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small_giftsTitle: All the Wrong Reasons
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
passakiss
Written for:jamesly
Rating: PG-13
Summary and/or Prompt: Christmas lights, again - in 1982.
Any other random notes, warnings, etc.: My other fic forjamesly. I wanted this one to be more Christmasy. Once again, thanks to finallyflyapart for all the help. =)
Nothing is simple, anymore, but Remus can't remember a time when he could knock on a door without hesitance anyway. It doesn't fit: the sprinkle of jingle bells, the smell of cinnamon, joyfulness and peace on earth. Clinging snowflakes, melting on his forehead and seeping towards the creases of his jacket. The delicate sheets of ice are crunched pieces below, lingering traces of those before him. He doesn't fit, and it's obvious.
An electric light pops into darkness, and his hand slips into his pocket, compulsively brushing the edges of the invitation that is his only proof to be here, an unfamiliar house on an unfamiliar road. He has no idea what he's doing.
Elderly women, however, have a tendency to tell him exactly what to do, and Remus has a tendency to listen to them.
When Remus stopped leaving his flat completely, he let the tentative letters gather uselessly on his windowsill. Then came the newspapers, piling up on his doorstep, week after week - he was always too busy with sleep and alcohol to pick them up. But change came in the form of a seventy-eight year old widow who stuck her head through his window to advise him to do something about the birds - or she would.
Poppy Fillster was possibly the most perceptive woman Remus had ever met. Or maybe she was just crazy. Nevertheless, she listened to his broken stories, apparently unaware or unbothered that many of the pieces didn't add up. Without her, he didn't know where he'd be - somewhere among pitying, worried glances from ex-Order members that always made him want to fall into uselessness once more.
So he spent his days at her house, and at nights, he could sleep again, sometimes. He read to her. He helped her shop. They discussed literature. It didn't really matter if it was abnormal, did it?
But Remus was emptying the grocery bags, arranging the fruit basket, when Poppy decided that he was "still so young".
"My niece - you know her, of course, she works down at the bookshop - she has some very good friends, and I'm sure you'd get along with them all so well."
It would be good for him, she said. They're kind, she said, and they'd help him move away from his past.
By "his past", of course, he wasn't sure if she was referring to his reluctance to leave his own apartment or simply his relationship with a murderer.
Michelle Fillster, Poppy described to be "sweet and plump" (Poppy always felt the need to provide an analysis of the weight of everyone she knew). But when Remus was first introduced to Michelle, he felt her eyes probing him in an uncomfortable, criticizing sort of way, and he realised that Poppy had probably told Michelle just as much about him ("Scrawny, emotionally instable…").
Then again, she's Poppy's niece. Of course Michelle could understand. Of course they could enjoy each other's company. But it's one thing to talk to him. But it's another thing entirely to befriend him, to let him come to her party.
The wreath on Michelle's door is tacky in the way he doesn't mind tacky: warm, and spirited, if not a little overdone. Remus doesn't feel spirited in the slightest, but he's done a good job of appearing like he is: his pullover is neat and bright, and he's brought a tin of Poppy's biscuits to share. They're warm, complete, exactly like he doesn't feel.
It's been three months now, and Remus knows Michelle and her friends by name. He's even picked up on habits, on the dynamics of the group - who's a leader, who's a follower (his mind leaps to Peter, and he clutches the invitation, the lifeboat). They're his type of people - intelligent, all from the same university. Half of them have majors in English, half in Psychology. And slowly, he feels compassion developing for them, life moving back into numb limbs.
A knock, and the door will open. He's checked the address; he's followed the directions to the one-story house, all appearance of quaint charm. But that's all it is: an appearance. Land is expensive in this part of town.
Headlights glow on the path behind him, an engine rumbling in the different, and Remus holds his breath, raises his wrist - knocks twice.
Quick footsteps, just behind the door, and Remus doesn't have time to sort out his facial expression or greeting before the door is unlocked, and a small, yipping dog is swept aside by Michelle's well-practiced foot.
"Hurry - it's freezing!" She guides him swiftly into the room, takes the tin container from his hands ("Is this from Poppy?"), and suddenly his earlier worries seem immature and paranoid.
"Er, yes. Happy Christmas," he says. It's weak, belated, but it's a reply. "Do you need help with anything?"
Michelle's speech is very quick, and altogether something like a fifty-five-year-old's. But Poppy was right - she is very kind, and she's letting him into her home. If she were a witch, Remus thinks she might've been in Hufflepuff.
She drops a crumpled paper towel on top of the biscuits. She's grinning; her head tilts to the side as she studies him. "You look great. No, I can finish up in here - Carol's waiting in the living room. Why don't you two put up a few ornaments?" He isn't sure who else she's addressing (or even where the living room is), but then a charming smile is beside him with an answer.
"You and Edgar would get along," he remembers Michelle commenting when they first met, stirring polite conversation along over tea and crumpets. At the time, the name "Edgar" designed images of quiet, grumpy old men - but Edgar has been studying law for two years, and there isn't all that much that's old-fashioned about him, really.
"We'll see." A slight accent rolls into Edgar's words as he raises his eyebrows at Remus, passing him a glass of fizzing liquid.
"I'm really glad you could come," Edgar says. He sounds genuine, and Remus finds himself smiling awkwardly as he follows him into the parlour.
The scene that greets them in the living room is almost comically muggle: the TV is on, Jingle Bell Rock streaming from the stereo. The coffee table is laden with untouched snack trays. Remus isn't just over-dressed - he's early.
A blonde woman Remus doesn't recognize is sitting on the plush couches and staring at the small TV screen when they enter the room, balancing her own glass between her fingers. "Did Michelle say we can start yet? James is always late."
Remus' heart pounds before he remembers the other James, the James Michelle always talks about. James McKay. The blond James. It doesn't seem right, somehow.
"Sure," Edgar says, "Let's get started."
Twelve minutes later, Remus has only put one ornament on the tree - a plain, golden bauble. But he really likes the champagne and is starting to feel more comfortable. He's even pondering placing a tiny silver angel on the tree when Edgar places a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, I want to show you something."
Carol's eyes follow them as they step out of the room, away from the glow of the TV screen and blare of commercials. The hallway is neat and long, and the walls are arranged with cheery portraits, still photographs - Michelle at her high school graduation with a group of girls Remus doesn't recognise, her family, her brother and his wife.
They turn, and a glimpse of a bedspread peaks through a half-open door. Remus wonders, briefly, if this is Edgar's way of flirting ("Look! A bed! How convenient."), but that isn't really the type of thing a person like Edgar would do - laboured breathing and a name on his lips, hot skin and wandering hands - and Remus really has no idea where these thoughts are coming from. They're silent as they walk, and he finds it odd that Edgar doesn't make small talk - the sounds of their footsteps are muffled by the soft white carpet. They finally stop in a small storage room, with a washing machine that hums steadily and cans stacked up on shelves.
Edgar looks strangely nervous as he fumbles through his pockets.
Remus' breathe catches in his throat as Edgar places something soft into his hands. "That's-"
"You left this at Diane's last weekend. I thought it might be important."
"Yeah," he says, unable to tear his eyes away from the tattered handkerchief, "Yes, it is."
"Did someone, you know, give it to you?"
Remus' glances up, and realises for the first time that the accent must be American - it's in the o's, maybe. He should ask him about it. But his head is spinning, and Carol's shrill laughter trails in from the kitchen and stomps out off-key carolling. Remus can't concentrate; he remembers hands on wrists, dark closets to hide away in when Order meetings were too cold and too distant.
Edgar has thick eyebrows, and they're scrunching together to make sharp lines in his forehead.
"My mother. She's dead now."
"I'm sorry," says Edgar, but he doesn't look concerned. He looks relieved. "I just, I never know with you."
Remus had almost managed to forget that they're in a storage room. The washing machine clinks with the bounce of loose change.
"You're very good at keeping secrets, you know," Edgar murmurs. Is it just Remus' imagination, or is he stepping closer?
"Sorry," Remus says automatically. Are they brushing hands, foreheads?
"It's okay. I don't care."
Edgar Smith is going to kiss him. It seemed almost stupid, before, but now, with his back against the door in a secluded part of an unfamiliar house - it's obvious. Edgar Smith wants pale skin and hollow, distrustful eyes. He's the type of person Remus should be grateful for. He's the type of person he should've met earlier, maybe even the type of person he should've known all along. And when he starts to lean forward, the air is heavy and overpowering.
But if Remus closes his eyes, it will be Sirius' breath on his ear, Sirius' voice, Moony, Moony, move in with me already. It's the hands on the waist, the way the grip is different, and then -
This isn't what he likes about Edgar. It isn't the love of literature - it isn't even the intelligence. It's the dark hair, the permanent smirk on his lips, the shared jokes. But it isn't the same, and all he can't think is not Sirius, not Sirius at all.
"Remus?"
The words ghost over his lips, and then he's pushing him away, dropping his arms from the shoulders they'd wandered to. He trips slightly as he backs away, dizzy and sick. "I'm sorry," he manages, "I'm so sorry."
There is a door handle pressing into his back, and numbly, Remus reaches towards it and turns the knob without hope of it actually opening. But it does - and the breeze slides under his jumper like cold hands, a cold that he can't feel anymore. Edgar doesn't try to stop him as he silently closes the door over the laundry room, over warmth and festive carols that die when the door shuts with a gentle click.
The back garden is as lively as the front, strung with Christmas lights and tinsel - but it's cold, and he needs home, he needs alcohol, he needs sleep and solitude to forget about and cover all of his tracks, his mistakes (before he has to explain this to Michelle, to Poppy). Run away, run away - away from wreaths and Christmas lights, because he doesn't belong here at all.
Author/Artist:
passakissWritten for:
jameslyRating: PG-13
Summary and/or Prompt: Christmas lights, again - in 1982.
Any other random notes, warnings, etc.: My other fic for
jamesly. I wanted this one to be more Christmasy. Once again, thanks to finallyflyapart for all the help. =)Nothing is simple, anymore, but Remus can't remember a time when he could knock on a door without hesitance anyway. It doesn't fit: the sprinkle of jingle bells, the smell of cinnamon, joyfulness and peace on earth. Clinging snowflakes, melting on his forehead and seeping towards the creases of his jacket. The delicate sheets of ice are crunched pieces below, lingering traces of those before him. He doesn't fit, and it's obvious.
An electric light pops into darkness, and his hand slips into his pocket, compulsively brushing the edges of the invitation that is his only proof to be here, an unfamiliar house on an unfamiliar road. He has no idea what he's doing.
Elderly women, however, have a tendency to tell him exactly what to do, and Remus has a tendency to listen to them.
When Remus stopped leaving his flat completely, he let the tentative letters gather uselessly on his windowsill. Then came the newspapers, piling up on his doorstep, week after week - he was always too busy with sleep and alcohol to pick them up. But change came in the form of a seventy-eight year old widow who stuck her head through his window to advise him to do something about the birds - or she would.
Poppy Fillster was possibly the most perceptive woman Remus had ever met. Or maybe she was just crazy. Nevertheless, she listened to his broken stories, apparently unaware or unbothered that many of the pieces didn't add up. Without her, he didn't know where he'd be - somewhere among pitying, worried glances from ex-Order members that always made him want to fall into uselessness once more.
So he spent his days at her house, and at nights, he could sleep again, sometimes. He read to her. He helped her shop. They discussed literature. It didn't really matter if it was abnormal, did it?
But Remus was emptying the grocery bags, arranging the fruit basket, when Poppy decided that he was "still so young".
"My niece - you know her, of course, she works down at the bookshop - she has some very good friends, and I'm sure you'd get along with them all so well."
It would be good for him, she said. They're kind, she said, and they'd help him move away from his past.
By "his past", of course, he wasn't sure if she was referring to his reluctance to leave his own apartment or simply his relationship with a murderer.
Michelle Fillster, Poppy described to be "sweet and plump" (Poppy always felt the need to provide an analysis of the weight of everyone she knew). But when Remus was first introduced to Michelle, he felt her eyes probing him in an uncomfortable, criticizing sort of way, and he realised that Poppy had probably told Michelle just as much about him ("Scrawny, emotionally instable…").
Then again, she's Poppy's niece. Of course Michelle could understand. Of course they could enjoy each other's company. But it's one thing to talk to him. But it's another thing entirely to befriend him, to let him come to her party.
The wreath on Michelle's door is tacky in the way he doesn't mind tacky: warm, and spirited, if not a little overdone. Remus doesn't feel spirited in the slightest, but he's done a good job of appearing like he is: his pullover is neat and bright, and he's brought a tin of Poppy's biscuits to share. They're warm, complete, exactly like he doesn't feel.
It's been three months now, and Remus knows Michelle and her friends by name. He's even picked up on habits, on the dynamics of the group - who's a leader, who's a follower (his mind leaps to Peter, and he clutches the invitation, the lifeboat). They're his type of people - intelligent, all from the same university. Half of them have majors in English, half in Psychology. And slowly, he feels compassion developing for them, life moving back into numb limbs.
A knock, and the door will open. He's checked the address; he's followed the directions to the one-story house, all appearance of quaint charm. But that's all it is: an appearance. Land is expensive in this part of town.
Headlights glow on the path behind him, an engine rumbling in the different, and Remus holds his breath, raises his wrist - knocks twice.
Quick footsteps, just behind the door, and Remus doesn't have time to sort out his facial expression or greeting before the door is unlocked, and a small, yipping dog is swept aside by Michelle's well-practiced foot.
"Hurry - it's freezing!" She guides him swiftly into the room, takes the tin container from his hands ("Is this from Poppy?"), and suddenly his earlier worries seem immature and paranoid.
"Er, yes. Happy Christmas," he says. It's weak, belated, but it's a reply. "Do you need help with anything?"
Michelle's speech is very quick, and altogether something like a fifty-five-year-old's. But Poppy was right - she is very kind, and she's letting him into her home. If she were a witch, Remus thinks she might've been in Hufflepuff.
She drops a crumpled paper towel on top of the biscuits. She's grinning; her head tilts to the side as she studies him. "You look great. No, I can finish up in here - Carol's waiting in the living room. Why don't you two put up a few ornaments?" He isn't sure who else she's addressing (or even where the living room is), but then a charming smile is beside him with an answer.
"You and Edgar would get along," he remembers Michelle commenting when they first met, stirring polite conversation along over tea and crumpets. At the time, the name "Edgar" designed images of quiet, grumpy old men - but Edgar has been studying law for two years, and there isn't all that much that's old-fashioned about him, really.
"We'll see." A slight accent rolls into Edgar's words as he raises his eyebrows at Remus, passing him a glass of fizzing liquid.
"I'm really glad you could come," Edgar says. He sounds genuine, and Remus finds himself smiling awkwardly as he follows him into the parlour.
The scene that greets them in the living room is almost comically muggle: the TV is on, Jingle Bell Rock streaming from the stereo. The coffee table is laden with untouched snack trays. Remus isn't just over-dressed - he's early.
A blonde woman Remus doesn't recognize is sitting on the plush couches and staring at the small TV screen when they enter the room, balancing her own glass between her fingers. "Did Michelle say we can start yet? James is always late."
Remus' heart pounds before he remembers the other James, the James Michelle always talks about. James McKay. The blond James. It doesn't seem right, somehow.
"Sure," Edgar says, "Let's get started."
Twelve minutes later, Remus has only put one ornament on the tree - a plain, golden bauble. But he really likes the champagne and is starting to feel more comfortable. He's even pondering placing a tiny silver angel on the tree when Edgar places a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, I want to show you something."
Carol's eyes follow them as they step out of the room, away from the glow of the TV screen and blare of commercials. The hallway is neat and long, and the walls are arranged with cheery portraits, still photographs - Michelle at her high school graduation with a group of girls Remus doesn't recognise, her family, her brother and his wife.
They turn, and a glimpse of a bedspread peaks through a half-open door. Remus wonders, briefly, if this is Edgar's way of flirting ("Look! A bed! How convenient."), but that isn't really the type of thing a person like Edgar would do - laboured breathing and a name on his lips, hot skin and wandering hands - and Remus really has no idea where these thoughts are coming from. They're silent as they walk, and he finds it odd that Edgar doesn't make small talk - the sounds of their footsteps are muffled by the soft white carpet. They finally stop in a small storage room, with a washing machine that hums steadily and cans stacked up on shelves.
Edgar looks strangely nervous as he fumbles through his pockets.
Remus' breathe catches in his throat as Edgar places something soft into his hands. "That's-"
"You left this at Diane's last weekend. I thought it might be important."
"Yeah," he says, unable to tear his eyes away from the tattered handkerchief, "Yes, it is."
"Did someone, you know, give it to you?"
Remus' glances up, and realises for the first time that the accent must be American - it's in the o's, maybe. He should ask him about it. But his head is spinning, and Carol's shrill laughter trails in from the kitchen and stomps out off-key carolling. Remus can't concentrate; he remembers hands on wrists, dark closets to hide away in when Order meetings were too cold and too distant.
Edgar has thick eyebrows, and they're scrunching together to make sharp lines in his forehead.
"My mother. She's dead now."
"I'm sorry," says Edgar, but he doesn't look concerned. He looks relieved. "I just, I never know with you."
Remus had almost managed to forget that they're in a storage room. The washing machine clinks with the bounce of loose change.
"You're very good at keeping secrets, you know," Edgar murmurs. Is it just Remus' imagination, or is he stepping closer?
"Sorry," Remus says automatically. Are they brushing hands, foreheads?
"It's okay. I don't care."
Edgar Smith is going to kiss him. It seemed almost stupid, before, but now, with his back against the door in a secluded part of an unfamiliar house - it's obvious. Edgar Smith wants pale skin and hollow, distrustful eyes. He's the type of person Remus should be grateful for. He's the type of person he should've met earlier, maybe even the type of person he should've known all along. And when he starts to lean forward, the air is heavy and overpowering.
But if Remus closes his eyes, it will be Sirius' breath on his ear, Sirius' voice, Moony, Moony, move in with me already. It's the hands on the waist, the way the grip is different, and then -
This isn't what he likes about Edgar. It isn't the love of literature - it isn't even the intelligence. It's the dark hair, the permanent smirk on his lips, the shared jokes. But it isn't the same, and all he can't think is not Sirius, not Sirius at all.
"Remus?"
The words ghost over his lips, and then he's pushing him away, dropping his arms from the shoulders they'd wandered to. He trips slightly as he backs away, dizzy and sick. "I'm sorry," he manages, "I'm so sorry."
There is a door handle pressing into his back, and numbly, Remus reaches towards it and turns the knob without hope of it actually opening. But it does - and the breeze slides under his jumper like cold hands, a cold that he can't feel anymore. Edgar doesn't try to stop him as he silently closes the door over the laundry room, over warmth and festive carols that die when the door shuts with a gentle click.
The back garden is as lively as the front, strung with Christmas lights and tinsel - but it's cold, and he needs home, he needs alcohol, he needs sleep and solitude to forget about and cover all of his tracks, his mistakes (before he has to explain this to Michelle, to Poppy). Run away, run away - away from wreaths and Christmas lights, because he doesn't belong here at all.
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no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 04:08 pm (UTC)This was painful and funny, which is really hard to write, I think.
I really loved the first paragraph - and oh . . .
Poppy Fillster was possibly the most perceptive woman Remus had ever met. Or maybe she was just crazy.
That made me laugh. XD
Oh, and poor Edgar - poor REMUS. God, how horrific it must have been for him after the first war.
Canon-wise, I really hope Sirius and Remus weren't together during the first war - because how painful must it have been for Remus . . . Arg, I can't even comprehend it.
Great fic - it hurts.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 07:30 pm (UTC)I felt pretty bad for Edgar. I really wanted to hate him, too, but you know... That would kind of ruin the point. =/
Thanks so much for commenting, though. =) Hope it didn't get you too depressed.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 07:32 pm (UTC)And nice (but sad!) icon, too. I just got to see Brokeback Mountain.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 07:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 08:18 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for commenting. =D
no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 05:08 am (UTC)"This isn't what he likes about Edgar. It isn't the love of literature - it isn't even the intelligence. It's the dark hair, the permanent smirk on his lips, the shared jokes. But it isn't the same, and all he can't think is not Sirius, not Sirius at all."
So close--close enough that he can't pretend that he's not just trying to use Edgar as a substitue--but not close enough. Wonderful fic.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 06:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 05:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 10:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-31 01:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 11:58 pm (UTC)Anyway, this was lovely - terribly sad, but lovely.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-31 01:24 am (UTC)Thanks for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2006-12-31 01:25 am (UTC)That made me sad, hon. :|
Write moreee, and then send them to me, because uhm, I kind of fail at finding fanfics. :<
It was good, I kind of didn't like Edgar, and I kind of did. I dunno, I didn't really pay attention to him, I was in the more 'Awh, omg poor Remus. -tear.'
Great job, I liked it. :]
no subject
Date: 2006-12-31 06:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-03 03:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-03 08:51 pm (UTC)Thanks for commenting. ^^
no subject
Date: 2007-01-04 02:14 am (UTC)'But it isn't the same, and all he can't think is not Sirius, not Sirius at all.'
You really are trying to kill me, chickadee. ♥
no subject
Date: 2007-01-04 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-04 04:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-08 01:18 am (UTC)In any case, I LOVE because good lord, the Lost Years are such a vital part of Remus and written so little. These kinds of stories tug at my heartstrings, because good lord Remus. And Edgar! Such a fantastic name. I love it. And him leaving Edgar, and him being upset and I love all of it. So much good description, and it's so powerful, I can feel the dialogue in my head. I love love love.
Thaaaank you so much!
no subject
Date: 2007-01-08 02:00 am (UTC)But thanks so much! This was actually the one I started first - I wrote the other when I realized how little I'd followed your prompt. x)
Personally, I think Remus changes a LOT after Sirius goes to Azkaban. Both of them do. WHICH IS WHY THEY'RE THE MOST COMPLEX AND AMAZING SHIP OUT THERE. Much too good to be canon, imo.
Also, I don't comment on things much (I know - I should). But I did read your fic. And it was just. Amazing. O: I want your skills.
Can I friend you? I'd like to remember this experience. xD
no subject
Date: 2007-01-08 04:57 am (UTC)Aw, you liked it? You want my skills? Dude, I want your skills. They are Rad.
Yes, of course! I don't write much on this journal (it's my fic journal/post in fic communities journal), but I usually link to fics from there. If you want ME (I am pretty lovable, I know), I'm at
:D
no subject
Date: 2007-01-08 09:53 pm (UTC)Because JKR's all, "YOU EXPECTED RON AND HERMIONE? And I thought I was being so subtle. WELL. HOW ABOUT REMUS and...AND TONKS! Cute, aren't they? AREN'T THEY?!?"
It's sad, too, because she said her favourite book is Pride and Prejudice. Which is only the best romance EVER. So I don't really get why she's so terrible at it.
[/rant]
Okay. I'll just. Friend both. =)
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 06:03 am (UTC):DDD