one, thinking he could lose himself in her when he hadn't been able to lose himself in any other girl.

She'd put a stop to it, finally, and a good thing she had because he doubted he'd have had the strength to do it. He'd been jack-knifing into her one sweltering night and she'd said as calmly as though they'd been sharing afternoon tea, "Just finish, Black, and get off me. Then get out. This isn't working." Beautiful Cat. Really, really beautiful Cat, with her clear grey eyes, her cascade of strawberry-blond hair, her long white limbs, and her perfect pink nipples. She'd really been tossing him out. Beautiful Cat. And he, idiotically, had told her she was wrong, that it was working, even as he lost his erection and slumped on top of her, frustrated, confused, and nauseated--by her, himself, the other girls who'd been just as beautiful and just as wrong, his parents, James for being away--

He'd left for Melrose and Remus the next morning. He knew Cat assumed he'd go back when he'd had some time to sort himself out, and he supposed he would, but he doubted their relationship would last into September. He wasn't terribly put out by it, just annoyed that he'd have to start again with someone else.

Thank everything good and righteous for Remus, he thought, sucking on another cigarette and blowing the smoke away from the sleeping boy. Remus hadn't demanded anything of him, and his parents, Nicholas and Sylvie, were all right. More than all right. This camping trip had been their idea, and a good idea it had been. After the pounding noise of the clubs, the alcohol and the smoke and the sex, Sirius knew he needed a day or two of fresh air. And Remus was soothing company. Very soothing.

He smoked until the cigarette had burnt down to an inch; then he smothered it and turned back to his friend.

He looked peaceful, blanketed by Sirius' shadow. Peaceful and--beautiful. The observation sent a little spark through Sirius' body, but he shook himself and, No, he thought, Remus wasn't beautiful--not the way Cat and all her predecessors had been. There was something beautiful about him, though. Wondering why he hadn't realised until now just how pissed he was, Sirius continued to study Remus with a diligence he'd never applied to any of his subjects at school.

There were the brushstroke-fine eyebrows, arched frankly even in sleep over the short, downswept lashes. The eyes he already knew about. They were brown, the most ordinary colour in the world. Or maybe not so ordinary, he reflected, considering how they stood out against the pale face, or considering the solemnity, intelligence, and penchant for mischief that lay behind them. He was skinny, Sirius thought desperately, as his heart began to flounder against his ribcage. He had a long nose, a pointy chin, and he had big ears.

A breeze, cool and heather-laced, stirred his hair, gently as a caress. It did not touch Remus because of Sirius crouched over him and that struck Sirius as a gross injustice. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed a few errant strands back from Remus' smooth brow.

Remus sighed and his mouth settled into the smallest of smiles.

The universe paused as though holding its breath, and when it resumed less than a second later, only Sirius knew that everything had changed.

No, he thought as he pushed himself away from Remus and stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over his blankets in his haste to free himself. That was no answer. What the hell kind of answer was that? Answers were supposed to solve problems, not complicate ones that already existed.

He stood over Remus, breathing heavily and as vast as the world seemed for some reason there was not enough air in it to fill his lungs. No, he thought for the third and last time that night. He had to be somewhere else then, had to start moving and not stop until things went back to the way they were supposed to be. He transformed and took off across the low, rolling hills, swift as a thought and light as the moon's glow on water.

He ran through the heather, scattering blossoms like raindrops and raising a scent that somehow did not smother that of the one he'd left sleeping. He leaped over streams, over rocks, over low stone fences and fallen trees. He scared pheasants into the air and got thistles caught in his ruff and tail. He ran, and as he did the horizon seemed to stretch and strain away from him and when he paused finally, his chest heaving, at the crest of a hill, he realised what he was doing was pointless. He was no farther from Remus than he'd been at his side.

For years he'd been struggling, drowning in the skin of a person he could not be. For years. And here was shore, rocky and perhaps bleak, but shore. He'd asked for an answer and received it. He'd said no three times tonight, uselessly.

Maybe it was time for a yes.

He trotted back to the campsite, slowly, and to his surprise, found Remus awake there, his arms folded under his chin, his beautiful eyes scanning the darkness. The light in them when they glanced upon the dog was unmistakeable.

"Where did you go?" the boy asked as the dog approached. "Chasing conies? Come here. What's this in your hair? Thistles," he observed, untangling one and wrinkling his nose at it. "Very becoming, Padfoot."

The dog lowered his head and whined, but the slender hands continued to pluck thoughtlessly at his ruff. If he tried to back away, his legs would give out, they were trembling so violently. Remus noticed and asked him, concern and confusion in his tone, how far he'd gone.

How far had he gone? The dog did not know. He hadn't been aware of distance or time. He tried to think of them now, but the definitions seemed to have altered while he hadn't been paying attention. Where once there'd been something more abstract now there was near this person and away from this person. There was with this person and without this person, and the latter, the dog knew, was utterly intolerable.

"Change back," the boy entreated, and he wanted to, because as good as those hands felt on his hair, he knew they would feel even better on his skin.

But he didn't change. He couldn't change. Remus was only touching him because that was what one did with a dog. If he wanted to be touched--and he did, oh he did--he had to stay in this form. If he changed back, Remus would know. Somehow, something about Sirius--a change in his voice, his heartbeat, his eyes--would give him away, and Remus would know, and Remus couldn't know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The dog whined again in frustration, and beat the earth with his tail.

"All right," said Remus, "I guess you're not going to tell me. I'll take that to mean no Quintapeds are bearing down on our campsite." He yawned. "I'm bloody knackered. Go to sleep, Padfoot."

The boy withdrew his hands and the dog nearly let loose a howl of despair. Remus frowned up at him, his big dark eyes clouded with fatigue and bewilderment. "What is it?" he asked again. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

The dog tossed his head dismissively and sank to his haunches.

"Not hurt?"

Snort.

"All right?"

Huff.

"All right." This time it wasn't a question. Remus lay on his back, one hand behind his head, the other resting on his belly, and smiled at the dog, who at that moment wanted nothing more than to curl up at his side and bask in his nearness and warmth.

He had to content himself with keeping guard, and Remus seemed to understand that. "Well," he said, "you're completely mental, but I feel very safe." He gave the dog's ruff one last affectionate tug. Then he dropped his hand back against his belly, and closed his eyes.

The dog watched him. He watched until his breathing evened out and the rise and fall of his chest became a steady rhythm. He watched until the moon had completed its arc across the sky and sank below the distant hills. That threat passed, he settled down to sleep, but found he had to keep watching because dawn was beginning to flutter in the east, the stars were beginning to fade, and soon the sun would rise and the dog wanted to be awake when its first rays tangled in the sleeping boy's lashes and warmed his pale cheeks.

Gradually, as the sky lightened, the sounds and smells of night receded and before long were gone altogether, except in the dog's memory. He became aware of damp earth and grass, of birds coming awake, of running water and a breeze sighing through the gorse bushes.

Remus stirred, startling the dog. He was running out of time, he realised. Once Remus woke, he would have to change back, and then there would have to be explanations.

He did not waste time. Taking great care not to disturb the boy, not even to let his shadow fall across him, he leaned close and touched his wet nose lightly to one smooth cheek. Remus' lashes twitched and the dog withdrew, holding the boy's scent--the best scent in the world, surely--in his lungs. He held it until he no longer could and when he released it, at last, he felt another shiver of despair writhe through his body.

It was stupid. Even as a dog, he knew it was stupid. It couldn't possibly come to anything. Remus was straight. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. All he had--all he would ever have, in all likelihood--was this fancy, and this kiss that wasn't quite a kiss.

He was too tired to think anymore. He put his head between his paws and went to sleep.