hark hark the dogs do bark
Authors: lokiie, she_eats_worlds
Pairing: Sirius/Regulus
Rating: M for blood
Length: 6391 words
Warnings: boy/boy, incest, non-con, semi-graphic gore, excessive nursery rhymes
jab·ber·wock·y (jāb'ər-wŏk'ē)
n. Nonsensical speech or writing.
[After "Jabberwocky," a nonsense poem by Lewis Carroll.]
Jabberwocky
It hurts.
"Moan for me, pretty," the man says. His hands are large and rough, fingers long, working class, he isn't much older than thirty. He moves with the confidence of experience, but his fingertips are sometimes hesitant. Clumsy. Battered self-control. He has power, but he's never been a leader. Repressive. Overeager at best. Power, violence is like a drug, the rush of adrenaline in his neolithic system. All this, Regulus can tell from his touch.
Regulus tries to move his own hands again; no luck. They're bound behind him, at the wrist, so tightly he cannot feel his fingers anymore. Nothing feels broken, a marginal stroke of luck. He worries the thick gag stretched across his mouth, tied around behind his head; he blinks against the strip of black covering his eyes. Nothing to see. No way to scream. There is a knife in his right side, above his hip, angled round the back. It lights his body with pain when the man holds him on his knees and shoves him down, face first, onto the mattress. There is expertise in the deep gash, no organs torn, nothing punctured, just what would have been an unforgivably slow demise, wasting away as the blood ebbed from his body had they not dammed the flow to a timeless trickle with a spell. It's like fire, it makes him feel white-hot and the distraction works, he can barely recall his own name, let alone summon the mental poise and control to effect silent, wandless magic. He presses his cheek against the tattered sheets and unsteadily breathes.
The man spreads his legs, holding him at the angle of agony with an odious hand on his hip. "I said moan," he rumbles, and he's positioning himself, he thrusts back inside, burying his cock to the hilt in the seventeen-year-old boy beneath him, tearing the laceration. Regulus doesn't have the strength to bite back an abortive, softened whimper, like a sigh, as the pain lances from the wound to the rest of his helpless body.
a wise old owl lived in an oak the more he saw the less he spoke
He doesn't scream, and he doesn't cry. Sirius will find him.
A strong wind moves through the trees, leaves whispering to each other above a large black dog that sits frozen at the edge of the forest. He hasn’t stirred for hours, and a passerby would wonder if he’s waiting for something. There has been no one to wonder, though, no one to walk past and notice because there are no roads but a small dirt path that winds through the woods from the doorstep of the dilapidated old house nestled into the tiny clearing. The snap of a twig behind him makes one ear twist around, listening intently, though his eyes remain fixed on the front door of the building. He pays it no mind, after a few moments, realizing that there is no immediate danger, and he slowly gets up, pausing for only a second before he quietly makes his way across the yard, leaping over the two rickety steps of the porch, sliding to a halt on four paws just inches from the entrance. It’s closed but not locked, and within the blink of an eye, the dog is gone, and there is a nineteen year old boy standing in his place, the same grey gaze trained on the doorknob as if it holds all the secrets of the universe.
Sirius Black pulls his wand from his back pocket, muttering an incantation at the handle as he leans against the jam, still tense and wary of the surrounding area. There’s a small spark, letting him know that the curse placed on it has been disabled, and he carefully tucks his wand away before slowly pushing the door open. It’s dark and musty inside, years of disuse wreaking havoc on his nose that still retains the sense of smell of a dog sometimes, and Sirius makes a face as he slips inside. He moves soundlessly across the old wooden floor, boots hardly making a noise as he peers into each room on the first floor. It’s empty as he suspected it would be, and he searches quickly for the staircase that will take him up. This whole job might have been easier with the Order behind him, or at the very least, James, but Dumbledore was being too slow about it, and he was pretty sure not a one of them gave a shit, anyway. They were Blacks, after all. The less of them, the better. James was on a reconnaissance mission of his own, begged him not to do anything rash, but Sirius had never really been very good at listening to sense, especially when it came to Regulus. Which was why he was here in some out of the way place in Northern England, because his brother had gotten himself kidnapped. He still didn’t understand how he knew. He’d woken up one morning in his flat, the sun streaming in across his face and immediately realized that something was wrong. It was ridiculous and unbelievable, but he’d followed his gut feeling, and it had led him here.
His hands are shaking when he finds the stairs, grabbing hold of the banister as he eases his way up, and the wood creaks with every other step, sending him into a litany of curses under his breath. Adrenaline is pumping through his body, and he can’t even pretend to not be afraid. He’s alone in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere with two Death Eaters hidden somewhere inside, and he’s beginning to realize how stupid this whole plan is. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. He doesn’t stop, though, winding his way up the stairs until he’s reached the top floor. The hallway looks empty as well, and he starts forward, intent on checking each room here as well before he stops, immediately, eyes wide as stares unblinkingly into the dark. There’s a shape there, a man seated in a chair just to the right of the last door at the end of the hall. Sirius waits a moment, ready to draw his wand when he suddenly hears a loud snore, and he could almost start laughing with relief. So this is Voldemort’s trained and evil army? Right. He creeps forward carefully, mindful of the loose floorboards, the creak and groan of the house as it settles in its foundation that could muffle the approach of an enemy, and he moves past the guard, sneering down at him. It’s easy to raise a hand over the sleeping form and whisper a few choice words that bind him to his chair. He doesn’t even wake up, and Sirius’s smirk grows larger by the second.
Looking up, he eyes the closed door in front of him. His brother’s behind it. He knows he is, can feel a pull that he doesn’t even want to give thought to, right now, and the fear screams through him once again as he reaches out and pushes, watching it swing open with a sense of dread. The scent of blood hits him, immediately, the stench of sex and sweat, and he only realizes that he’s curled his hands into fists when he feels the sting of his nails digging into his palms. It’s enough to bring him back, let him see through the haze of rage that’s beginning to boil within as he takes in the sight of his brother bound and gagged, spread out face down on a dirty mattress, naked as the day he was born with a nameless man buried balls deep inside him. Anger hums just beneath his skin, and he’s never felt this much darkness before, the need to rip and hurt and tear flesh from bones until there’s nothing left but blood. They very air is alive with it, and he knows that’s what first alerts the man to his presence. His eyes widen in surprise, a question on his lips, and he can see the wince on Regulus’s face as he pulls out roughly, taking a step backward.
“How the fuck did you get in here?”
Sirius advances into the room, tilting his head to side, almost calculating, “Poor cat Fright, ran off with all her might, because the dog was after her. Poor cat Fright.”
An expression of utter confusion crosses the man’s face, and he darts his eyes toward his wand, resting on the lone table up against the wall on the other side of the room. It isn’t too terribly far away, and Sirius supposes that he thinks he stands a chance against a teenager. The man lunges for his wand.
“Wrong.”
Sirius’s arm whips out, sweeping in a wide arch, and the Death Eater is thrown back against the wall, a blast of pure energy and magic shoving him backward, and Sirius hasn’t felt this much power behind it before. He’s good at wandless magic. He guesses it’s the early training, but never has it been this powerful. The shock that goes through the man’s face is enough to set Sirius smiling, dangerously, the rage building so that it’s all he can feel, anymore. It takes only a second for him to catch his breath; sprawled across the floor, he stares up at him with an expression that’s colored with a little fear, now, and Sirius likes it.
There’s a noise from the hall behind him. Apparently,his friend has woken up and realized he can’t move any longer, and Sirius spares a glance over his shoulder. It’s a mistake, and he knows it the minute he does it as there’s a flash of movement, another attempt at the wand on the desk, and in an instant Sirius turns around, leaping forward with a snarl, smooth muscle changing and contorting, two legs becoming four, and he feels the satisfying slide of his claws into flesh, fangs sinking into the warmth of skin as the body beneath him collapses to the floor with a scream of pain. The copper taste of blood bursts on his tongue as he lets the anger go.
hark hark the dogs do bark the beggars are coming to town
The man's dying scream snakes itself through the center of Regulus' chest and coils in the pit of his stomach, heat and force as solid as any tangible thing. Sirius. He can almost feel his brother. He can see the smooth metamorphosis from human to animal in his mind, vivid with fur and fangs and claws. There's blood in the air, now. A thumping outside - the guard. Regulus collapses to his side, almost onto the blade and the wound that shrieks at him in a voice that makes him numb, and he curls, breathing hard, burning.
Sirius I knew you'd come for me
His wrists want to break, as the rope twists them. The cloth gag and the blindfold are smothering hot. He feels stretched thin, shredded raw. He's vulnerable, exposed, and he wants Sirius, his voice and his hands. His heart is thumping, sounding hypnotic in his ears, making the slice throb.
three children sliding on the ice upon a summer's day
There is death in the small bedroom. He wants his brother.
as it fell out they all fell in the rest they ran away
It takes less than a minute for the life to fade, for eyes to grow dull and body lay limp, still and unmoving. Sirius wonders if he should, but he feels no remorse, not an ounce of guilt or regret. It should scare him, but it doesn't. Padfoot backs off with a low warning growl as if daring the man to get up again, try to attack, even though he knows he's dead, blood pooling across the floor from the tear in his throat, and he can still taste it in his mouth. Another muffled thud from out in the hall captures his attention, however briefly. The second man isn't going anywhere, and after a moment's pause, he turns back into human, the shift of grinding bone and flesh revealing Sirius, eyes dark.
There is blood across his face, on his hands, staining his clothes as if he's some sort of perverse vampire returned from a nightly prowl. Reaching out, he traces a finger through the stain of near black blood that's slowly creeping closer and closer to his boots, weaving odd designs through the liquid, still hot against his skin. Harsh breaths from the bed breaks through his concentration, and he glances up, rising to his feet. Regulus. Two steps to the bed, and he's staring into his brother's pained eyes, reaching out to untie the knot on the gag that's cutting into his mouth, leaving behind red, abused skin and he stoops to press a kiss to the corner of his lips, a whispered, "I'm sorry," over and over and over.
snips and snails and puppy dogs tails that's what little boys are made of
Sirius is a blur of color and shadow. Regulus didn't realize he was in the blindfold for so long. Perhaps it isn't simply that. His body is in a unique sort of agony, inside, outside, leaking in and out through the sluggish currents of blood like a power current. But his brother is here, right here, hands on him, whispering words that Regulus doesn't need to hear as long as he can simply hear the sound of Sirius' voice. Sirius and Sirius and Sirius.
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed and here comes a chopper to chop off your head."
He's numbing all over, like a fitful sleep. Someone else is singing to him in a soft, soft voice, so low he can barely hear it. The words are in his head. Memory. The voice, voices - Sirius must never stop speaking to him this way, a quiet way. Regulus wants to touch, wants to feel Sirius close and keep him there, but his wrists are still tied, and he can't tell if the rope has yet rubbed his skin to blood.
Sirius please
"Chip chop chip chop the last man's dead."
Sirius's fingers are slow and gentle as he picks at the knots that bind Regulus's wrists behind his back, caressing over raw skin, rubbed red and angry by too tight rope. His brother mutters away, childhood nursery rhymes spilling over his lips as easily as the whispered incantations of family spells, and it worries him. It takes a few minutes to work the restraints off, not wanting to injure Regulus any more than he already has been, and as the cords fall away to the mattress, it's only then that Sirius notices the knife protruding from Reg's side, a cut so deep it's a wonder he's still alive. The rage threatens to boil up again, and his face changes, becoming cool and calculated as he stares at the handle pressing against his brother's skin, the blade buried all the way to the hilt. It's professional. A stab wound done in such a way as to be merely debilitating, only becoming fatal once all the blood had left the body many long, painful hours later. There's a spell placed on it. He can almost sense the magic but just barely, and it's too slow the blood flow. It's fucking torture is what it is, and if the man wasn't already dead and Sirius too weak from the power display only moments earlier, he'd kill him again.
Soothing a hand across Reg's forehead, he brushes back the sweaty hair from his face, leaning down to brush his lips across his brow, meant to comfort, though he isn't sure who it's for. Himself or Regulus. He whispers nonsense into his brother's ear. Some of it makes sense, some of it even he doesn't understand, and all he can hope is that it keeps Regulus calm as he strokes lightly along his side to grasp the knife. He doesn't know if he'll feel it as he seems far too out of it, and he wonders belatedly if he even realizes that Sirius is there.
A murmurred, "Shhh," pressing his mouth to his brother's jaw, and it's one swift jerk, the blade dislodging from his body, coming out bloodstained and looking lethal. He throws it to the side, only barely hearing it as it clatters to the floor, and he stoops to grab a piece of discarded clothing from the floor, holding it firmly against the wound to keep the blood back even though the spell is still at work.
He leans down again, nuzzling gently beneath Regulus's chin, nudging with his nose as if Padfoot still has a minor hold on his movements, seeking to give a little canine comfort.
"Reg? ... Reg, can you hear me?"
a is for albus who fell down the stairs
Oh Sirius with his wonderful voice. He's saying something else now, Regulus can always hear him, even through fog and rain and roaring wind. Throbbing sounds. Blood rushing in his ears. He wants Sirius to speak sweet words to him.
b is for bella assaulted by bears
His fingertips are barely starting to tingle as the blood returns to them. Useless, they're useless. Any longer in the ropes and it would have been permanent damage. There's going to be pain. His wrists must be bleeding. Sirius, his Sirius, his miracle his lifesaver his brilliant beautiful star. Regulus can feel him, and he sighs, and he opens his eyes, and then he can see him there, clear and dark and real.
"...twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are."
speak gently it is better far to rule by love than fear
Regulus tries to lift his arms, its a strain, he's shaking, trembling. There isn't enough strength in them to move them very far. Oh no. He can't touch his brother's face. Beloved, perfect face.
"...up above the world so high like a diamond in the sky."
speak gently let no harsh word mar the good we may do here
It's for Sirius, it's for Sirius, Sirius the canine star. Regulus can move his arm just enough to rest his hand against his brother's stomach, a few inches above his own ribs. He wishes he could feel his brother's heart beating, but the tingling is stronger, his fingers are electric with pain. Soft words in whispers, for Sirius to hear, and for a moment he stops feeling anything else.
Sirius mouths gently at his brother's jaw, taking careful hold of his hand from where it rests against his stomach. He doesn't know what to do. He feels helpless, listening to Regulus's half-aware babble that he can barely hear, because his voice is pitched so soft.
"Won't let you die, Reg. You're not allowed to leave me. No one else. You can't. Can't. Can't can't can't can't," he mutters, shaking his head as if the mere gesture will keep Death at bay.
His fingers card through Regulus's messy hair, as he whispers back to him, "Girls and boys, come out to play, the moon is shining as bright as day," matching him for rhyme as if it's the only language the two of them can understand, clutching his brother's hand tight. There's a sharp crack that echoes throughout the building, and the moon filters through the ripped curtains to reveal nothing but an empty room and a pool of blood growing cold with every passing minute.
His vision swims lightly whether from weakness at using so much magic so soon or the fact that he hasn't slept in two days, he isn't quite sure, but when Sirius's eyes focus it's to the Order headquarters in chaos. He realizes he's reappeared out of nowhere in the middle of the floor, and he supposes it's merely shock that keeps everyone from immediately drawing wands on him. It's James who steps forward first with wide eyes. He must have returned early, and he shakes his head at him but doesn't say a word, doesn't ask questions and kneels down beside him, leaning against him for support as he calls out for someone to get Dumbledore. Sirius, in that moment, is overwhelmingly grateful that James is his best friend, pressing tight into him for a moment as if trying to let him know before he gives all his attention back to Regulus, hoping that the apparition didn't hurt him even more.
upward thy spirit's pinions try to realms of love beyond the sky
The Apparition makes every wound in his body feel as though it's been torn wider, and Regulus gasps harshly as they land. He tastes blood. Whispering.
"Beautiful star. Beautiful star."
He doesn't know where they are. All he feels is pain, all he knows is Sirius, pain and Sirius, seeping from the wound in his side, bleeding into his hands, circling every point of penetration. He's numbing again, quickly, and he wonders if this is dying. He wonders how long he has been bleeding. They can't take him away from Sirius, they can't, he'll die, they can't.
Sirius don't let me go
"...star of the evening..."
My beautiful star.
Regulus shudders, with a soft, aborted sound in the back of his throat, and he doesn't feel the pain. His head lolls back, and his body goes limp in his brother's arm, dark and dark and dark.
It only takes a second for Sirius to realize that Regulus has lost consciousness, and he tugs his brother closer, wide, grey eyes searching his face. He's bruised and bloody and battered, and he's only half-aware of the blood staining his own hands and face. He's panicking, because Reg can't do this. His brother can't leave, and he's so fucking scared that if he closes his eyes now, he'll never open them again, and he can't lose him. He can't lose Regulus. He's.
He presses his lips to his brother's forehead, trying to calm himself down enough to breathe properly, and all the while, James is quiet beside them, a steady hand against Sirius's back, but he barely registers it.
"Regulus. Reg, come on, wake up. Wake up, please."
There's no response, nothing. Regulus remains still in his arms, and Sirius fists a hand through his own hair, tugging sharply as he looks around feeling completely lost because he still doesn't know what to do, and there's no one to help and it's too much and he's scared, scared, scared so fucking scared. He's never been this scared before since he was home, since Mother and the screaming and the pain and splinters in his fingers from the floorboards no no no stop stop stop please stop i won't i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm so sorry i promise i won't i won't do it again.
down by the river down by the sea johnny broke a bottle and blamed it on me.
"Sirius!"
There are hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently, and he re-focuses to find James staring at him with concern written across his face, "He'll be alright. Dumbledore's here. Regulus will be fine. I promise."
Sirius nods blankly, hardly registering the words, clinging tight to his brother even as the wizened old headmaster himself sweeps through the door, his expression grave. James tries to draw him away, but he won't have it, growling low, and his friend leaves him alone, staying close but not trying to pull him back again.
* * *
When Regulus wakes up, he's completely alone.
The medical ward for the Order of the Phoenix isn't as impressive as it perhaps should be. It's really nothing more than a wide room occupied by about ten beds, five on either side, staggered intermittently between side tables and a few wooden chairs and guarded by the statuesque shapes of wardrobes filled not with clothes, but with medical supplies. Reminiscent of but not even as well set as the infirmary at Hogwarts. None of the other beds are holding prisoners. None but his.
Sirius isn't there. Regulus knows that before he even opens his eyes. He can always feel his brother's presence, like heat on bare skin, and now the whole room is cold. So cold, clean, unpleasant cold. He's weak. Blood loss, but he's healed enough. Just tired.
He doesn't sit up in his bed. He simply lies still, arms at his sides, glancing round occasionally but his eyes focus on the ceiling and he fancies he sees visions there.
"Hush a bye baby, on the tree top..."
Regulus doesn't think about the blood and the pain from before, however long ago before. Recitation, rhyme and rhythm. His voice is a whisper, alien to his ears. The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear so charming left his voice, that he awhile thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear. So soft that even the silence cannot detect it.
"When the wind blows, the cradle will rock."
He feels the gentle caresses of his musical delirium. He wonders what is keeping Sirius away. James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew. Lily Evans, Dorcas Meadowes. Albus Dumbledore. Who could tear their eyes away from beautiful Sirius Black?
"When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall."
Sirius I need you
"And down will come baby, cradle and all."
Sirius stands quietly at the end of the second floor hallway, leaning against the large window that looks out onto nothing but black, foggy moors as he traces strange patterns and symbols through the condensation pearling on the cold glass with the tip of a finger. He thinks they must have made sense at one time, because he's seen them before, but he can't understand them, now. Water beads on his skin, slowly sliding down into his palm like a secret, and he can hear Caradoc Dearborn downstairs, speaking in what he must think is a hushed tone. The man's never been anything but loud, though. Not that Sirius is one to talk. His breath ghosts across the pane, and the writing is obscured as if it were never there at all. Sirius finds it oddly important.
sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye
His whole body feels wired, jittery and out of orbit, like he doesn't fit right, and he has to stop himself from curling his hand into a fist and shattering anything and everything around him. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t see the point or the reason in staying away. He wants to storm back down the stairs and tell Dumbledore just where he can shove this whole war, because Regulus is all wrong, and he needs him. He doesn’t care about anything else but being beside him and making sure for himself that he’ll be all right, because words are just words, and he’s never been able to believe anything that anyone tells him until it’s proven. Too many broken promises and trust isn’t something that Sirius has put much stock in.
There are footsteps behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look, knows who it is without having to see. Warm fingers close over his shoulder, and he allows himself to be pulled away from the darkness beyond, finding himself staring into concerned hazel eyes and a worried expression, and immediately his heart starts beating faster. Something’s gone wrong. wrong wrong wrong all wrong you’ve never been anything but a disappointment cast a shadow over this household you’ve set a horrible example for your brother complete embarrassment put out that cigarette at once you horrid child should have drowned you when you were born you walk out of this house you’ll never come back please don’t leave me here alone you’re wrong the mad-hatter had tea on the moon, four and twenty blackbirds in a pie on my spoon.
“Sirius, what happened?”
“Regulus. Is he all right? Why do you -”
James cuts him off, speaking calmly as if he were trying to soothe a panicked animal instead of a half-wrecked sibling, “Relax. He’s fine. Sleeping last I knew. It’s not him I’m worried about. He’ll heal. You, on the other hand. You were a complete mess when you came in, Sirius, and you weren’t even injured. What happened out there? I bloody well told you not to do anything rash, but you never listen to me.”
He shrugs James’s hand away, standing straighter and brushing past him down the hall. He’s had enough. He needs to see his brother, Dumbledore and his advice be damned. “I’m fine, Jamie. Just leave it.”
”I won’t leave it, you stubborn sod. I want to know.”
”It’s none of your business!”
The expression on James’s face is enough to immediately make him regret saying it, and he visibly deflates, scrubbing long fingers through his hair, “Please, just let it alone, James. This has absolutely nothing to do with you or even me. I’m fine.”
James shakes his head, black mop of messy hair moving like it has a life of its own, but he seems satisfied for the moment. “You’re a right pain in my arse.”
It’s a tease, a small, strained smile taking the sting out of the words, and Sirius offers him a smile of his own.
“Yeah but I’m the only one you’ll take it from.”
He turns then, leaving James behind in the hallway, and it takes him less than a minute to make his way down the stairs onto the first floor, weaving past Order members and turning down corridors until he’s in the infirmary, shutting the door behind him. Regulus is awake. He can tell the moment he steps into the room, and as he moves closer, he can hear a small, whispered voice singing out the words of a song. Rounding one of the strategically placed white curtains, used to give patients some semblance of privacy, he finds his brother staring up at the ceiling, lips moving ever so slightly, and Sirius can recognize it now. hush a bye baby in the tree top you will never disobey me again you arrogant little brat don’t you dare walk away from me please please no stop the maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes
“Reg?”
when along came a blackbird and pecked off her nose
Sirius.
Regulus lets the whispers stop, his brother's presence settles over him like a fur and velvet blanket and soothes him, keeps him warm.
star light star bright first star I see tonight
He glances out the corners of his eyes, and finds Sirius there, lined by white curtain like an angel. Cherubim, seraphim, Fallen, demon, Thrones Virtues Powers Principalities Grigori. Sirius his guardian angel. He turns his head, keeping his gaze where he wants it to be. He feels detached and distant, like the part of him that matters is flying somewhere very far away and Sirius is making it tingle with his presence. Regulus can feel his own heart beating, or maybe it's someone else's.
I wish I may I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight
His voice is so soft that he isn't sure if he's speaking at all.
"Hi."
Sirius edges forward, two steps closer, unsure of what to do or what to say now that he's here. 'How are you feeling?' seems kind of pointless and 'Hey' just doesn't cover it. Instead of focusing on words, he drags the chair used for visitors closer to Regulus's bed, the legs grating against the wood floor with a rough sound, too loud in the quiet of the infirmary. It's jarring, and he stops it, immediately, deciding that it's close enough, anyway.
"I wanted to be here when you woke up, but they made me leave."
One hand reaches out, trailing a finger lightly down his brother's arm as he studies his face, the redness around his mouth from the gag. It's faded some, though still there, and he feels a small twinge of that dark rage that had consumed him earlier. No one has any right to touch Regulus. Not one damn person is allowed to lay a finger on him for anything. Except him.
"I know," Regulus answers, and he means it.
He's still floating somewhere else, but he feels his brother's touch, he will never not feel his brother's touch even in a cold, lifeless body. His fingers move on the sheets, tingling, still reminiscing of pain. There are ugly friction burns that he can feel almost completely circling his wrists, scars that haven't faded yet. Magic always takes longer to heal the traces left behind. He wonders how close he came to losing his hands.
He wants to sit up, but he doesn't. He just gazes at Sirius, the most beautiful thing in the world, and whisper-sighs, "You saved my life again."
Sirius's shoulders move, a half-shrug as his lips quirk into a small sort of smile, and his anger disappears almost immediately. It's hard to stay mad at anything when his brother is laying there and staring at him like he's the sun, the moon and the stars, too.
"Yeah, well... s'what I'm here for, innit? Could've gotten there a little sooner, though."
He sees Reg's fingers moving gently against the blankets of the bed, the wounds around his wrists from the ropes. They're healing, but not as fast as he would like. His hand moves down further, sliding his fingers over Regulus's, under and between. The touch is grounding, keeping him centered, and he isn't sure of who he's trying to comfort, anymore. All he knows as that he wants to keep touching him, make sure he's really there, won't go anywhere. He wants to lay claim on him again, brush away the memory of those men with his own hands and mouth until Regulus can't remember anything but him, always him.
Tightened fingers, warmth and a very small smile. Regulus feels his mouth curve without even realizing it was going to do so, pure love alone. He wants to bring his brother's hand to his lips and kiss the beloved fingertips one by one.
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Regulus pauses in his breath, and then tenses his whole body, shifting for the first time since he opened his eyes and attempting to move himself into a better position, upright, facing Sirius, not just watching him from where he lies. He barely fights down a spasm, of cold or misuse or some other difficulty that he doesn't recognize. His body is sore in places, stiff, he's been lying still for a while, bound before and tied. There are bandages wrapped around his chest, a pad of gauze pressed against his side, obscuring the dagger's point of penetration. He didn't notice them before.
The medicine has left him with no strength to spare. His hold on his brother's hand clenches again, and he makes a small sound of discomfort quite against his will. Frustration flickers in his thoughts, this weakness, the pain that still lingers, when he cannot even collapse into Sirius' arms.
Sirius lurches forward, immediately, hands going to Regulus's shoulders to steady him as he struggles to get up. He settles down on the bed next to him, pressing firmly against him in order to get him to lay back down.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Maybe you haven't noticed, but you're really in no condition to be moving about."
He means for his voice to be scolding, but he can't manage to work up even the slightest amount of harshness in his tone. He, instead, reaches up to flick the hair away from Regulus's eyes, trailing the tips of his fingers along the line of his jaw and lets out a shaky sigh.
"Don't you ever do that again. Or I'll kill you myself."
He's only half-joking.
Regulus reclines obediently. He gazes up at his brother, never letting his eyes drift away, though they couldn't possibly want to do so. They're wide, like a child in awe. Sirius' words make him shiver. This, this, this is just how much his brother loves him.
"I wanted to sit with you," he whispers in reply, and it doesn't make sense to him and makes complete sense to him because of that. He wants to be close, so close, touching close, holding close. Sirius is closer. His body doesn't want to let him press any more.
He basks in the soft caress of his brother's fingers, and determinedly reaches up to touch Sirius, anywhere he can.
"Siri."
Sirius reaches up, catching Regulus' hand in his, letting their fingers lace together as he allows the small smile on his face to become something more warm and comforting. He's never really been much of a big brother. It's a little hard to be that when you're only a year or so apart in age difference, and you happen to be a lot closer than is strictly adhered to in common society. In the Black family, though, he supposes he's done pretty all right. He's protected him when he could and gotten revenge when he couldn't, and in a family like theirs, that's all that really matters, and it's one thing that Sirius doesn't disagree with, at all.
"Beat you to it," he whispers back, grip tightening ever so slightly as he leans forward, brushing his lips against Reg's.
Yeah. He's done well enough.
Regulus smiles, and all of a sudden everything's real again, everything's back to the way it should be, and instead of stiff discomfort and a reminiscent haze, his body fills with a soothing warmth like hot liquid melting ice and snow. Sirius has a special kind of magic that only his brother can see and taste and touch. It's in his lips voice hands hair skin, trickling out, rolling in waves of fog.
Everything's all right.
He holds to his brother's hand, fingers tangled, like a lifeline, which it is. It always has been, always will be. They're lifelines for each other. Regulus wants to be as important to Sirius as Sirius is to him - an impossible feat, he thinks, so he wishes a little harder every day. Every day he worships his brother a little more. "Perfect, beautiful, wonderful Sirius..." he breathes, and he tilts his head to his brother's shadow to press their lips together.
end
[also posted to hp_blackcest]
Pairing: Sirius/Regulus
Rating: M for blood
Length: 6391 words
Warnings: boy/boy, incest, non-con, semi-graphic gore, excessive nursery rhymes
jab·ber·wock·y (jāb'ər-wŏk'ē)
n. Nonsensical speech or writing.
[After "Jabberwocky," a nonsense poem by Lewis Carroll.]
Jabberwocky
It hurts.
"Moan for me, pretty," the man says. His hands are large and rough, fingers long, working class, he isn't much older than thirty. He moves with the confidence of experience, but his fingertips are sometimes hesitant. Clumsy. Battered self-control. He has power, but he's never been a leader. Repressive. Overeager at best. Power, violence is like a drug, the rush of adrenaline in his neolithic system. All this, Regulus can tell from his touch.
Regulus tries to move his own hands again; no luck. They're bound behind him, at the wrist, so tightly he cannot feel his fingers anymore. Nothing feels broken, a marginal stroke of luck. He worries the thick gag stretched across his mouth, tied around behind his head; he blinks against the strip of black covering his eyes. Nothing to see. No way to scream. There is a knife in his right side, above his hip, angled round the back. It lights his body with pain when the man holds him on his knees and shoves him down, face first, onto the mattress. There is expertise in the deep gash, no organs torn, nothing punctured, just what would have been an unforgivably slow demise, wasting away as the blood ebbed from his body had they not dammed the flow to a timeless trickle with a spell. It's like fire, it makes him feel white-hot and the distraction works, he can barely recall his own name, let alone summon the mental poise and control to effect silent, wandless magic. He presses his cheek against the tattered sheets and unsteadily breathes.
The man spreads his legs, holding him at the angle of agony with an odious hand on his hip. "I said moan," he rumbles, and he's positioning himself, he thrusts back inside, burying his cock to the hilt in the seventeen-year-old boy beneath him, tearing the laceration. Regulus doesn't have the strength to bite back an abortive, softened whimper, like a sigh, as the pain lances from the wound to the rest of his helpless body.
a wise old owl lived in an oak the more he saw the less he spoke
He doesn't scream, and he doesn't cry. Sirius will find him.
A strong wind moves through the trees, leaves whispering to each other above a large black dog that sits frozen at the edge of the forest. He hasn’t stirred for hours, and a passerby would wonder if he’s waiting for something. There has been no one to wonder, though, no one to walk past and notice because there are no roads but a small dirt path that winds through the woods from the doorstep of the dilapidated old house nestled into the tiny clearing. The snap of a twig behind him makes one ear twist around, listening intently, though his eyes remain fixed on the front door of the building. He pays it no mind, after a few moments, realizing that there is no immediate danger, and he slowly gets up, pausing for only a second before he quietly makes his way across the yard, leaping over the two rickety steps of the porch, sliding to a halt on four paws just inches from the entrance. It’s closed but not locked, and within the blink of an eye, the dog is gone, and there is a nineteen year old boy standing in his place, the same grey gaze trained on the doorknob as if it holds all the secrets of the universe.
Sirius Black pulls his wand from his back pocket, muttering an incantation at the handle as he leans against the jam, still tense and wary of the surrounding area. There’s a small spark, letting him know that the curse placed on it has been disabled, and he carefully tucks his wand away before slowly pushing the door open. It’s dark and musty inside, years of disuse wreaking havoc on his nose that still retains the sense of smell of a dog sometimes, and Sirius makes a face as he slips inside. He moves soundlessly across the old wooden floor, boots hardly making a noise as he peers into each room on the first floor. It’s empty as he suspected it would be, and he searches quickly for the staircase that will take him up. This whole job might have been easier with the Order behind him, or at the very least, James, but Dumbledore was being too slow about it, and he was pretty sure not a one of them gave a shit, anyway. They were Blacks, after all. The less of them, the better. James was on a reconnaissance mission of his own, begged him not to do anything rash, but Sirius had never really been very good at listening to sense, especially when it came to Regulus. Which was why he was here in some out of the way place in Northern England, because his brother had gotten himself kidnapped. He still didn’t understand how he knew. He’d woken up one morning in his flat, the sun streaming in across his face and immediately realized that something was wrong. It was ridiculous and unbelievable, but he’d followed his gut feeling, and it had led him here.
His hands are shaking when he finds the stairs, grabbing hold of the banister as he eases his way up, and the wood creaks with every other step, sending him into a litany of curses under his breath. Adrenaline is pumping through his body, and he can’t even pretend to not be afraid. He’s alone in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere with two Death Eaters hidden somewhere inside, and he’s beginning to realize how stupid this whole plan is. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. He doesn’t stop, though, winding his way up the stairs until he’s reached the top floor. The hallway looks empty as well, and he starts forward, intent on checking each room here as well before he stops, immediately, eyes wide as stares unblinkingly into the dark. There’s a shape there, a man seated in a chair just to the right of the last door at the end of the hall. Sirius waits a moment, ready to draw his wand when he suddenly hears a loud snore, and he could almost start laughing with relief. So this is Voldemort’s trained and evil army? Right. He creeps forward carefully, mindful of the loose floorboards, the creak and groan of the house as it settles in its foundation that could muffle the approach of an enemy, and he moves past the guard, sneering down at him. It’s easy to raise a hand over the sleeping form and whisper a few choice words that bind him to his chair. He doesn’t even wake up, and Sirius’s smirk grows larger by the second.
Looking up, he eyes the closed door in front of him. His brother’s behind it. He knows he is, can feel a pull that he doesn’t even want to give thought to, right now, and the fear screams through him once again as he reaches out and pushes, watching it swing open with a sense of dread. The scent of blood hits him, immediately, the stench of sex and sweat, and he only realizes that he’s curled his hands into fists when he feels the sting of his nails digging into his palms. It’s enough to bring him back, let him see through the haze of rage that’s beginning to boil within as he takes in the sight of his brother bound and gagged, spread out face down on a dirty mattress, naked as the day he was born with a nameless man buried balls deep inside him. Anger hums just beneath his skin, and he’s never felt this much darkness before, the need to rip and hurt and tear flesh from bones until there’s nothing left but blood. They very air is alive with it, and he knows that’s what first alerts the man to his presence. His eyes widen in surprise, a question on his lips, and he can see the wince on Regulus’s face as he pulls out roughly, taking a step backward.
“How the fuck did you get in here?”
Sirius advances into the room, tilting his head to side, almost calculating, “Poor cat Fright, ran off with all her might, because the dog was after her. Poor cat Fright.”
An expression of utter confusion crosses the man’s face, and he darts his eyes toward his wand, resting on the lone table up against the wall on the other side of the room. It isn’t too terribly far away, and Sirius supposes that he thinks he stands a chance against a teenager. The man lunges for his wand.
“Wrong.”
Sirius’s arm whips out, sweeping in a wide arch, and the Death Eater is thrown back against the wall, a blast of pure energy and magic shoving him backward, and Sirius hasn’t felt this much power behind it before. He’s good at wandless magic. He guesses it’s the early training, but never has it been this powerful. The shock that goes through the man’s face is enough to set Sirius smiling, dangerously, the rage building so that it’s all he can feel, anymore. It takes only a second for him to catch his breath; sprawled across the floor, he stares up at him with an expression that’s colored with a little fear, now, and Sirius likes it.
There’s a noise from the hall behind him. Apparently,his friend has woken up and realized he can’t move any longer, and Sirius spares a glance over his shoulder. It’s a mistake, and he knows it the minute he does it as there’s a flash of movement, another attempt at the wand on the desk, and in an instant Sirius turns around, leaping forward with a snarl, smooth muscle changing and contorting, two legs becoming four, and he feels the satisfying slide of his claws into flesh, fangs sinking into the warmth of skin as the body beneath him collapses to the floor with a scream of pain. The copper taste of blood bursts on his tongue as he lets the anger go.
hark hark the dogs do bark the beggars are coming to town
The man's dying scream snakes itself through the center of Regulus' chest and coils in the pit of his stomach, heat and force as solid as any tangible thing. Sirius. He can almost feel his brother. He can see the smooth metamorphosis from human to animal in his mind, vivid with fur and fangs and claws. There's blood in the air, now. A thumping outside - the guard. Regulus collapses to his side, almost onto the blade and the wound that shrieks at him in a voice that makes him numb, and he curls, breathing hard, burning.
Sirius I knew you'd come for me
His wrists want to break, as the rope twists them. The cloth gag and the blindfold are smothering hot. He feels stretched thin, shredded raw. He's vulnerable, exposed, and he wants Sirius, his voice and his hands. His heart is thumping, sounding hypnotic in his ears, making the slice throb.
three children sliding on the ice upon a summer's day
There is death in the small bedroom. He wants his brother.
as it fell out they all fell in the rest they ran away
It takes less than a minute for the life to fade, for eyes to grow dull and body lay limp, still and unmoving. Sirius wonders if he should, but he feels no remorse, not an ounce of guilt or regret. It should scare him, but it doesn't. Padfoot backs off with a low warning growl as if daring the man to get up again, try to attack, even though he knows he's dead, blood pooling across the floor from the tear in his throat, and he can still taste it in his mouth. Another muffled thud from out in the hall captures his attention, however briefly. The second man isn't going anywhere, and after a moment's pause, he turns back into human, the shift of grinding bone and flesh revealing Sirius, eyes dark.
There is blood across his face, on his hands, staining his clothes as if he's some sort of perverse vampire returned from a nightly prowl. Reaching out, he traces a finger through the stain of near black blood that's slowly creeping closer and closer to his boots, weaving odd designs through the liquid, still hot against his skin. Harsh breaths from the bed breaks through his concentration, and he glances up, rising to his feet. Regulus. Two steps to the bed, and he's staring into his brother's pained eyes, reaching out to untie the knot on the gag that's cutting into his mouth, leaving behind red, abused skin and he stoops to press a kiss to the corner of his lips, a whispered, "I'm sorry," over and over and over.
snips and snails and puppy dogs tails that's what little boys are made of
Sirius is a blur of color and shadow. Regulus didn't realize he was in the blindfold for so long. Perhaps it isn't simply that. His body is in a unique sort of agony, inside, outside, leaking in and out through the sluggish currents of blood like a power current. But his brother is here, right here, hands on him, whispering words that Regulus doesn't need to hear as long as he can simply hear the sound of Sirius' voice. Sirius and Sirius and Sirius.
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed and here comes a chopper to chop off your head."
He's numbing all over, like a fitful sleep. Someone else is singing to him in a soft, soft voice, so low he can barely hear it. The words are in his head. Memory. The voice, voices - Sirius must never stop speaking to him this way, a quiet way. Regulus wants to touch, wants to feel Sirius close and keep him there, but his wrists are still tied, and he can't tell if the rope has yet rubbed his skin to blood.
Sirius please
"Chip chop chip chop the last man's dead."
Sirius's fingers are slow and gentle as he picks at the knots that bind Regulus's wrists behind his back, caressing over raw skin, rubbed red and angry by too tight rope. His brother mutters away, childhood nursery rhymes spilling over his lips as easily as the whispered incantations of family spells, and it worries him. It takes a few minutes to work the restraints off, not wanting to injure Regulus any more than he already has been, and as the cords fall away to the mattress, it's only then that Sirius notices the knife protruding from Reg's side, a cut so deep it's a wonder he's still alive. The rage threatens to boil up again, and his face changes, becoming cool and calculated as he stares at the handle pressing against his brother's skin, the blade buried all the way to the hilt. It's professional. A stab wound done in such a way as to be merely debilitating, only becoming fatal once all the blood had left the body many long, painful hours later. There's a spell placed on it. He can almost sense the magic but just barely, and it's too slow the blood flow. It's fucking torture is what it is, and if the man wasn't already dead and Sirius too weak from the power display only moments earlier, he'd kill him again.
Soothing a hand across Reg's forehead, he brushes back the sweaty hair from his face, leaning down to brush his lips across his brow, meant to comfort, though he isn't sure who it's for. Himself or Regulus. He whispers nonsense into his brother's ear. Some of it makes sense, some of it even he doesn't understand, and all he can hope is that it keeps Regulus calm as he strokes lightly along his side to grasp the knife. He doesn't know if he'll feel it as he seems far too out of it, and he wonders belatedly if he even realizes that Sirius is there.
A murmurred, "Shhh," pressing his mouth to his brother's jaw, and it's one swift jerk, the blade dislodging from his body, coming out bloodstained and looking lethal. He throws it to the side, only barely hearing it as it clatters to the floor, and he stoops to grab a piece of discarded clothing from the floor, holding it firmly against the wound to keep the blood back even though the spell is still at work.
He leans down again, nuzzling gently beneath Regulus's chin, nudging with his nose as if Padfoot still has a minor hold on his movements, seeking to give a little canine comfort.
"Reg? ... Reg, can you hear me?"
a is for albus who fell down the stairs
Oh Sirius with his wonderful voice. He's saying something else now, Regulus can always hear him, even through fog and rain and roaring wind. Throbbing sounds. Blood rushing in his ears. He wants Sirius to speak sweet words to him.
b is for bella assaulted by bears
His fingertips are barely starting to tingle as the blood returns to them. Useless, they're useless. Any longer in the ropes and it would have been permanent damage. There's going to be pain. His wrists must be bleeding. Sirius, his Sirius, his miracle his lifesaver his brilliant beautiful star. Regulus can feel him, and he sighs, and he opens his eyes, and then he can see him there, clear and dark and real.
"...twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are."
speak gently it is better far to rule by love than fear
Regulus tries to lift his arms, its a strain, he's shaking, trembling. There isn't enough strength in them to move them very far. Oh no. He can't touch his brother's face. Beloved, perfect face.
"...up above the world so high like a diamond in the sky."
speak gently let no harsh word mar the good we may do here
It's for Sirius, it's for Sirius, Sirius the canine star. Regulus can move his arm just enough to rest his hand against his brother's stomach, a few inches above his own ribs. He wishes he could feel his brother's heart beating, but the tingling is stronger, his fingers are electric with pain. Soft words in whispers, for Sirius to hear, and for a moment he stops feeling anything else.
Sirius mouths gently at his brother's jaw, taking careful hold of his hand from where it rests against his stomach. He doesn't know what to do. He feels helpless, listening to Regulus's half-aware babble that he can barely hear, because his voice is pitched so soft.
"Won't let you die, Reg. You're not allowed to leave me. No one else. You can't. Can't. Can't can't can't can't," he mutters, shaking his head as if the mere gesture will keep Death at bay.
His fingers card through Regulus's messy hair, as he whispers back to him, "Girls and boys, come out to play, the moon is shining as bright as day," matching him for rhyme as if it's the only language the two of them can understand, clutching his brother's hand tight. There's a sharp crack that echoes throughout the building, and the moon filters through the ripped curtains to reveal nothing but an empty room and a pool of blood growing cold with every passing minute.
His vision swims lightly whether from weakness at using so much magic so soon or the fact that he hasn't slept in two days, he isn't quite sure, but when Sirius's eyes focus it's to the Order headquarters in chaos. He realizes he's reappeared out of nowhere in the middle of the floor, and he supposes it's merely shock that keeps everyone from immediately drawing wands on him. It's James who steps forward first with wide eyes. He must have returned early, and he shakes his head at him but doesn't say a word, doesn't ask questions and kneels down beside him, leaning against him for support as he calls out for someone to get Dumbledore. Sirius, in that moment, is overwhelmingly grateful that James is his best friend, pressing tight into him for a moment as if trying to let him know before he gives all his attention back to Regulus, hoping that the apparition didn't hurt him even more.
upward thy spirit's pinions try to realms of love beyond the sky
The Apparition makes every wound in his body feel as though it's been torn wider, and Regulus gasps harshly as they land. He tastes blood. Whispering.
"Beautiful star. Beautiful star."
He doesn't know where they are. All he feels is pain, all he knows is Sirius, pain and Sirius, seeping from the wound in his side, bleeding into his hands, circling every point of penetration. He's numbing again, quickly, and he wonders if this is dying. He wonders how long he has been bleeding. They can't take him away from Sirius, they can't, he'll die, they can't.
Sirius don't let me go
"...star of the evening..."
My beautiful star.
Regulus shudders, with a soft, aborted sound in the back of his throat, and he doesn't feel the pain. His head lolls back, and his body goes limp in his brother's arm, dark and dark and dark.
It only takes a second for Sirius to realize that Regulus has lost consciousness, and he tugs his brother closer, wide, grey eyes searching his face. He's bruised and bloody and battered, and he's only half-aware of the blood staining his own hands and face. He's panicking, because Reg can't do this. His brother can't leave, and he's so fucking scared that if he closes his eyes now, he'll never open them again, and he can't lose him. He can't lose Regulus. He's.
He presses his lips to his brother's forehead, trying to calm himself down enough to breathe properly, and all the while, James is quiet beside them, a steady hand against Sirius's back, but he barely registers it.
"Regulus. Reg, come on, wake up. Wake up, please."
There's no response, nothing. Regulus remains still in his arms, and Sirius fists a hand through his own hair, tugging sharply as he looks around feeling completely lost because he still doesn't know what to do, and there's no one to help and it's too much and he's scared, scared, scared so fucking scared. He's never been this scared before since he was home, since Mother and the screaming and the pain and splinters in his fingers from the floorboards no no no stop stop stop please stop i won't i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm so sorry i promise i won't i won't do it again.
down by the river down by the sea johnny broke a bottle and blamed it on me.
"Sirius!"
There are hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently, and he re-focuses to find James staring at him with concern written across his face, "He'll be alright. Dumbledore's here. Regulus will be fine. I promise."
Sirius nods blankly, hardly registering the words, clinging tight to his brother even as the wizened old headmaster himself sweeps through the door, his expression grave. James tries to draw him away, but he won't have it, growling low, and his friend leaves him alone, staying close but not trying to pull him back again.
* * *
When Regulus wakes up, he's completely alone.
The medical ward for the Order of the Phoenix isn't as impressive as it perhaps should be. It's really nothing more than a wide room occupied by about ten beds, five on either side, staggered intermittently between side tables and a few wooden chairs and guarded by the statuesque shapes of wardrobes filled not with clothes, but with medical supplies. Reminiscent of but not even as well set as the infirmary at Hogwarts. None of the other beds are holding prisoners. None but his.
Sirius isn't there. Regulus knows that before he even opens his eyes. He can always feel his brother's presence, like heat on bare skin, and now the whole room is cold. So cold, clean, unpleasant cold. He's weak. Blood loss, but he's healed enough. Just tired.
He doesn't sit up in his bed. He simply lies still, arms at his sides, glancing round occasionally but his eyes focus on the ceiling and he fancies he sees visions there.
"Hush a bye baby, on the tree top..."
Regulus doesn't think about the blood and the pain from before, however long ago before. Recitation, rhyme and rhythm. His voice is a whisper, alien to his ears. The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear so charming left his voice, that he awhile thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear. So soft that even the silence cannot detect it.
"When the wind blows, the cradle will rock."
He feels the gentle caresses of his musical delirium. He wonders what is keeping Sirius away. James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew. Lily Evans, Dorcas Meadowes. Albus Dumbledore. Who could tear their eyes away from beautiful Sirius Black?
"When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall."
Sirius I need you
"And down will come baby, cradle and all."
Sirius stands quietly at the end of the second floor hallway, leaning against the large window that looks out onto nothing but black, foggy moors as he traces strange patterns and symbols through the condensation pearling on the cold glass with the tip of a finger. He thinks they must have made sense at one time, because he's seen them before, but he can't understand them, now. Water beads on his skin, slowly sliding down into his palm like a secret, and he can hear Caradoc Dearborn downstairs, speaking in what he must think is a hushed tone. The man's never been anything but loud, though. Not that Sirius is one to talk. His breath ghosts across the pane, and the writing is obscured as if it were never there at all. Sirius finds it oddly important.
sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye
His whole body feels wired, jittery and out of orbit, like he doesn't fit right, and he has to stop himself from curling his hand into a fist and shattering anything and everything around him. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t see the point or the reason in staying away. He wants to storm back down the stairs and tell Dumbledore just where he can shove this whole war, because Regulus is all wrong, and he needs him. He doesn’t care about anything else but being beside him and making sure for himself that he’ll be all right, because words are just words, and he’s never been able to believe anything that anyone tells him until it’s proven. Too many broken promises and trust isn’t something that Sirius has put much stock in.
There are footsteps behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look, knows who it is without having to see. Warm fingers close over his shoulder, and he allows himself to be pulled away from the darkness beyond, finding himself staring into concerned hazel eyes and a worried expression, and immediately his heart starts beating faster. Something’s gone wrong. wrong wrong wrong all wrong you’ve never been anything but a disappointment cast a shadow over this household you’ve set a horrible example for your brother complete embarrassment put out that cigarette at once you horrid child should have drowned you when you were born you walk out of this house you’ll never come back please don’t leave me here alone you’re wrong the mad-hatter had tea on the moon, four and twenty blackbirds in a pie on my spoon.
“Sirius, what happened?”
“Regulus. Is he all right? Why do you -”
James cuts him off, speaking calmly as if he were trying to soothe a panicked animal instead of a half-wrecked sibling, “Relax. He’s fine. Sleeping last I knew. It’s not him I’m worried about. He’ll heal. You, on the other hand. You were a complete mess when you came in, Sirius, and you weren’t even injured. What happened out there? I bloody well told you not to do anything rash, but you never listen to me.”
He shrugs James’s hand away, standing straighter and brushing past him down the hall. He’s had enough. He needs to see his brother, Dumbledore and his advice be damned. “I’m fine, Jamie. Just leave it.”
”I won’t leave it, you stubborn sod. I want to know.”
”It’s none of your business!”
The expression on James’s face is enough to immediately make him regret saying it, and he visibly deflates, scrubbing long fingers through his hair, “Please, just let it alone, James. This has absolutely nothing to do with you or even me. I’m fine.”
James shakes his head, black mop of messy hair moving like it has a life of its own, but he seems satisfied for the moment. “You’re a right pain in my arse.”
It’s a tease, a small, strained smile taking the sting out of the words, and Sirius offers him a smile of his own.
“Yeah but I’m the only one you’ll take it from.”
He turns then, leaving James behind in the hallway, and it takes him less than a minute to make his way down the stairs onto the first floor, weaving past Order members and turning down corridors until he’s in the infirmary, shutting the door behind him. Regulus is awake. He can tell the moment he steps into the room, and as he moves closer, he can hear a small, whispered voice singing out the words of a song. Rounding one of the strategically placed white curtains, used to give patients some semblance of privacy, he finds his brother staring up at the ceiling, lips moving ever so slightly, and Sirius can recognize it now. hush a bye baby in the tree top you will never disobey me again you arrogant little brat don’t you dare walk away from me please please no stop the maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes
“Reg?”
when along came a blackbird and pecked off her nose
Sirius.
Regulus lets the whispers stop, his brother's presence settles over him like a fur and velvet blanket and soothes him, keeps him warm.
star light star bright first star I see tonight
He glances out the corners of his eyes, and finds Sirius there, lined by white curtain like an angel. Cherubim, seraphim, Fallen, demon, Thrones Virtues Powers Principalities Grigori. Sirius his guardian angel. He turns his head, keeping his gaze where he wants it to be. He feels detached and distant, like the part of him that matters is flying somewhere very far away and Sirius is making it tingle with his presence. Regulus can feel his own heart beating, or maybe it's someone else's.
I wish I may I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight
His voice is so soft that he isn't sure if he's speaking at all.
"Hi."
Sirius edges forward, two steps closer, unsure of what to do or what to say now that he's here. 'How are you feeling?' seems kind of pointless and 'Hey' just doesn't cover it. Instead of focusing on words, he drags the chair used for visitors closer to Regulus's bed, the legs grating against the wood floor with a rough sound, too loud in the quiet of the infirmary. It's jarring, and he stops it, immediately, deciding that it's close enough, anyway.
"I wanted to be here when you woke up, but they made me leave."
One hand reaches out, trailing a finger lightly down his brother's arm as he studies his face, the redness around his mouth from the gag. It's faded some, though still there, and he feels a small twinge of that dark rage that had consumed him earlier. No one has any right to touch Regulus. Not one damn person is allowed to lay a finger on him for anything. Except him.
"I know," Regulus answers, and he means it.
He's still floating somewhere else, but he feels his brother's touch, he will never not feel his brother's touch even in a cold, lifeless body. His fingers move on the sheets, tingling, still reminiscing of pain. There are ugly friction burns that he can feel almost completely circling his wrists, scars that haven't faded yet. Magic always takes longer to heal the traces left behind. He wonders how close he came to losing his hands.
He wants to sit up, but he doesn't. He just gazes at Sirius, the most beautiful thing in the world, and whisper-sighs, "You saved my life again."
Sirius's shoulders move, a half-shrug as his lips quirk into a small sort of smile, and his anger disappears almost immediately. It's hard to stay mad at anything when his brother is laying there and staring at him like he's the sun, the moon and the stars, too.
"Yeah, well... s'what I'm here for, innit? Could've gotten there a little sooner, though."
He sees Reg's fingers moving gently against the blankets of the bed, the wounds around his wrists from the ropes. They're healing, but not as fast as he would like. His hand moves down further, sliding his fingers over Regulus's, under and between. The touch is grounding, keeping him centered, and he isn't sure of who he's trying to comfort, anymore. All he knows as that he wants to keep touching him, make sure he's really there, won't go anywhere. He wants to lay claim on him again, brush away the memory of those men with his own hands and mouth until Regulus can't remember anything but him, always him.
Tightened fingers, warmth and a very small smile. Regulus feels his mouth curve without even realizing it was going to do so, pure love alone. He wants to bring his brother's hand to his lips and kiss the beloved fingertips one by one.
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Regulus pauses in his breath, and then tenses his whole body, shifting for the first time since he opened his eyes and attempting to move himself into a better position, upright, facing Sirius, not just watching him from where he lies. He barely fights down a spasm, of cold or misuse or some other difficulty that he doesn't recognize. His body is sore in places, stiff, he's been lying still for a while, bound before and tied. There are bandages wrapped around his chest, a pad of gauze pressed against his side, obscuring the dagger's point of penetration. He didn't notice them before.
The medicine has left him with no strength to spare. His hold on his brother's hand clenches again, and he makes a small sound of discomfort quite against his will. Frustration flickers in his thoughts, this weakness, the pain that still lingers, when he cannot even collapse into Sirius' arms.
Sirius lurches forward, immediately, hands going to Regulus's shoulders to steady him as he struggles to get up. He settles down on the bed next to him, pressing firmly against him in order to get him to lay back down.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Maybe you haven't noticed, but you're really in no condition to be moving about."
He means for his voice to be scolding, but he can't manage to work up even the slightest amount of harshness in his tone. He, instead, reaches up to flick the hair away from Regulus's eyes, trailing the tips of his fingers along the line of his jaw and lets out a shaky sigh.
"Don't you ever do that again. Or I'll kill you myself."
He's only half-joking.
Regulus reclines obediently. He gazes up at his brother, never letting his eyes drift away, though they couldn't possibly want to do so. They're wide, like a child in awe. Sirius' words make him shiver. This, this, this is just how much his brother loves him.
"I wanted to sit with you," he whispers in reply, and it doesn't make sense to him and makes complete sense to him because of that. He wants to be close, so close, touching close, holding close. Sirius is closer. His body doesn't want to let him press any more.
He basks in the soft caress of his brother's fingers, and determinedly reaches up to touch Sirius, anywhere he can.
"Siri."
Sirius reaches up, catching Regulus' hand in his, letting their fingers lace together as he allows the small smile on his face to become something more warm and comforting. He's never really been much of a big brother. It's a little hard to be that when you're only a year or so apart in age difference, and you happen to be a lot closer than is strictly adhered to in common society. In the Black family, though, he supposes he's done pretty all right. He's protected him when he could and gotten revenge when he couldn't, and in a family like theirs, that's all that really matters, and it's one thing that Sirius doesn't disagree with, at all.
"Beat you to it," he whispers back, grip tightening ever so slightly as he leans forward, brushing his lips against Reg's.
Yeah. He's done well enough.
Regulus smiles, and all of a sudden everything's real again, everything's back to the way it should be, and instead of stiff discomfort and a reminiscent haze, his body fills with a soothing warmth like hot liquid melting ice and snow. Sirius has a special kind of magic that only his brother can see and taste and touch. It's in his lips voice hands hair skin, trickling out, rolling in waves of fog.
Everything's all right.
He holds to his brother's hand, fingers tangled, like a lifeline, which it is. It always has been, always will be. They're lifelines for each other. Regulus wants to be as important to Sirius as Sirius is to him - an impossible feat, he thinks, so he wishes a little harder every day. Every day he worships his brother a little more. "Perfect, beautiful, wonderful Sirius..." he breathes, and he tilts his head to his brother's shadow to press their lips together.
end
[also posted to hp_blackcest]