On Knowledge (All Ye Know on Earth, and All Ye Need to Know Remix) [Harry Potter; Remus/Sirius;PG13]
Title: On Knowledge (All Ye Know on Earth, and All Ye Need to Know Remix)
Author: bironic
Summary: Remus Lupin doesn't know a lot of things.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I tread on the toes of the richest woman in England and her multinational media minions.
Original story: "On Knowledge" by das_kabinett
Beta: The ever-delightful thewlisian_afer.
Remus Lupin doesn't know a lot of things.
He doesn't know why the doorknob to his flat still squeaks when it's been the recipient of more Lubricatus charms than the performers in Rectumsempra!, Beaters and Broomsticks and the other "fine adult films" Sirius nicked from the Slytherin boys' dormitories one memorable night in their sixth year. He doesn't know the capital of Djibouti or what incited the Goblin Riots of 1413 or why his favorite Self-Inking quill has taken to dotting its "i"s with tiny hearts. Neither does he know how to fry streaky bacon without filling the kitchen with smoke (though he has learned-the hard way-not to cast Aguamenti on grease fires), nor how to get the hair at the nape of his neck to stop curling on damp mornings, nor what precisely is living in his wardrobe that keeps nibbling holes in his favorite jumpers.
He doesn't know if Evans-no, it's Potter now, Lily Potter, and how in Merlin's name did that ever happen?-has devised a cleverer solution to living with James' stentorian snoring than the Marauders' old standby of casting exasperated Quietus charms on him in the middle of the night. He has no idea where Peter's been picking up those filthy jokes about the Aurors and the giant squid. He doesn't know if Sirius is lonely living on his own for the first time in his life, or how long it takes Sirius' face and forearms to freckle in the summer sun, or whether Sirius' hair is as soft and warm as Padfoot's. Until recently, Remus didn't know why he kept catching Sirius staring at him at the oddest moments (not that Remus was complaining, no sir, not when it provided such potent fodder for his wank sessions).
That matter, at least, was cleared up Tuesday last when Sirius cornered him after work and asked him on a date.
Asked him. On a date.
At least Remus knew he wanted to say yes. Which he did do. Emphatically and without hesitation.
But more on that in a minute.
Some of what Remus doesn't know can, in fact, hurt him. Now that James is married and Peter's always off doing something-or-other with his new job, he doesn't know how to keep from slashing his skin to ribbons with his own hands on full moon nights when Sirius is busy. He'll never know how to brew the intricate, delicate Wolfsbane potion that tantalizes him with solutions to so many of his problems. He doesn't know when the Ministry will pass its next edict further restricting werewolf rights, only that it's sure to happen sometime, probably sooner rather than later. He doesn't know how long he has before this employer catches on to the pattern of his absences and fires him. He doesn't know where he'll be living a year from now-or for that matter, whether he'll be able to afford food.
Remus tries not to think about how he doesn't know when this war will end. Who will be the victor. How many more of his friends and their families will die before the dust settles. He suspects that this is an area in which ignorance may very well be bliss.
Sirius-now, Sirius seems to know everything. He knows how to speak his mind without worrying what people think of him, a freedom Remus wishes he could enjoy. He knows what to say to girls to make them go all googly-eyed. He knows how to get his hair to flop into his eyes just so, and how to lean in doorways and lounge on sofas and straddle chairs and affect world-weary poses as though he's a model in a magazine, and generally how to look cool without trying. He knows when to touch Remus and when to leave him alone the morning after a full moon. He intuits loads of things about Remus that no one else picks up on, such as his deep and abiding hatred of broccoli and the fact that he likes about seven sugar cubes in his tea even though he tells people he only takes two (it's the polite amount).
Sirius even divined, somehow, one of Remus' Deepest Darkest Secrets (besides the at-first terrifying and then wonderfully liberating "Ha ha ha, er, yes, I am in fact a werewolf" confrontation back at Hogwarts, that is)-must have pieced together the tiny clues Remus had tried not to drop over the years that suggested he Chased for both teams. Sirius must have known what the occasional lingering glances and uncomfortable laughter and splotches of color in his cheeks meant: that Remus preferred blokes in general, and Sirius in particular, a bit more than he preferred girls.
That, or Sirius took a bloody big risk Tuesday when he asked Remus out to dinner. Come to think of it, Sirius did look a little taken aback himself after blurting out the invitation.
In any case, it is now the Friday night in question, and, having showered and brushed his hair and found trousers that don't look like Wormtail's had a go at them and pressed the brown shirt Sirius likes because it apparently compliments Remus' eyes, Remus is pacing very small circles in his very small flat, fretting about an entirely new set of questions he doesn't know the answers to.
Such as: Tonight ought to be more formal than a boys' night out at the pub, but does that mean dinner's going to be some gut-clenching ordeal of awkwardness, all stilted conversation and stiff table manners? What do two blokes talk about on a dinner date, anyhow? Do two blokes still act like two blokes if they're seeing each other, or is one of them supposed to be the girl in the relationship? Is Remus supposed to be the girl? Sirius had been the one to do the asking and the time-setting, and now he's the one doing the picking-up as well. Will Sirius show up at his doorstep in dress robes bearing chocolates or flowers or-or, Merlin forbid, a corsage?
Wait-should he have got something for Sirius? A quick, frantic glance about the room reminds him that all he has to offer are some chewed-on bricks of chocolate in the first-aid kit Madam Pomfrey gave him as a graduation present, a few tattered books, kitchen utensils and assorted dust bunnies.
Bugger. Bugger, bugger, oh bugger. Tossing back that shot of firewhisky to settle his nerves may not have been the best idea; it seems to have intensified his desire to throw up in sheer panic because he is about to go on a date with Sirius and he is manifestly not thinking about what they might do afterwards, because if he lets his imagination trip down that path now, he may pass out from giddy anticipation before Sirius even gets here. The alcohol certainly hasn't stopped the glands pinpricking his face and palms with perspiration as he imagines Sirius preparing for tonight in his own flat, all cool and calm and collected and without a worry in the world, slicking his hair with the Sleekeasy's gel he keeps pinching from James, slipping on his leather jacket and slinging a leg over his m-
His motorbike.
"Eureka," Remus says aloud, stopping in his tracks. The motorbike. Sirius' beloved motorbike, on which Remus has ridden only once, under duress, white-knuckled and breathless. Here, here is something he can give Sirius; give them. He can overcome his fear and wariness of climbing onto a Muggle machine Sirius charmed to fly at ungodly speeds-he can-and ask for a ride, offer up this gesture of trust, try to understand and eventually share the thrill Sirius feels at the wheel. Just, preferably not on a full stomach.
Before he can come to his senses, he hears footsteps outside, and a moment later there are three quick knocks. Swallowing down his nausea, Remus shrugs on his robes and opens the door.
Sirius greets him with a sweaty, twitchy, panicked expression, empty-handed and smelling oddly of flowers. A quick glance over Sirius' shoulder reveals a surprising absence of death-defying personal transportation. However, Remus does catch sight of what looks like a hastily abandoned bouquet of pink flowers in the bushes to the side (which explains the strange perfume), and when Sirius opens and closes that extraordinarily kissable mouth a few times without managing to say anything, Remus feels a wash of relief, because maybe Sirius doesn't know everything after all. The nervousness begins to abate, and he finds himself smiling.
"No motorcycle?" he teases, inexplicably pleased at the thought that Sirius might have forgone it this evening for his sake.
"Nope," Sirius replies with a breath that visibly relaxes him, looking and sounding quite proud of himself. "I know you don't like it."
It's an easy out, but Remus scratches the back of his neck, then goes for it: "Let's skip dinner and take a ride. I'd like to learn to like it." Lest Sirius think he's being pushy, and to give himself one last escape route, he adds, "If that's all right?"
Sirius' face lights up in a dazzling smile that tells him exactly how all right it is, and that's when Remus realizes that everything will be fine, because this is Sirius. Sirius, who's dragging him away by the arm almost before Remus can lock the squeaky doorknob. Sirius, whose hair has once again effortlessly fallen just so over his bright eyes as he tugs Remus down the steps and past the sad remains of the unmentioned flowers. Sirius, whose hopelessly infectious smile has spread to Remus now, because that smile, unbelievably, is for him. Remus slips his hand into Sirius' and lets him lead the way.
Remus Lupin doesn't know much, but he does know Sirius Black, and that may be enough.
Author: bironic
Summary: Remus Lupin doesn't know a lot of things.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I tread on the toes of the richest woman in England and her multinational media minions.
Original story: "On Knowledge" by das_kabinett
Beta: The ever-delightful thewlisian_afer.
Remus Lupin doesn't know a lot of things.
He doesn't know why the doorknob to his flat still squeaks when it's been the recipient of more Lubricatus charms than the performers in Rectumsempra!, Beaters and Broomsticks and the other "fine adult films" Sirius nicked from the Slytherin boys' dormitories one memorable night in their sixth year. He doesn't know the capital of Djibouti or what incited the Goblin Riots of 1413 or why his favorite Self-Inking quill has taken to dotting its "i"s with tiny hearts. Neither does he know how to fry streaky bacon without filling the kitchen with smoke (though he has learned-the hard way-not to cast Aguamenti on grease fires), nor how to get the hair at the nape of his neck to stop curling on damp mornings, nor what precisely is living in his wardrobe that keeps nibbling holes in his favorite jumpers.
He doesn't know if Evans-no, it's Potter now, Lily Potter, and how in Merlin's name did that ever happen?-has devised a cleverer solution to living with James' stentorian snoring than the Marauders' old standby of casting exasperated Quietus charms on him in the middle of the night. He has no idea where Peter's been picking up those filthy jokes about the Aurors and the giant squid. He doesn't know if Sirius is lonely living on his own for the first time in his life, or how long it takes Sirius' face and forearms to freckle in the summer sun, or whether Sirius' hair is as soft and warm as Padfoot's. Until recently, Remus didn't know why he kept catching Sirius staring at him at the oddest moments (not that Remus was complaining, no sir, not when it provided such potent fodder for his wank sessions).
That matter, at least, was cleared up Tuesday last when Sirius cornered him after work and asked him on a date.
Asked him. On a date.
At least Remus knew he wanted to say yes. Which he did do. Emphatically and without hesitation.
But more on that in a minute.
Some of what Remus doesn't know can, in fact, hurt him. Now that James is married and Peter's always off doing something-or-other with his new job, he doesn't know how to keep from slashing his skin to ribbons with his own hands on full moon nights when Sirius is busy. He'll never know how to brew the intricate, delicate Wolfsbane potion that tantalizes him with solutions to so many of his problems. He doesn't know when the Ministry will pass its next edict further restricting werewolf rights, only that it's sure to happen sometime, probably sooner rather than later. He doesn't know how long he has before this employer catches on to the pattern of his absences and fires him. He doesn't know where he'll be living a year from now-or for that matter, whether he'll be able to afford food.
Remus tries not to think about how he doesn't know when this war will end. Who will be the victor. How many more of his friends and their families will die before the dust settles. He suspects that this is an area in which ignorance may very well be bliss.
Sirius-now, Sirius seems to know everything. He knows how to speak his mind without worrying what people think of him, a freedom Remus wishes he could enjoy. He knows what to say to girls to make them go all googly-eyed. He knows how to get his hair to flop into his eyes just so, and how to lean in doorways and lounge on sofas and straddle chairs and affect world-weary poses as though he's a model in a magazine, and generally how to look cool without trying. He knows when to touch Remus and when to leave him alone the morning after a full moon. He intuits loads of things about Remus that no one else picks up on, such as his deep and abiding hatred of broccoli and the fact that he likes about seven sugar cubes in his tea even though he tells people he only takes two (it's the polite amount).
Sirius even divined, somehow, one of Remus' Deepest Darkest Secrets (besides the at-first terrifying and then wonderfully liberating "Ha ha ha, er, yes, I am in fact a werewolf" confrontation back at Hogwarts, that is)-must have pieced together the tiny clues Remus had tried not to drop over the years that suggested he Chased for both teams. Sirius must have known what the occasional lingering glances and uncomfortable laughter and splotches of color in his cheeks meant: that Remus preferred blokes in general, and Sirius in particular, a bit more than he preferred girls.
That, or Sirius took a bloody big risk Tuesday when he asked Remus out to dinner. Come to think of it, Sirius did look a little taken aback himself after blurting out the invitation.
In any case, it is now the Friday night in question, and, having showered and brushed his hair and found trousers that don't look like Wormtail's had a go at them and pressed the brown shirt Sirius likes because it apparently compliments Remus' eyes, Remus is pacing very small circles in his very small flat, fretting about an entirely new set of questions he doesn't know the answers to.
Such as: Tonight ought to be more formal than a boys' night out at the pub, but does that mean dinner's going to be some gut-clenching ordeal of awkwardness, all stilted conversation and stiff table manners? What do two blokes talk about on a dinner date, anyhow? Do two blokes still act like two blokes if they're seeing each other, or is one of them supposed to be the girl in the relationship? Is Remus supposed to be the girl? Sirius had been the one to do the asking and the time-setting, and now he's the one doing the picking-up as well. Will Sirius show up at his doorstep in dress robes bearing chocolates or flowers or-or, Merlin forbid, a corsage?
Wait-should he have got something for Sirius? A quick, frantic glance about the room reminds him that all he has to offer are some chewed-on bricks of chocolate in the first-aid kit Madam Pomfrey gave him as a graduation present, a few tattered books, kitchen utensils and assorted dust bunnies.
Bugger. Bugger, bugger, oh bugger. Tossing back that shot of firewhisky to settle his nerves may not have been the best idea; it seems to have intensified his desire to throw up in sheer panic because he is about to go on a date with Sirius and he is manifestly not thinking about what they might do afterwards, because if he lets his imagination trip down that path now, he may pass out from giddy anticipation before Sirius even gets here. The alcohol certainly hasn't stopped the glands pinpricking his face and palms with perspiration as he imagines Sirius preparing for tonight in his own flat, all cool and calm and collected and without a worry in the world, slicking his hair with the Sleekeasy's gel he keeps pinching from James, slipping on his leather jacket and slinging a leg over his m-
His motorbike.
"Eureka," Remus says aloud, stopping in his tracks. The motorbike. Sirius' beloved motorbike, on which Remus has ridden only once, under duress, white-knuckled and breathless. Here, here is something he can give Sirius; give them. He can overcome his fear and wariness of climbing onto a Muggle machine Sirius charmed to fly at ungodly speeds-he can-and ask for a ride, offer up this gesture of trust, try to understand and eventually share the thrill Sirius feels at the wheel. Just, preferably not on a full stomach.
Before he can come to his senses, he hears footsteps outside, and a moment later there are three quick knocks. Swallowing down his nausea, Remus shrugs on his robes and opens the door.
Sirius greets him with a sweaty, twitchy, panicked expression, empty-handed and smelling oddly of flowers. A quick glance over Sirius' shoulder reveals a surprising absence of death-defying personal transportation. However, Remus does catch sight of what looks like a hastily abandoned bouquet of pink flowers in the bushes to the side (which explains the strange perfume), and when Sirius opens and closes that extraordinarily kissable mouth a few times without managing to say anything, Remus feels a wash of relief, because maybe Sirius doesn't know everything after all. The nervousness begins to abate, and he finds himself smiling.
"No motorcycle?" he teases, inexplicably pleased at the thought that Sirius might have forgone it this evening for his sake.
"Nope," Sirius replies with a breath that visibly relaxes him, looking and sounding quite proud of himself. "I know you don't like it."
It's an easy out, but Remus scratches the back of his neck, then goes for it: "Let's skip dinner and take a ride. I'd like to learn to like it." Lest Sirius think he's being pushy, and to give himself one last escape route, he adds, "If that's all right?"
Sirius' face lights up in a dazzling smile that tells him exactly how all right it is, and that's when Remus realizes that everything will be fine, because this is Sirius. Sirius, who's dragging him away by the arm almost before Remus can lock the squeaky doorknob. Sirius, whose hair has once again effortlessly fallen just so over his bright eyes as he tugs Remus down the steps and past the sad remains of the unmentioned flowers. Sirius, whose hopelessly infectious smile has spread to Remus now, because that smile, unbelievably, is for him. Remus slips his hand into Sirius' and lets him lead the way.
Remus Lupin doesn't know much, but he does know Sirius Black, and that may be enough.