Fic: Strangers on a Train for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maraudersaffair
Dec. 15th, 2008 07:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
penhaligonblue.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
small_giftsTitle: Strangers on a Train
Author:penhaligonblue
Recipient:maraudersaffair
Prompt: Both are Muggles on a train, coming home from a joyless holiday.
Rating: PG-13 for sexuality
Word Count: 2,829
Notes: Many thanks tocomrade_sir for the beta read. Non-magical AU. I’ve attempted to research thoroughly the condition of British rail travel in the early eighties, and cobble it to my limited experience with the current system, but more seasoned travellers of the Midland Main Line are welcome to point out any inaccuracies.
Strangers on a Train (1982)
There are few things as dismal as the Doncaster rail station on Boxing Day morning, Sirius thinks as he disembarks from his train. The steel awnings frame a claustrophobic, slate-grey sky, while on the platform the only movement to be seen is a paper skating past a row of closed-up newsstands. The faintly tolling bells of some church in the city only heighten the atmosphere of utter bleakness. What a perfect complement to Sirius’s mood.
Dreary Boxing Days in deserted railway stations have become something of a holiday tradition for him. Every winter, following weeks of grief from his mother about what a horrible son he’s been this year, Sirius guiltily agrees to spend Christmas at the family home in the north. After a few days of stilted conversation and cheerless gift-giving, Sirius inevitably decides he has had enough, and takes the first train back to London the day after Christmas. Then he usually mopes about his flat until New Year’s Eve, which he spends alone, resolving to stay at home for Christmas next year.
Things wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for his damned brother. Back when they were kids, Regulus was his ally against the harsh arrogance of their parents. Any time the grim ceremony of family meals became too much, the two of them would take a long walk through the park. What a difference there was between Regulus’s light-hearted teasing and his mother’s cruelly indirect criticism.
All of that changed when Regulus went away to school. Apparently the distinction brought to him by his family name was too tempting for Regulus to ignore. Ever since then, he has arrived home for Christmas with an awe-filled classmate or, more recently, a haughty girl whose affectations cannot mask her disbelief that she is lucky enough to spend her holiday at the Black estate. Meanwhile, Regulus preens away, boasting about his pack of well-bred school friends and tilting his chin in that trademark Black manner that Sirius has always endeavoured to counteract.
Bloody brother. Bloody family. Bloody, bleeding Christmas.
Sirius can feel a headache coming on. Glancing about the dreary platform, he knows there is only one thing that is going to put him in anything resembling a good mood.
One of the accessory benefits of travelling on Boxing Day is the fact that the railway stations are almost uniformly deserted. While Britons up and down the isle are suffering from too much society, Sirius can be assured that the Doncaster Station loo will be one of the most private places in all of England.
Crackly Christmas tunes blare from the PA speakers as Sirius pulls the door of the lavatory shut behind him. The floor is strewn with paper, the tiles are a lurid orange, and a steady trickle streams from one of the taps. The place will do nicely.
Within minutes, Sirius is standing in the last cubicle, fly open, one hand running along his cock while the other pushes against the wall for support. Seven years’ worth of nights spent in private school dormitories have sharpened his skill at keeping quiet while pulling himself off. In fact, it has become rather a point of pride for Sirius. He has never had to worry about disturbing his neighbors on the other side of his flat’s too-thin walls, or alerting his coworkers to his activities during a midmorning “coffee break” in the office loo. Ah, yes, Sirius reflects as he pumps his fist and bites his lip. He is a master moan-quasher. He’s surprised he hasn’t been awarded a medal for his talents.
Perhaps the loudness of the jazzy Christmas carols is to blame, or perhaps it is simply Sirius’s concentration on the hot, firm length of his hard-on, but for some reason he does not hear the swish of the loo door, or the thump of footsteps on the tile floor. It is impossible, however, for him to ignore his cubicle door swinging open from a faulty lock to reveal the startled face of an absolute stranger.
For a moment, they both just gape at each other. Then something falls into place in Sirius’s brain, and he realizes that he is standing in a public loo, in a railway station, with his pants down, across from a stranger who may or may not be staring wide-eyed at his hand on his cock, and he is really not entirely sure this is preferable to the torment of a family Christmas.
Something seems to click for the other man, as well, because he suddenly begins spluttering, “Oh, Lord. I am sorry – terribly sorry!” Why is he just standing there? Sirius’s mortification gives way to annoyance, and before he can decide whether or not he wants to formulate a more polite response, he barks, “Get out!” The stranger nearly trips over himself in his compliance.
Once the cubicle door has clattered shut again, Sirius considers picking up where he left off, but he finds that the mood has rather worn off... as has his erection. He does up his trousers with a sigh, then picks up his coat and bag and plods over to the sinks.
He rinses his hands and splashes a bit of water on his face, hoping he might wake up from this humiliating, bewildering dream. No such luck. Just as he is drying off his fingers with a raspy paper towel, the carols on the PA stop with a clunk, and a voice booms from the speakers.
“Last call for London-St. Pancras. All remaining passengers for London-St. Pancras, please board from platform three at this time.”
Sirius growls an oath and leaps for the door. There is his train, two bays over, readying for departure. He utters a strangled “Wait!” as he hurries up the stairs of the footbridge. He dashes along the passage, scurries down to platform three, and hurls himself through the doors of the nearest carriage. He has only enough time to drop his bag and lean against the wall to catch his breath, before a whistle sounds outside and a mechanical grinding meets his ears. All aboard, after all.
Sirius straightens his rumpled jumper, digs through his pockets for his ticket, and sets off in search of his seat. The train begins to pick up speed as it pulls out of the station. The contours of the pale, stony trackside walls slink into a dizzying glide.
Three-thirty-four, three-thirty-five, three-thirty-six. As he nears his assigned row, Sirius stows his bag in the luggage rack, along with his coat. It is only when he ducks his head under the ledge that he notices there is another passenger in the facing row. The man from the loo glances upwards and immediately returns his gaze to the window. Sirius thinks he hears something that sounds like “Erp.”
This appears to be one of those occasions commonly referred to as “the moment of truth.” Either Sirius can collect his things as quickly as possible and flee to another part of the train, or he can feign shamelessness and brazenly take his seat. The old Black family pride flares inside him. If that wanker wants to avoid a painfully humiliating two-hour-long ride, then he will have to move elsewhere.
Sirius drops into his seat with as much poise as he can muster, then concentrates on composing himself into a semblance of coolness. The effect is hampered somewhat by his trembling hands. Frowning at them, Sirius knits his fingers together and clasps them about his knee, settled atop his other leg. Fixing his gaze on the man across from him, Sirius tilts his chin and hopes the fellow can’t hear the panicked thudding of his heartbeat. A minute passes in relative silence. The man sneaks another look at Sirius, then, deterred by Sirius’s glare, clears his throat, adjusts his shirt cuffs, and leans back into his seat. Satisfied that he has proven his inability to be cowed, Sirius allows his muscles to relax a bit. He shifts his sights to the scene passing outside their window. The spires of Doncaster’s minster are rapidly shrinking in the distance, and the drab, yellow-brick houses of the city’s outskirts are giving way to open fields.
The snowy expanse summons Sirius’s earlier, sour mood, and he is dwelling again on his wretched family and the cold flat that awaits him, when he is distracted by the crinkle of a plastic wrapper. He turns his attention back to his companion.
“Erm, biscuit?” the man asks, tipping a cylinder of digestives towards Sirius. When Sirius does nothing but stare at him quizzically, the man gives a half-smile and takes a biscuit for himself. Disconcerted, Sirius returns to contemplating the countryside.
Crunch.
(Smack, smack.)
Crunch.
(Smack, smack.)
When Sirius looks back, the man stops his chewing mid-crunch. He swallows his biscuit, brushes the crumbs from his lips, and says, “I’m Remus Lupin.” He extends a hand. Sirius eyes it warily and wonders whether the offer of his left palm is a calculated move borne of memories of their first encounter. But then, telling himself, It’s Christmas, Sirius reaches out and takes Lupin’s hand.
“Sirius Black.”
That elicits a chuckle. “Sounds like your parents were just as heartless as mine.”
You have no idea, Sirius thinks to himself.
“Well,” Lupin continues, “What has you on the early train to London the morning after Christmas, Sirius Black?”
Sirius is perplexed. “Eager to get home, I suppose,” he says with a shrug.
“Hmm,” Lupin responds, again with an upward twist at the edges of his mouth. “Bad holiday?”
Sirius could never resist the perceptive sort. With an almighty groan, he replies gamely, “Miserable.”
Lupin sighs. “Me too,” he says, and in the same instant that Sirius catches the accompanying twinkle in Lupin’s eye, he realizes that his fellow traveller is shockingly handsome. He has a straight nose, a firm jaw, and brownish hair that he wears with a slightly unruly side-part. But most striking are his eyes, a deeper brown than his hair and faintly narrowed, bespeaking wisdom or a readiness to laugh. Sirius can tell he’s a reader, but no stuffy bookworm. Sirius is, if not precisely smitten, intrigued.
“What do you do, Mr. Lupin?” he asks.
“I teach. I’m a teacher.”
“Oh, really? At what sort of school?” Sirius inquires, then winces inwardly. It’s the type of question his mother would ask.
“The primaries, in Islington and Pentonville. I’m a supply teacher.”
Sirius finds it easy to imagine Lupin speaking to a classroom full of children, with his calm, deep voice and encouraging smile.
“I’m sure you like that.”
Lupin seems pleased by Sirius’s sudden switch to affability. “Very much,” he nods.
As their train races southward over snow-swept meadows and slush-ridden towns, the two of them begin to flesh out the sketches their minds have begun of each other. Lupin was brought up in the south, along the coast, and he speaks of his parents’ cottage with an affection that makes Sirius ache. When you grow up in as many houses as Sirius did, none of them feels like home – every one is merely a residence. Lupin is puzzled by Sirius’s fatigue with city life. He tells Sirius he only visited London twice as a boy, and even now that he’s lived there a few years, wonder still quickens in his blood each time he steps out the door.
Before long, Lupin proves Sirius’s instinct correct by broaching the subject of books. Both of them fret about how little they read now in comparison with the past, but Sirius still suspects that Lupin’s year-end tally of books would easily crush his own. Lupin is just breaking into a rhapsody on E.M. Forster’s short fiction, when Sirius realizes this line of discussion can only lead to his intellectual disgrace. He diverts the conversation by asking whether Lupin has seen Tootsie. He gets a full-throated chortle in return, and they’re off on another topic for the next several minutes.
As they are pulling out of Hendon Station, talk turns back to their respective holidays. At Lupin’s prompting, Sirius delivers a concise review of his Yuletide activities, and finds that the weight of his infernal weekend has lightened considerably over the course of the morning. Lupin has a way of pursing his lips when he’s listening, as though to prevent his response from bursting forth before the appropriate moment. Hoping to lead Lupin in with a mild inquiry, he asks, “Where were you for Christmas?”
“Buxton. On the edge of the Peak District.”
Sirius has a vague recollection of a domed opera house by a river. He must have spent a childhood summer at the place. “You have family there?”
Lupin frowns and shakes his head. “It was supposed to be a – a romantic getaway.” He speaks the last two words with a wry grin.
Something deep in Sirius’s belly does a gentle backflip. He reminds himself that Lupin is, after all, travelling alone. “And it turned out to be...?”
“A disaster,” Lupin concludes. “The lawns were all frozen over, the riverside was shut off as a skid hazard, and our hot water was faulty.”
Ah. The problem was with Buxton, then, and not with Lupin’s company.
“And then,” Lupin continues, “Christmas morning, we were sitting in the hotel dining room, having our toast and sausage, and I realized... we weren’t in love with one another. In fact, it had been months since either of us had been happy with the relationship. I was all wrong for him, and he was all wrong for me.”
Sirius can’t have heard that correctly. “I – I beg your pardon?” he stammers. Lupin regards him with a tense, cautious look, as though he were testing Sirius.
“My boyfriend,” he clarifies. “Or my ex-boyfriend now, I suppose.”
Sirius doesn’t know what to say. He’s only told a handful of friends himself, and not all of them remained his friends afterwards. He would certainly never consider admitting such a thing to a stranger on a train... until now.
“Me too,” he manages to murmur.
Lupin’s face eases noticeably. “I thought so.” The two of them look blankly at each other for a moment, then simultaneously break into grateful grins. Suddenly Sirius feels freer than he has in years, and he wants to give some sign of appreciation to this stranger (though his mind mutters, friend). But before he knows it, the forward movement of their train is slackening, and Sirius can see beams of chilly midday light streaming through the glass roof of St. Pancras. He offers Lupin an open palm and, for want of a better declaration, utters, “Thanks.” Lupin takes Sirius’s hand in both of his, smiles, and rises to retrieve his luggage. Sirius stands up as well, pulls on his coat, and shuffles to the door, bag in hand.
They stride side-by-side along the platform, and when they reach the terminal, Lupin turns to him. “Share a cab?” Sirius suspects the invitation is to something more than a shared cab ride, but at the moment he longs for his flat, with its snug rooms and familiar arrangement of furniture.
“I’m just a few stops along the tube.”
Lupin nods and narrows those glimmering brown eyes. “Right. Well, you have my name. Look me up sometime... in the new year.”
“Of course. Merry Christmas.” Sirius smiles, gives a curt bob of his head, and sets off for the Underground station. Pigeons scatter in his wake, and out in the street the traffic churns along only slightly quieter than any other day of the year. By the time he arrives at the tube entrance, the cuffs of his trousers are sodden with snowmelt. Other passengers are bouncing up and down the stairwell. He burrows through his pockets for fare money, and the jingling of the coins matches the rhythm of his chattering teeth. The tune has an awful timbre of loneliness to it.
Fist still in his coat, he stops in his tracks, frowning at the sign that reads “King’s Cross St. Pancras Station.” He doesn’t need to consider twice.
Doubling back, he rushes along the pavement, sending up a prayer for deliverance from ice patches. He sees a head of ruffled, tawny hair beside an open cab door.
“Remus!” he shouts, then darts forward to the kerb. As he approaches, he sees that Lupin’s eyebrows are arched questioningly.
“You seem like an Earl Grey fellow,” Sirius pants. Lupin’s mouth quirks a bit upwards.
“Not in the least. I prefer my tea to have some element of joy in it.”
“No worries,” he persists, still short of breath. “What do you say to paying my cab fare home, if I tip the driver and offer you a cup of tea?”
The quirk lifts into an unmistakeable smile. “Sounds fair,” Lupin says.
Sirius grins back, and as they lower themselves into the back of the car, he cannot suppress the inkling that this time, he may not need to spend New Year’s alone.
Author:
penhaligonblueRecipient:
maraudersaffairPrompt: Both are Muggles on a train, coming home from a joyless holiday.
Rating: PG-13 for sexuality
Word Count: 2,829
Notes: Many thanks to
comrade_sir for the beta read. Non-magical AU. I’ve attempted to research thoroughly the condition of British rail travel in the early eighties, and cobble it to my limited experience with the current system, but more seasoned travellers of the Midland Main Line are welcome to point out any inaccuracies.Strangers on a Train (1982)
There are few things as dismal as the Doncaster rail station on Boxing Day morning, Sirius thinks as he disembarks from his train. The steel awnings frame a claustrophobic, slate-grey sky, while on the platform the only movement to be seen is a paper skating past a row of closed-up newsstands. The faintly tolling bells of some church in the city only heighten the atmosphere of utter bleakness. What a perfect complement to Sirius’s mood.
Dreary Boxing Days in deserted railway stations have become something of a holiday tradition for him. Every winter, following weeks of grief from his mother about what a horrible son he’s been this year, Sirius guiltily agrees to spend Christmas at the family home in the north. After a few days of stilted conversation and cheerless gift-giving, Sirius inevitably decides he has had enough, and takes the first train back to London the day after Christmas. Then he usually mopes about his flat until New Year’s Eve, which he spends alone, resolving to stay at home for Christmas next year.
Things wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for his damned brother. Back when they were kids, Regulus was his ally against the harsh arrogance of their parents. Any time the grim ceremony of family meals became too much, the two of them would take a long walk through the park. What a difference there was between Regulus’s light-hearted teasing and his mother’s cruelly indirect criticism.
All of that changed when Regulus went away to school. Apparently the distinction brought to him by his family name was too tempting for Regulus to ignore. Ever since then, he has arrived home for Christmas with an awe-filled classmate or, more recently, a haughty girl whose affectations cannot mask her disbelief that she is lucky enough to spend her holiday at the Black estate. Meanwhile, Regulus preens away, boasting about his pack of well-bred school friends and tilting his chin in that trademark Black manner that Sirius has always endeavoured to counteract.
Bloody brother. Bloody family. Bloody, bleeding Christmas.
Sirius can feel a headache coming on. Glancing about the dreary platform, he knows there is only one thing that is going to put him in anything resembling a good mood.
One of the accessory benefits of travelling on Boxing Day is the fact that the railway stations are almost uniformly deserted. While Britons up and down the isle are suffering from too much society, Sirius can be assured that the Doncaster Station loo will be one of the most private places in all of England.
Crackly Christmas tunes blare from the PA speakers as Sirius pulls the door of the lavatory shut behind him. The floor is strewn with paper, the tiles are a lurid orange, and a steady trickle streams from one of the taps. The place will do nicely.
Within minutes, Sirius is standing in the last cubicle, fly open, one hand running along his cock while the other pushes against the wall for support. Seven years’ worth of nights spent in private school dormitories have sharpened his skill at keeping quiet while pulling himself off. In fact, it has become rather a point of pride for Sirius. He has never had to worry about disturbing his neighbors on the other side of his flat’s too-thin walls, or alerting his coworkers to his activities during a midmorning “coffee break” in the office loo. Ah, yes, Sirius reflects as he pumps his fist and bites his lip. He is a master moan-quasher. He’s surprised he hasn’t been awarded a medal for his talents.
Perhaps the loudness of the jazzy Christmas carols is to blame, or perhaps it is simply Sirius’s concentration on the hot, firm length of his hard-on, but for some reason he does not hear the swish of the loo door, or the thump of footsteps on the tile floor. It is impossible, however, for him to ignore his cubicle door swinging open from a faulty lock to reveal the startled face of an absolute stranger.
For a moment, they both just gape at each other. Then something falls into place in Sirius’s brain, and he realizes that he is standing in a public loo, in a railway station, with his pants down, across from a stranger who may or may not be staring wide-eyed at his hand on his cock, and he is really not entirely sure this is preferable to the torment of a family Christmas.
Something seems to click for the other man, as well, because he suddenly begins spluttering, “Oh, Lord. I am sorry – terribly sorry!” Why is he just standing there? Sirius’s mortification gives way to annoyance, and before he can decide whether or not he wants to formulate a more polite response, he barks, “Get out!” The stranger nearly trips over himself in his compliance.
Once the cubicle door has clattered shut again, Sirius considers picking up where he left off, but he finds that the mood has rather worn off... as has his erection. He does up his trousers with a sigh, then picks up his coat and bag and plods over to the sinks.
He rinses his hands and splashes a bit of water on his face, hoping he might wake up from this humiliating, bewildering dream. No such luck. Just as he is drying off his fingers with a raspy paper towel, the carols on the PA stop with a clunk, and a voice booms from the speakers.
“Last call for London-St. Pancras. All remaining passengers for London-St. Pancras, please board from platform three at this time.”
Sirius growls an oath and leaps for the door. There is his train, two bays over, readying for departure. He utters a strangled “Wait!” as he hurries up the stairs of the footbridge. He dashes along the passage, scurries down to platform three, and hurls himself through the doors of the nearest carriage. He has only enough time to drop his bag and lean against the wall to catch his breath, before a whistle sounds outside and a mechanical grinding meets his ears. All aboard, after all.
Sirius straightens his rumpled jumper, digs through his pockets for his ticket, and sets off in search of his seat. The train begins to pick up speed as it pulls out of the station. The contours of the pale, stony trackside walls slink into a dizzying glide.
Three-thirty-four, three-thirty-five, three-thirty-six. As he nears his assigned row, Sirius stows his bag in the luggage rack, along with his coat. It is only when he ducks his head under the ledge that he notices there is another passenger in the facing row. The man from the loo glances upwards and immediately returns his gaze to the window. Sirius thinks he hears something that sounds like “Erp.”
This appears to be one of those occasions commonly referred to as “the moment of truth.” Either Sirius can collect his things as quickly as possible and flee to another part of the train, or he can feign shamelessness and brazenly take his seat. The old Black family pride flares inside him. If that wanker wants to avoid a painfully humiliating two-hour-long ride, then he will have to move elsewhere.
Sirius drops into his seat with as much poise as he can muster, then concentrates on composing himself into a semblance of coolness. The effect is hampered somewhat by his trembling hands. Frowning at them, Sirius knits his fingers together and clasps them about his knee, settled atop his other leg. Fixing his gaze on the man across from him, Sirius tilts his chin and hopes the fellow can’t hear the panicked thudding of his heartbeat. A minute passes in relative silence. The man sneaks another look at Sirius, then, deterred by Sirius’s glare, clears his throat, adjusts his shirt cuffs, and leans back into his seat. Satisfied that he has proven his inability to be cowed, Sirius allows his muscles to relax a bit. He shifts his sights to the scene passing outside their window. The spires of Doncaster’s minster are rapidly shrinking in the distance, and the drab, yellow-brick houses of the city’s outskirts are giving way to open fields.
The snowy expanse summons Sirius’s earlier, sour mood, and he is dwelling again on his wretched family and the cold flat that awaits him, when he is distracted by the crinkle of a plastic wrapper. He turns his attention back to his companion.
“Erm, biscuit?” the man asks, tipping a cylinder of digestives towards Sirius. When Sirius does nothing but stare at him quizzically, the man gives a half-smile and takes a biscuit for himself. Disconcerted, Sirius returns to contemplating the countryside.
Crunch.
(Smack, smack.)
Crunch.
(Smack, smack.)
When Sirius looks back, the man stops his chewing mid-crunch. He swallows his biscuit, brushes the crumbs from his lips, and says, “I’m Remus Lupin.” He extends a hand. Sirius eyes it warily and wonders whether the offer of his left palm is a calculated move borne of memories of their first encounter. But then, telling himself, It’s Christmas, Sirius reaches out and takes Lupin’s hand.
“Sirius Black.”
That elicits a chuckle. “Sounds like your parents were just as heartless as mine.”
You have no idea, Sirius thinks to himself.
“Well,” Lupin continues, “What has you on the early train to London the morning after Christmas, Sirius Black?”
Sirius is perplexed. “Eager to get home, I suppose,” he says with a shrug.
“Hmm,” Lupin responds, again with an upward twist at the edges of his mouth. “Bad holiday?”
Sirius could never resist the perceptive sort. With an almighty groan, he replies gamely, “Miserable.”
Lupin sighs. “Me too,” he says, and in the same instant that Sirius catches the accompanying twinkle in Lupin’s eye, he realizes that his fellow traveller is shockingly handsome. He has a straight nose, a firm jaw, and brownish hair that he wears with a slightly unruly side-part. But most striking are his eyes, a deeper brown than his hair and faintly narrowed, bespeaking wisdom or a readiness to laugh. Sirius can tell he’s a reader, but no stuffy bookworm. Sirius is, if not precisely smitten, intrigued.
“What do you do, Mr. Lupin?” he asks.
“I teach. I’m a teacher.”
“Oh, really? At what sort of school?” Sirius inquires, then winces inwardly. It’s the type of question his mother would ask.
“The primaries, in Islington and Pentonville. I’m a supply teacher.”
Sirius finds it easy to imagine Lupin speaking to a classroom full of children, with his calm, deep voice and encouraging smile.
“I’m sure you like that.”
Lupin seems pleased by Sirius’s sudden switch to affability. “Very much,” he nods.
As their train races southward over snow-swept meadows and slush-ridden towns, the two of them begin to flesh out the sketches their minds have begun of each other. Lupin was brought up in the south, along the coast, and he speaks of his parents’ cottage with an affection that makes Sirius ache. When you grow up in as many houses as Sirius did, none of them feels like home – every one is merely a residence. Lupin is puzzled by Sirius’s fatigue with city life. He tells Sirius he only visited London twice as a boy, and even now that he’s lived there a few years, wonder still quickens in his blood each time he steps out the door.
Before long, Lupin proves Sirius’s instinct correct by broaching the subject of books. Both of them fret about how little they read now in comparison with the past, but Sirius still suspects that Lupin’s year-end tally of books would easily crush his own. Lupin is just breaking into a rhapsody on E.M. Forster’s short fiction, when Sirius realizes this line of discussion can only lead to his intellectual disgrace. He diverts the conversation by asking whether Lupin has seen Tootsie. He gets a full-throated chortle in return, and they’re off on another topic for the next several minutes.
As they are pulling out of Hendon Station, talk turns back to their respective holidays. At Lupin’s prompting, Sirius delivers a concise review of his Yuletide activities, and finds that the weight of his infernal weekend has lightened considerably over the course of the morning. Lupin has a way of pursing his lips when he’s listening, as though to prevent his response from bursting forth before the appropriate moment. Hoping to lead Lupin in with a mild inquiry, he asks, “Where were you for Christmas?”
“Buxton. On the edge of the Peak District.”
Sirius has a vague recollection of a domed opera house by a river. He must have spent a childhood summer at the place. “You have family there?”
Lupin frowns and shakes his head. “It was supposed to be a – a romantic getaway.” He speaks the last two words with a wry grin.
Something deep in Sirius’s belly does a gentle backflip. He reminds himself that Lupin is, after all, travelling alone. “And it turned out to be...?”
“A disaster,” Lupin concludes. “The lawns were all frozen over, the riverside was shut off as a skid hazard, and our hot water was faulty.”
Ah. The problem was with Buxton, then, and not with Lupin’s company.
“And then,” Lupin continues, “Christmas morning, we were sitting in the hotel dining room, having our toast and sausage, and I realized... we weren’t in love with one another. In fact, it had been months since either of us had been happy with the relationship. I was all wrong for him, and he was all wrong for me.”
Sirius can’t have heard that correctly. “I – I beg your pardon?” he stammers. Lupin regards him with a tense, cautious look, as though he were testing Sirius.
“My boyfriend,” he clarifies. “Or my ex-boyfriend now, I suppose.”
Sirius doesn’t know what to say. He’s only told a handful of friends himself, and not all of them remained his friends afterwards. He would certainly never consider admitting such a thing to a stranger on a train... until now.
“Me too,” he manages to murmur.
Lupin’s face eases noticeably. “I thought so.” The two of them look blankly at each other for a moment, then simultaneously break into grateful grins. Suddenly Sirius feels freer than he has in years, and he wants to give some sign of appreciation to this stranger (though his mind mutters, friend). But before he knows it, the forward movement of their train is slackening, and Sirius can see beams of chilly midday light streaming through the glass roof of St. Pancras. He offers Lupin an open palm and, for want of a better declaration, utters, “Thanks.” Lupin takes Sirius’s hand in both of his, smiles, and rises to retrieve his luggage. Sirius stands up as well, pulls on his coat, and shuffles to the door, bag in hand.
They stride side-by-side along the platform, and when they reach the terminal, Lupin turns to him. “Share a cab?” Sirius suspects the invitation is to something more than a shared cab ride, but at the moment he longs for his flat, with its snug rooms and familiar arrangement of furniture.
“I’m just a few stops along the tube.”
Lupin nods and narrows those glimmering brown eyes. “Right. Well, you have my name. Look me up sometime... in the new year.”
“Of course. Merry Christmas.” Sirius smiles, gives a curt bob of his head, and sets off for the Underground station. Pigeons scatter in his wake, and out in the street the traffic churns along only slightly quieter than any other day of the year. By the time he arrives at the tube entrance, the cuffs of his trousers are sodden with snowmelt. Other passengers are bouncing up and down the stairwell. He burrows through his pockets for fare money, and the jingling of the coins matches the rhythm of his chattering teeth. The tune has an awful timbre of loneliness to it.
Fist still in his coat, he stops in his tracks, frowning at the sign that reads “King’s Cross St. Pancras Station.” He doesn’t need to consider twice.
Doubling back, he rushes along the pavement, sending up a prayer for deliverance from ice patches. He sees a head of ruffled, tawny hair beside an open cab door.
“Remus!” he shouts, then darts forward to the kerb. As he approaches, he sees that Lupin’s eyebrows are arched questioningly.
“You seem like an Earl Grey fellow,” Sirius pants. Lupin’s mouth quirks a bit upwards.
“Not in the least. I prefer my tea to have some element of joy in it.”
“No worries,” he persists, still short of breath. “What do you say to paying my cab fare home, if I tip the driver and offer you a cup of tea?”
The quirk lifts into an unmistakeable smile. “Sounds fair,” Lupin says.
Sirius grins back, and as they lower themselves into the back of the car, he cannot suppress the inkling that this time, he may not need to spend New Year’s alone.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 04:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 04:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 04:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 04:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 04:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 05:00 pm (UTC)Oh, the loveliness of this story is undeniable. I don't think I could have recovered from anything so awkward as that initial encounter. And then all that hopefulness at the end -- oh, yes, very lovely indeed.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 04:31 am (UTC)I doubt I'd be quite so brave as either of the boys after such a meeting, but I figure that's why they're Gryffindors (in their home universe, that is). :)
Thank you for the lovely comment!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 04:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 08:18 pm (UTC)I love that they managed to know each other well enough in the single journey to become friends. So sweet.
I also liked that Remus was in Buxton for the holidays, since I love their book fairs and it seems very Remus-y...even if he was rather taking the long way home. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 05:04 am (UTC)And yes, I realized about an hour after I submitted the story that Doncaster is hardly the most sensible route to return from Buxton. I knew I wanted to open the fic at Doncaster, and I recalled having travelled via Doncaster to Buxton, but I neglected to remember that I was travelling from York, not London. Let's just say that Remus fell asleep on his first train, and didn't wake up until Doncaster, eh?
My only visit to Buxton was very brief - I arrived at nightfall, crashed immediately, and set off early the next day for a hike along the Monsal Trail, which was splendid. I have since learned that Buxton itself was worth my attention, so I shall have to return someday!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 11:16 am (UTC)I doubt anyone else but those who know the area would notice the roundabout train route. I wouldn't have said anything at all, except you did ask in your author notes at the top.
PS: Ice cream from the Pavillion Gardens is the best I have ever tasted and well worth checking out if you are ever back in the area.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 09:48 pm (UTC)“Not in the least. I prefer my tea to have some element of joy in it.”
That made me snort in a terribly unladylike manner. (And I'm very much an Earl Grey girl. :P )
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 05:07 am (UTC)Thank you for your comment!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 12:10 am (UTC)You capture Sirius' family situation with an ease that almost seems like canon - and yet is not canon at all. And that's quite a feat with non-magical AU. Siriusly, though, that image of Regulus was dead-on!
But your attention to the details of travel really made this fic spectacularly successful.
AND a happy ending? What more could one want?
Excellent!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 05:37 am (UTC)As for the level of detail, let's just say I've had plenty of chances to witness all that is insufferable about public travel. :) I'm glad you found it convincing.
Thanks so much for your lovely comment!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 05:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 01:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 05:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 06:16 am (UTC)My favourite bit: He burrows through his pockets for fare money, and the jingling of the coins matches the rhythm of his chattering teeth. The tune has an awful timbre of loneliness to it. Don't know why, but I just love the description - all the descriptions actually. They painted a vivid, realistic picture.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 04:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 07:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 05:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 10:34 am (UTC)Lovely story, especially Remus's calm and quiet pretence that their meetign wasn't at all odd :)
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 05:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 10:26 pm (UTC)I ABSOLUTELY LOVED THIS!
Thank, thank, thank you,
Oh my god, when Remus walks in on Sirius wanking -- I nearly died in embarrassment for him, then just wanted them to shag each other senselessly!
My favorite parts:
Lupin’s face eases noticeably. “I thought so.” The two of them look blankly at each other for a moment, then simultaneously break into grateful grins.
That was such a delicate motion between them -- it took my breath away.
“You seem like an Earl Grey fellow,” Sirius pants. Lupin’s mouth quirks a bit upwards.
“Not in the least. I prefer my tea to have some element of joy in it.”
AHAHAHAHA! Damn, ain't that a bitch! I love Earl Grey -- but this had me laughing hard.
AGAIN, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS WONDERFUL STORY!
Happy Holidays!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 10:34 pm (UTC)I didn't give much thought to Remus's deserted lover. If anything, I pictured a tweedy, bookish older man who takes himself too seriously for Remus's taste. However, now you mention the Snape possibility... that could definitely work, as well! I doubt I could write Snape well enough for a prequel, though. Feel free to give it a try yourself, if you want!
The Earl Grey mention was, as well as an excuse to get Sirius in that cab, an attempt to correct a long-standing quibble with the
Thanks for your delightful, delightful comment! Happy holidays!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 04:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 03:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 03:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 03:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 07:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 06:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-30 09:36 pm (UTC)It works so well here though! With Sirius' personality and background and Remus' slightly older and more confident persona. And when you added the line about the Earl Grey tea, you slayed me dead.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-31 08:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-26 09:34 pm (UTC)Allow me just a moment to pick at some train issues, though (sorry!).
If Remus spent Christmas in Buxton, it's really unlikely he'd be getting on the train at Doncaster. Partly because Doncaster is quite North of Buxton, i.e. in the wrong direction to London. Also, they're on different sides of the Pennines, which means it's not a quick, easy trip. Even if it was the case that Buxton station was running a reduced timetable, it'd be much, much easier for Remus to get a bus/taxi/lift/small, local train to any number of larger stations for the train to London - the most likely candidate being one of the stations in Manchester or the surrounding area. That said, as far as I'm aware, trains from Manchester go direct to Euston, not St. Pancras (using the West Coast Main Line, rather than the Midland Main Line that you'd take from Doncaster to St.Pancras, so it's not even like he'd get on the same train at a different station), but even still - it'd be easier to travel across London (Euston to St.Pancras is only one stop on the tube) than to do an early-morning, Boxing Day trip from Buxton to Doncaster (a train journey which, according to the Network Rail site, even in 2009, without delays, would take, on average, 2-3 hours, with 1-3 changes - by comparison, Network Rail says that Buxton - London Euston takes just over 3 hours with one change, usually at Stockport. So there'd be no reason whatsoever to take 2-3 hours [and 1-3 changes] to go from Buxton to Doncaster, then to take another 2-3 [and 1 change] hours to go from Doncaster to London, when you could do Buxton to London in 3 hours [with only one change]).
Basically...in the real world, Remus simply wouldn't be on that train. It doesn't really detract from the story, but, well...you did ask for inaccuracies (anyone who's more expert than me can point out any inaccuracies of my own; I'm not a train enthusiast, just a regular passenger and eager Googler). The only way to really change it would be to change where one of them went for Christmas - either have Sirius' family's house being a little to the South and the West, or have Remus' romantic retreat being a little to the North and the East.
This all seems horrifyingly anal, now, so apologies for that.
Anyway, I really did like the story. :)
no subject
Date: 2009-10-27 12:45 am (UTC)It occurred to me shortly after submitting this that I had completely blundered Remus's train route. The summer before last, in the middle of a stay with a friend in Cambridge, I took a train from Doncaster to Buxton (actually a really lovely trip, for a traveller with enough on her mind to last a few hours). Since my home base was in the south, my memory told me that Doncaster was a possible point of exchange along a Buxton-London route. I neglected to remember that my own trip from Doncaster to Buxton had started at York, whither I'd made an excursion from Cambridge. Alas!
If I were to re-publish this, I would revise Remus's holiday site. As it is, I'll pretend he just grabbed a ticket for the first train out of Buxton and got lost in thought or fell asleep before he realized how far out of his way he'd gone. If his public transit savvy is on par with my own, he's probably used to dealing with such mistakes. :)
Thanks for taking the time to correct me - I love confronting inaccuracies. And I'm glad you enjoyed the story!
no subject
Date: 2010-11-21 08:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-21 10:21 pm (UTC)