*Peter makes only a dismissive noise--it's nothing--and puts down his cider to greet Remus with a handshake. He knows better than to hug, not now.
He catches the stiffness in Remus' stride, the slight strain to his smile--but he wouldn't have to. Two years of anticipating the full moon, of planning their adventures (right here at this pub, sometimes) and he still carries the lunar calendar in his head. There's still a part of him that starts when he writes the date on his parchments at work, that thinks it's coming up now, what's the plan before he reminds himself that that part of their lives is over now. And Padfoot can help Remus one-on-one, and Prongs can, but Peter? What good's a rat in a cellar with a wolf?
And then his mind catches on that: a rat, a rat, a rat and his smile twists into something pained and awkward just before he speaks, almost desperately.*
*The smile twists a bit into a self-deprecating grimace, and he carefully pushes the sleeve of his knobbly cardigan up to the elbows. There's a bandage around his wrist, about the width of the wolf's mouth; nothing remarkable. They've both seen it much worse, like the time in fourth year he'd bitten clean through the tendons and had had to write left-handed for a month. That's the trouble with the bites - cursed wounds are cursed wounds, whether he's already infected or not, and any part of his body accessible on those nights is a mess of scars. Arms, legs, hips - he's long since stopped being bothered when new ones are added.*
It wasn't too bad this time. Mum fussed about it but you know how she is. How are you?
*He speaks quickly, almost-but-not-quite brushing it off; the very last thing Peter wants to talk about right now is himself. That's part of why they're here in the first place. He needs a friendly face and a distraction and it's that week and he was feeling nostalgic so here they are, and if Remus doesn't raise another subject soon he might scream.*
*He's ill but he's not blind; something's odd in the way Peter answered that, but Remus chalks it up to grief, or stress. It's getting to everyone - Severus's death is surreal, never mind the Marauders' colorful history with him, and everyone had loved Marlene. They've lost Order members before, too many of them, but he can't shake the feeling that a noose is tightening around the whole group.*
I know.
*His voice lowers and softens sympathetically.*
None of it's really sunk in yet. Lily's beside herself about him.
Comments 32
He catches the stiffness in Remus' stride, the slight strain to his smile--but he wouldn't have to. Two years of anticipating the full moon, of planning their adventures (right here at this pub, sometimes) and he still carries the lunar calendar in his head. There's still a part of him that starts when he writes the date on his parchments at work, that thinks it's coming up now, what's the plan before he reminds himself that that part of their lives is over now. And Padfoot can help Remus one-on-one, and Prongs can, but Peter? What good's a rat in a cellar with a wolf?
And then his mind catches on that: a rat, a rat, a rat and his smile twists into something pained and awkward just before he speaks, almost desperately.*
All right, Moony?
Reply
It wasn't too bad this time. Mum fussed about it but you know how she is. How are you?
Reply
*He speaks quickly, almost-but-not-quite brushing it off; the very last thing Peter wants to talk about right now is himself. That's part of why they're here in the first place. He needs a friendly face and a distraction and it's that week and he was feeling nostalgic so here they are, and if Remus doesn't raise another subject soon he might scream.*
You know.
Reply
I know.
*His voice lowers and softens sympathetically.*
None of it's really sunk in yet. Lily's beside herself about him.
Reply
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