Title: Second Times
Pairing: Gen – Draco Malfoy, Rusty Ryan
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: HP x Ocean’s 11 crossover: Rusty has seen this man before, but where and when is another matter.
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: Drabble for limitedcake, who asked for Ocean’s 11 x HP, “in a gleeful thrilling crack kind of way”. Not sure if it is gleeful or thrilling, but this popped up just as I was trying to take a nap.

A blond young man with a pointed face and cruel lips is waiting for Rusty when he steps out into the lift lobby.

“What took you so long?” the man demands.

Rusty has seen this man before, but where and when is another matter. “Who the hell are you?” he asks, eventually.

“I see,” says the man, “So Potter did obliviate you. Read that.” He shoves a wax-sealed envelope into Rusty’s hands.

We don’t deal with muggles, but you were an exception.
We needed help obtaining classified documents from the muggle Prime Minister, so we hired you.

Here’s what happened:

Title: wherein symbolism is derived from the most innocuous of items (or: Shirts)
Pairing: Will/Skandar
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: “You’re insane.” “No,” says Ben fervently, “I’m just maddeningly astute.” – futurefic
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: Thanks to for the beta.

The first thing Georgie says to Skandar when she sees him at the London premiere of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is, “Oh God, your shirt,” and then, more knowingly, “Six months.”

“Six months what?” asks Skandar, nonplussed. “You’re looking very nice, by the way.”

“Thank you; don’t try to change the subject,” says Georgie briskly, pausing to pose for a handful of photographers. “And that’s six months of wallowing.”

“Don’t roll your eyes, it’s unbecoming,” he tells her, “And I’m not. Wallowing, that is.”

Georgie raises one eloquent eyebrow at him before wandering off, leaving Skandar to wonder when she’d mastered that look of utter skepticism.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” says Georgie kindly, during the group shots. She curls an arm across his shoulders. “Anyone can see that that shirt is a distinct cry for help.”

“I happen to like it, thank you very much-”

“A lone voice in the wilderness,” Georgie continues blithely, “Startling villagers and seasoned huntsmen alike with its ragged wailing – ‘Help me! Help me!’“

“Oh shut it,” mutters Skandar, surreptitiously switching places with Will Poulter when they regroup.

“Sorry?” asks Will P, with some confusion.

“Nothing,” he grits out, trying not to glare venomously at Georgie while people are taking their photographs. “Didn’t say anything.”

“Your shirt’s kind of scary, by the way,” Will P ventures. It gives Skandar the perfect excuse to kick him in the shins.

He wears two identical black shirts for Paris and Prague. It still doesn’t stop Anna from texting: what’s with the shirts skan? i see those photos.

NOT WALLOWING, Skandar texts back, before viciously turning his phone to silent mode. It vibrates, half a minute later.

“Did Will say anything?” asks Anna the moment he answers. “Call you? Text?”

“He just popped by to ask if he could borrow my toothpaste,” Skandar replies icily.

“Not that Will. Our Will.”

Skandar realises that Anna is using her ‘dating war command’ voice, normally reserved for counselling during splotchy breakup crises.

“Right,” he says, after a pause. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just worried.”

“What on earth are you worrying about?” Skandar explodes. “And why are you speaking in sentence fragments?”

“Am I?” asks Anna, startled.

“Yes, you are, but that’s not the point,” snaps Skandar. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Anna says soothingly, “Unless you want to talk about something.”

“Anna,” says Skandar, wondering if she has suddenly gone mad, “You called me.”

“To chat,” replies Anna unconvincingly.

“To chat?” Skandar repeats incredulously. “Typically, you don’t even text your parents more than once a day if you’re out of the country. I’m currently in Tokyo, in case you didn’t realise.”

“Well,” says Anna, “to be completely honest-”

“Yes?”

“You were wearing two black shirts and I thought maybe it was because you missed Will, or something,” Anna tells him, “It sounds pretty silly, I suppose, but-”

“Glad you realised,” Skandar interrupts, horrified, “and no. No.”

“We really haven’t seen Will for months, you know-”

“I have no idea,” says Skandar, “how best to convey the depth of my disgust to you. I will say, however, that it stretches fathoms. Fathoms.”

It pains him to do so, but he ends up asking Ben for advice.

“I’m thinking of white, for the premiere in LA. It’s a pretty neutral colour,” Skandar says, “Or blue.”

“White’s good,” Ben agrees, “I’m wearing white.”

“Nobody reads stuff into white, do they?” Skandar holds his shirt up rather doubtfully.

“Or stripes, perhaps?” offers Ben. “The perennial favourite of dour businessmen and History teachers alike.”

Skandar looks at him disbelievingly.

“It’s true – the entire History department at King’s College-”

“I mean, you’re not serious – stripes?” Skandar cuts in, before groaning, “I can’t believe I’m even discussing this with you.”

“Well, you are,” says Ben, the only person in the world who can possibly rival Will in stating the obvious.

“Yes,” Skandar grits out, “Though I’m not sure why.”

“Well-” Ben begins.

“That was a rhetorical question,” says Skandar dangerously.

Ben is braver than most. “Maybe you miss Will,” he suggests.

“Bloody hell, not you too,” mutters Skandar.

“Maybe you miss Will,” Ben says again, with increasing excitement, “And you’re expressing your insecurity, doubt, and depression through your choice of shirts.”

“I don’t even talk about Will!”

“Precisely – it’s what you’re not saying. It’s all right, Skandar – we’ve all been through this,” Ben tells him, with a pat on the back that’s supposed to be fortifying.

“You’re insane.”

“No,” says Ben fervently, “I’m just maddeningly astute.”

They arrive at LA at seven in the evening, local time, which roughly translates to three in the morning back in London. Technically, the time difference doesn’t quite matter to Skandar, who has travelled over so many time zones within the past three weeks that he has mastered the art of falling asleep as long as there’s something to fall asleep on. He does, however, try to keep track; it makes him feel closer to home, that way.

He’s quite prepared to go up to his hotel room and stumble into bed immediately after they’ve checked in, but Georgie lets out a delighted squeal when she glimpses someone just before the lift door closes.

His hair is cut rather strangely but he’s wearing sunglasses and a particularly hideous scarf, so Skandar knows with one look that it’s Will.

“Get the door open, get the door open,” Georgie says excitedly, jabbing at the button in vain. Skandar is irrationally thankful when the lift begins its stately ascent to the seventeenth floor.

“Wasn’t that Will Moseley?” Will P says, from somewhere behind Georgie. Ben takes this as his cue to elbow Skandar knowingly in the ribs.

“White shirt, eh?”

“Shut up,” Skandar snaps, but Ben continues beaming at him.

“What’s all this about a white shirt?” Georgie asks, as they reach the seventeenth floor.

Before Skandar can squeeze his way out, she closes the doors again and hits the ‘G’ button.

“You’re not hiding away until we speak with Will,” says Georgie, voice firm.

“I can’t believe you people!” Skandar explodes, “Would you just let me get to my room?”

There is a long silence. Then, a collective, “No.”

Skandar, speechless and outraged, finds that he can only glare at them.

The lift has just passed the tenth floor when Will P finally adds, “Actually, we couldn’t, even if we wanted to.”

“You’re all deranged, did I mention that?” Skandar tells him heatedly.

“No, really – I forgot to collect our room key.”

At first, Will seems perfectly contented to stand around in the hotel lobby talking excitedly to the others, as well as to shake hands with Michael and tell him in no uncertain terms how incredibly eager he is to see the film. It’s only Will P’s refusal to collect their room key card and Georgie’s murderous don’t-you-dare look that keeps Skandar from fleeing immediately.

He doesn’t want to talk to Will; doesn’t want to look casual and ask him how he’s doing, to nod appreciatively and say, that’s cool, at appropriate intervals while Will babbles on about what filming’s been like. Instead, he sequesters himself in a far corner of the lobby and feigns sleep in an armchair, resolving to be extremely biting and witty if Will tries to speak with him, just to prove his point.

All possible plans are spectacularly derailed, however, the moment Skandar comes face-to-face with Will.

“It’s you!” Will exclaims, evidently still the reigning king of stating the obvious.

“Yes, it is-” Skandar begins, attempting sarcasm, but Will is practically trembling with excitement as he gathers Skandar into a hug, somehow managing to crush Skandar’s face into his shoulder despite the two of them being almost the same height. This is so familiar, so disarmingly Will, that Skandar’s words come out all choked-up and genuine instead, much to his dismay.

He makes up for it by saying, “That’s a horrible scarf you have on, by the way,” not particularly witty but satisfactorily disagreeable.

“I thought it had an interesting pattern,” says Will.

“How’s LA?” Skandar asks, trying to sound casual.

“Good, good,” says Will. He’s practically glowing. “You’ll love it here,” he continues, oblivious to the way Skandar is scowling.

Skandar takes in Will’s still-familiar grin; takes in the way he’s shifting his weight even as he speaks, and decides that he will not survive this encounter if he does not end it immediately.

“I should bring you guys around sometime, what’s your schedule like-”

“Look, I’m going to bed now, all right?” Skandar says, abrupt and too-loud.

A look of surprise crosses Will’s face. And then, after a pause, “Oh right, I’m sorry – must have been a long day,” he says amiably. “Shall I walk you up?”

“It’s okay,” Skandar tells Will, turning away and heading for the lift. He catches a glimpse of himself in a decorative wall mirror; his face is pure misery.

“What’s happened?” Will P asks, when Skandar stalks past him into the lift.

Skandar doesn’t reply; just jabs the “DOOR CLOSE” button viciously.

“Skandar-”

The problem is, really, that precisely nothing has happened – not before, and not now. He can still remember Will standing in the doorway of Skandar’s house the day before they left for pickups in Playas de Rosarito. Back for a holiday? Skandar had asked, stupidly, venomously. Will had shrugged and entered the living room even as Skandar stood seething somewhere behind: that was Will; he made himself at home. No doubt he’s made himself all kinds of at home over in LA, too, Skandar thinks, exiting at the seventeenth floor and making for his room.

Behind him, the second lift door opens.

“Skandar-” It’s Will.

A small part of Skandar is fully aware that he’s being very childish, but it doesn’t stop him from saying, “Go away.”

“I just-”

“Go away,” he repeats, heading down the corridor.

Will follows. “Skandar, listen, stop-”

Skandar whips around angrily. “I don’t want to talk, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I just wanted to tell you,” says Will patiently, “that you forgot your room key card.”

Wordlessly, Skandar reaches over and takes it.

“Will passed it to me after you went up,” Will continues, as Skandar slots the card into the reader. “Will Poulter, that is,” he says, as if it needs clarifying.

Skandar pulls the card out too quickly; the lock beeps negative.

“I just wanted to know,” Will is saying, “If you’re all right.”

“I’m great,” says Skandar, yanking the card out and trying again.

Will nods, but looks at him quite seriously. “Well, Georgie’s been saying otherwise-”

“-Georgie embellishes,” Skandar counters.

Will shrugs. “True. But Anna-”

“Anna overreads text messages-”

“Also true. Ben-”

“Ben has issues.”

“Definitely.”

“In summary: I’m great,” repeats Skandar, fully aware that he’s lying through his teeth. He pulls the card out and tries to open the door. It’s still locked.

“You seem a bit put out,” Will says concernedly.

Skandar glares pointedly at the door. “I wonder why.”

“No, I mean, in general.” Will nudges him aside and gives it a try. “Like whenever I text you.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Maybe the fact that you don’t reply?”

Skandar doesn’t say anything. Will looks at him for a long moment, before returning to the door.

“Maybe the key’s faulty,” he says after another try. “We should-”

“I figured you were probably too busy canoodling in LA,” Skandar interrupts, regretting it almost instantly.

“Sorry?”

“That’s why I didn’t reply.”

“Wait,” Will looks at him incredulously. “Canoodling?”

“Yes. Canoodling,” Skandar repeats contemptuously. “Fooling around.”

“Who says canoodling any more?”

“I do,” says Skandar loudly. “But that’s not the point.”

“Wait, how old are you – sixty?”

“That’s not the point,” Skandar snaps.

“Is this what it’s about?” Will asks. “Not a single word because you thought I was going to run off?”

“No,” says Skandar. “Yes. No. Well, you seemed likely to.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Fuck off,” he snarls, trying to force the door open.

“Didn’t you get the postcards?” Will asks.

“Yes, and half of them were about parties you went to,” Skandar retorts.

“And the Christmas present?”

“That hideous souvenir mug?”

“I was trying to be subtle!”

“What’s so subtle about a mug that says, LA’s City Lights?”

Will throws up his hands. “Can’t you see?”

Skandar stares at him. “See what, the city lights?”

“No – yes, those too, but can’t you see that I was trying to tell you that I missed you?”

“In what way,” says Skandar coldly, “Would giving someone a mug depicting the city skyline be a way of saying that you missed them?”

Will’s practically shouting now. “That’s because I wished you were here!”

They look at each other in stunned silence for a long moment.

“Oh,” says Skandar, just as Will says, “God, I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Well I can,” says Skandar, but there’s no bite in it. He feels terribly relieved, in fact; relieved and silly.

“You’re one to talk – you said canoodling out loud,” Will retorts, before Skandar leans over and kisses him on the side of his nose. Granted, Skandar had been aiming for his mouth instead, but it has the same effect.

“Missed, sorry,” he mumbles, but Will’s already pulling him closer by the front of his shirt.

“I can tell you’re out of practice, young man,” he says, grinning rather wickedly.

“At what, canoodling?” Skandar asks, leaning in for another try.

It’s better than Skandar’s ever imagined, better than that almost-kiss they had back in New Zealand, because this is real; this is Will’s tongue sliding against his, Will’s fingers clutched in the fabric of his shirt, Will’s hand cupping his jaw.

They pull apart, only to see Georgie and Will P gaping silently at them.

“The room door couldn’t be opened,” Will says hurriedly, by way of explanation, letting go of Skandar’s shirt only as an afterthought. “So we, um… Well, it couldn’t be opened.”

Georgie arches her eyebrow at them. “I’d be surprised if it could,” she says matter-of-factly, pulling Skandar’s key card out of the reader and inserting her own, “Since this is my room.”

Will helps him pick out a tie for the LA premiere, since Skandar’s already chosen a shirt.

“Soumaya called me, by the way, when you weren’t answering your phone,” says Georgie, appearing at his elbow, with Will P hovering somewhere behind her. “She wanted to know if you were extending your stay. I told her you were.”

“Thanks,” Skandar tells her, waving uncomfortably at some photographers.

“Though Will P and I have really got to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“The white shirt is lovely and all,” Will P begins, slightly uncertainly, “But are those polar bears on your tie?”

Title: In Greece
Pairing: Edmund/Bacchus
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: He thinks he sees a young man move through a doorway with a wildness that makes the heart ache, but when he catches his eye he finds no recognition.
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: A companion to ’s very lovely fic. If you haven’t already, you may want to read it for context. Quadrudrabble for .

Edmund Pevensie arrives in Athens at the height of the civil war, and finds a city crumbling. Dead men are found sprawled on street corners even as the buildings overhead gape gutless, debris from their ravaged walls strewn across sidewalks, and when a British soldier with a halfway familiar face sits him down with a drink and asks, “So what brings you to this charming hell?”, he feels like a fool.

Still, Edmund looks for that dark head amongst the scores of strangers, for familiar features and mischievous eyes in pale faces he meets. He thinks he sees a young man move through a doorway with a wildness that makes the heart ache, but when he catches his eye he finds no recognition.

On the fifth day Edmund glimpses a lad on the street; his flashing gaze and the way he curls in the dust makes Edmund think, maybe, just maybe. A mine goes off, in another alleyway, then gunshots. “It’s not safe,” says Edmund urgently, trying to pull him up. His skin is burning against Edmund’s fingers, but not from wine or revelry. A glance down at the lad’s leg reveals that it is broken and bloodied.

“Here, come on.” He crouches down and picks the boy up with some effort, stumbling down the street. The boy breathes rapid and rasping, squirming fitfully against Edmund’s chest as he mutters in Greek. His hand snakes out to clutch at the front of Edmund’s shirt. Edmund has seen this enough times on Narnian battlefields to know that the boy is going to die, except that this time, there is no drop of magic cordial to save him; no miracles on these desolate streets.

At night, he dreams he is still holding the boy, scrambling along narrow alleyways while guns go off in the darkness.

“Little King,” the boy is saying, but he is no longer the boy but a god.

He tastes wine but it becomes bile in his mouth – the boy is gone – it’s not safe; writhing, dancing, dying-

“Little King,” says Bacchus. He has the same beauty as a cliff’s edge, a heady savagery fey and fearsome.

He falls.

Lucy is waiting for him when he finally returns home. “Did you-”

A glimpse, through mud: in his mind the boy goes still, an aggregate of deity’s limbs in Edmund’s arms.

“I don’t know,” says Edmund truthfully.

(400 words)

Note: This was originally supposed to be yule-y and was to feature tawdry wenches and much banging (or some banging, anyway), but background research got in the way. Find out more about the Greek Civil War.

Title: Something After
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Gen – Peter, Oreius
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: — Like all kings, his only wish was to keep his people safe.
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: A third drabble that didn’t fit with my challenge drabbles. Thanks to and for the glance-through. There may be room for expansion.

III.

High King Peter rides to Anvard soon after his coronation, to establish Narnia’s supremacy over Archenland.

– Why did they not come to Narnia’s aid? asks the King.

Oreius, who is not only the strongest centaur but also the wisest, replies, — They are a nation that has spent too long cowering in the White Witch’s shadow.

The High King is unmoved. — And their King claims to be descended from the first King of Narnia?

– Peace, says Oreius, the one creature unafraid to rebuke the King. — Like all kings, his only wish was to keep his people safe.

Title: Two
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Gen – Edmund, Peter, Oreius, Phillip
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: — Tell me about the stars, Peter will reply, for if he cannot sleep he might as well spend his lost hours fruitfully.
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: In response to ’s TV Tropes Challenge – Horse of a Different Colour. Thanks to and for the glance-through.

I.

It is not unusual for Peter to find Oreius awake in the early hours of the morning, either watching the stars’ passage or starting his breakfast. It is a lengthy affair, breakfast, for centaurs have two stomachs – one of a horse and one of a human – and therefore must satisfy two appetites.

Some mornings, Peter brings Oreius his hot mash and oats, to which Oreius will say, — My King, in a mixture of surprise and gratitude.

– Tell me about the stars, Peter will reply, for if he cannot sleep he might as well spend his lost hours fruitfully.

II.

King Edmund the Just cuts a fine figure astride his steed Phillip, and it is said that in battle, horse and its rider are indistinguishable from each other; a single unit in perfect synchrony.

The riders of Narnia go to war with no tack. Narnian horses, unencumbered by reins or saddles, are the swiftest of foot, agile and relentless.

What legend does not mention is that riding bareback also has its downsides – after a day’s hard riding the young King can often be found in his tent examining bruises in unspeakable places, with Phillip whinnying his apologies through the tentflap.

Title: Seven Facts for William Moseley
Pairing: Moseley/Keynes, initial Barnes/Moseley
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Clumsy!snogging. Otherwise, none.
Summary: “And furthermore,” Ben continues, after a pause, “You’re utterly in love with Skandar.”
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: Thanks to beta readers forochel and ailura. Part One of darong’s birthday present.

Fact #1: Snogging is Rarely Perfect

Will ends up kissing Ben in a public toilet, one hand fisted in Ben’s shirt, the other slip-sliding against the damp porcelain sink top.

They kiss with tongues scraping against teeth, with teeth clacking wetly together, with noses bumping and fingers clutching, harsh and messy and vicious. The angle is not quite right and Ben bites Will’s bottom lip just a little too hard, but it only makes Will gasp into Ben’s mouth and nudge his hip forcefully into the edge of the sink.

Ben makes a sound in the back of throat that might be, fuck, without the consonants, explosive and guttural, sliding a wet hand up under Will’s shirt. This elicits a slight shudder from Will that has more to do with the fact that it is ice-cold and dripping than anything else.

“Sorry,” mumbles Ben against the side of Will’s mouth, removing his hand and beginning to fumble with the fly of Will’s trousers just as Will moves to do the same. Their arms bump awkwardly in a moment of confusion.

“Sorry,” says Will hurriedly, pulling away so they can position their hands properly. He leans in to kiss Ben again but gets his chin instead. “Um-”

“Fucking button fly,” Ben grits out, jerking his head back so that he can get a good look at Will’s trousers.

“Sorry,” says Will for the third time, reaching forward to work on Ben’s jeans. “Fuck,” he adds involuntarily, when Ben yanks his fly open with astonishing urgency, shuddering as Ben’s hands pause over his-

A phone goes off.

They freeze for a moment. The phone continues to ring, getting louder.

Ignore it, ignore it, Will thinks frantically.

“That’s mine, sorry.” Ben disentangles himself from Will and reaches into his trouser pocket to answer it. “Ben speaking- oh, hello, Mum.”

Will tries not to look too petulant as Ben asks his mother how the weather is, but he cannot help but scowl as he does up his fly.

Fact #2: The Same Goes For Sex

This time, they manage to get Will’s trousers off.

It is no easy feat, considering that Ben has Will pushed up against a corner of their hotel room, shoving up against him in a way that makes getting at his fly almost impossible. Ben barely manages to, through some stroke of genius, but abandons Will’s open fly to work on his shirt-buttons. Will shucks his trousers off easily and tries to guide Ben across the room in the vague direction of the bed. They attempt this, however, while snogging and walking backwards, which works in the movies but only causes Ben to stumble over the corner of Will’s suitcase.

“My ankle,” Ben yelps, bending over to clutch at it and causing Will to lose his balance.

Will’s succinct reply consists of an anguished, “– Fuck!” as he trips over backwards and lands rather painfully on his hip.

“God, I’m so sorry-” he begins, trying to push his suitcase away, but Ben just sits down very abruptly and begins to chuckle.

“What’s the matter?” Will asks, uncomprehendingly, but Ben doesn’t seem to be able to stop laughing. Will, in the meantime, is absolutely certain there is a bruise blooming across his left hip. He’s also pretty sure this sort of thing never happens to other people, like Skandar (though he really doesn’t want to think about Skandar in such a situation, and why he even thinks of Skandar in the first place is something that baffles him completely). Or even Ben, for that matter, under normal circumstances. “Ben?”

“I’m sorry,” is all Ben can say, biting his fist to contain his laughter, evidently in no mood to continue what they started.
With some resignation, Will reaches for his discarded trousers and starts to put them on.

Fact #3: Anna is Never Wrong

He manages to catch Anna the day before he leaves for Sydney.

“Well, it does take practise,” says Anna somewhat knowingly, “Though yours seem to be slightly more disastrous than normal.”

“He’ll probably never want to come near me again,” Will groans, burying his face in his hands. He thinks he hears Anna say, “Good,” under her breath.

“What?”

Anna stirs her tea with some force. “Uh, I said, ‘give it time’. And don’t forget what I told you about Communicating.”

“Yes, yes,” Will agrees morosely, fidgeting with a slightly frayed corner of his scarf.

“Will, are you- wearing that because…” Anna trails off, making a face. Her eyes dart to Will’s neck.

“No!” says Will, mortified. “No, I just like it.” It is actually Skandar’s scarf; he’d gotten it for Christmas two years ago and promptly passed it on to Will.

“Have you spoken to him yet?” Anna asks.

“No, I haven’t seen him in ages-” Will starts to say, but Anna tuts impatiently and raises one eyebrow. “You mean Ben?”

“Yes, of course.” At times, Anna still slips into that exasperated mother tone she picked up while playing Susan. “Though you should also give Skandar a call, seeing as you haven’t spoken to him very recently, either.”

Will stares into his teacup and wonders if Skandar will mind getting an out-of-the-blue phone call halfway through his GCSEs.

“I think he’ll appreciate it,” Anna tells him slowly, and Will considers the possibility that she’s learned how to read his mind.

“Take care of yourself,” Anna says after they exchange good-bye hugs, giving him a meaningful look that is both quintessentially Anna and simultaneously unfathomable.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Will, rather nonplussed, but Anna is already hurrying down the street.

Fact #4: Will is Seldom Right

In Sydney, Will works out exactly what time he should call Skandar, factoring in the time difference as well as Skandar’s examination schedule. It’s Skandar’s mother who answers the phone.

“Who is this?” she asks blearily, and Will hears a stifled yawn.

“It’s Will, Mrs Keynes,” he tells her, realising with a sinking feeling that he’s probably messed up the calculations anyway.

“He has his Physics paper tomorrow, Will, and-”

“-Mum,” Skandar says abruptly down the other phone, “Mum, I’m still awake.”

She tells them they only have five minutes, before stifling another yawn and hanging up.

“Hi-” says Will.

“I’ve got Physics tomorrow,” Skandar interrupts. “And you do know that it’s half past two in the morning, right?” Will can almost hear Skandar rolling his eyes on the other end. “How’s Sydney?”

“Good, overwhelming; it’s really odd without you though,” Will says, too quickly, and adds, “In a general, smaller-numbers sense.”

“Glad to know,” Skandar replies dryly. “Look, I should go-”

“Yes, get some sleep, mate-”

Skandar snorts. “I was trying, until you came along.”

“I’ll bugger off now, good luck,” and Will can’t help but smile to himself even after he hangs up, because it’s always so much less awkward, with Skandar.

Fact #5: Communicating, Like Snogging and Sex, Has a Tendency To End In Disaster

Will tries, yes, Will really tries to get Ben to sit down for a moment and talk to him, but Ben’s always all over the place before TV interviews, filled with a nervous excitement that makes him twitch and pace and say very little. Of course, it all disappears when he actually gets in front of the cameras, unlike Will’s nerves, which always cause him to talk too much and too enthusiastically.

After the interview, in the car, in the lift, in the corridor to their hotel rooms, Ben keeps turning to fix him with a significant look, before saying, “Yes?” in his patient voice, but Will realises that while he’s already internalised the fact that Communicating is key, he has no clue how to go about it with Ben.

‘TALK ABT FEELINGS Y N’ he texts Anna hurriedly, trying to formulate a coherent response to Ben’s latest “Yes?” while selecting her phone number off his ‘recent contacts’ list.

“I just thought that maybe- we’d want to figure this out?” Will finally says, haltingly. They’ve reached the door to Ben’s room and Will’s not sure if he’s meant to follow him in.

“Hm,” says Ben, taking out his room key card and unlocking the door. After a pause, “Come in.”

“Um, right.”

“Have a seat.” He remains standing as Will sits down on one of the chairs. “The thing is-” he begins. “The thing is.”

God, thinks Will, because nothing good ever comes after ‘the thing is’.

“I don’t think this really works,” Ben finally says.

Will takes a while to register this, but eventually he says, “Oh.”

“It’s not because of the falling down and interrupted whatever, or anything to do with you at all, really it isn’t – it’s just…” Ben bites his lip. “I don’t do younger men.”

“What do you mean, you don’t do younger men? What have you been doing, then?” Will interrupts indignantly, regaining his speech through sheer outrage. “What am I?” he explodes, aware of how ridiculous he sounds but not quite caring.

When faced with such a question Skandar will probably smirk and say, “A younger woman?” but Ben isn’t Skandar (and once again Will wonders why he’s even thinking of Skandar at this point), so he just looks at Will like he’s gone slightly mad.

“And furthermore,” Ben continues, after a pause, “You’re utterly in love with Skandar.”

There is a long moment in which Will gapes, open-mouthed, at Ben. He is about to formulate a response, when his phone beeps loudly.

“Sorry, text message,” says Will, pulling it out of his pocket with trembling fingers, hoping very hard that it is Anna replying with some sagely advice.

It’s Skandar.

‘what! moseley are you high on smth?’

“Oh, God,” Will groans, slumping back in his chair. He’d texted Skandar by mistake.

“Are you all right?” asks Ben concernedly.

“Yes, yes- God, no- yes.” Will covers his eyes with his right hand. “Oh, fuck.”

Fact #6: There Are No Facts; Only An Interlude

“But I’m not,” Will tells Anna urgently, over the phone. “I’m not.”

“Of course,” says Anna placatingly. Will hears a brisk chopping sound from her end and knows that she’s making her morning fruit-and-milk shake again. “Have you replied?”

“…No,” says Will. “Was I supposed to?”

There is a pause in which Anna is probably pouring milk into the blender, before she replies, “Well, it’s probably a good idea, since-”

“But I’m not in love with Skandar,” Will reiterates, more forcefully than he means to.

Anna sighs and starts the blender. “I didn’t say you were, all I meant was-”

“I don’t understand,” Will groans, slumping back onto his bed.

“Talk to him,” says Anna firmly, turning off the blender. “Regardless of whether you are or not-”

“-I’m not-”

“Just talk to him,” Anna finishes.

Fact #7: When It Comes To Skandar, Most Facts Can Be Disproved

He fools himself into thinking that things haven’t changed a bit when he arrives at Skandar’s house and Skandar answers the door with a tatty old Star Wars blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a sheet of French grammar rules taped to his left arm.

“It’s cold, and I have French tomorrow,” says Skandar by way of explanation. “Come in.”

Will follows Skandar upstairs, taking in the comforting familiarity of the house. One particular pair of display cases on the staircase landing always catches Will’s attention, for their shelves are filled with every odd this-and-that that Skandar’s parents have collected over the years, from a life-sized mahogany carving of someone’s beaklike nose to a delicate selection of bamboo flutes.

“There’s nothing new there,” Skandar says with slight impatience when Will stops to examine the shelves. “Though Mum says you can take the teapot home with you if you like, since you’re so obsessed with it.” It’s an old joke, really, but Skandar says it in a way that makes Will start slightly and glance around at him; it’s biting, almost, bitter.

“Sorry?”

Skandar gives him a look that’s both puzzled and slightly hurt, before turning round, brows furrowed, and goes into his room. Will trails after him helplessly and slightly dismayed, sitting down on the edge of Skandar’s bed while Skandar rummages somewhat violently through a box of revision folders. He tries to remember the last time Skandar was as angry as he seems to be now, and comes up with nothing close to it. There was of course the time he went on a date with Emily Morgan and forgot to tell Skandar, but nothing of the sort’s ever happened since.

“Look, is there something wrong?” Will finally says, after witnessing Skandar pack and unpack the same box twice.

“No.” Skandar drops a paperback French dictionary onto his desk with a loud thud and turns to look at Will, repeats Will’s question with some amount of nastiness, “Is there something wrong?”

Yes, Will wants to ask, Why is it so awkward now when it never was before, and he means to tell Skandar, I’ll just go, then, and good luck for French, but what he actually does say is, “Ben says I’m in love with you.”

Skandar goes white, extremely white, and drops his mechanical pencil on the floor. Will knows he’s really fucked it up now.

“I’ll… just. Go-” he starts to say, getting up, but Skandar swivels round in his chair and demands, abruptly, “Were you high when you sent me that text?”

“No, I-”

“Was it serious? Why didn’t you reply?”

“I wanted to, but Anna said to talk to-”

“And are you?” Skandar interrupts.

“Am I what- high?”

“No,” Skandar snaps impatiently and doesn’t meet Will’s eye, like he always does when he’s mortally embarrassed. “No, the other… thing.”

And quite suddenly, it dawns upon Will that everything – the startling Skandar asides that pop into his mind at odd times of the day, Anna’s meaningful look, the way a two-minute conversation can be so much more personal than anything he’s had with Ben – point to the same thing.

He realises that Anna has known this for a fact, and so has Ben, and maybe even Skandar; maybe everyone else but himself. This is a new feeling for Will, a breathtaking of course that happens when someone shows you the solution to a puzzle, when everything (or most of it, anyway) falls perfectly into place.

“I think so,” says Will, slightly disoriented and heart in his stomach. “More… more than a little bit. Are you-”

“Possibly,” Skandar replies hoarsely, ducking down to pick up his mechanical pencil and knocking over a stack of loose notes with his elbow.

It takes Will a while to actually even move from where he is, frozen, but after a long moment he stands up and picks his way across the room through scattered stacks of notes (‘Conjugaison’ and ‘THE HABER PROCESS’, among others) until he is standing next to Skandar at his desk.

“Do we-”

“Are we-” they say at the same time, and Will laughs just a little as he leans down to press his lips to Skandar’s.

His aim is little bit off because he gets the corner of Skandar’s mouth instead, but his hand is cupped around Skandar’s jaw and though they’re both not very good at it, not with each other, there is no awkwardness in this kiss, just a breathless slide of tongue against lips, against teeth, quiet wet sounds in the warm silence. The small perfections lie in the slight trembling of Skandar’s fingers around Will’s wrist, the way his eyelids flutter shut and his breath catches in his chest.

It is not entirely comfortable; Will is stepping on at least three of Skandar’s half-completed vocabulary exercises and Skandar’s neck is starting to hurt just a little bit, but they are laughing even as they kiss.

Three Things That Never Happened To Johnny Depp
(beta’d by ailura/tethysian, THANK YOU.)
An odd little baby, where FPF (fictional person fiction) crosses over into RPF (real person fiction). For Olivia’s 17th birthday.

1. first times

The first time Johnny sees the man, he realises that the memory will remain seared into his consciousness for the rest of his life.

The first time Johnny sees the man, they are at some club he can’t remember the name of. This happens after he’s wrapped filming for Don Juan DeMarco, or Dead Man; he can’t quite recall. Then again, most of his memories of that time come back fuzzy and powder-coated; colour and movement sluggish and too-bright in his mind.

It is a man, dressed in a suit cut in an oddly archaic manner, wearing a sort of alcoholic grace that makes Johnny almost envy him, the shining bastard. It is a man who, minus the goatee and the odd hair, seems to be a spitting image of Johnny.

“I should,” Johnny begins, because this is important, “I should… do that… thing?” and he ends his declaration with a question, because Kate will know, maybe, somehow, how, Kate-

Kate is barely moving, but she opens her mouth slightly wider in response to Johnny’s remark and closes her eyes. Johnny takes it that she’s telling him not to bother. They do not bother about most things, these days.

The man in question is watching them now, Johnny decides. He resolves to go over and talk to him, and turns to tell Kate about his plan of action. “Kate,” he manages to say. Everything is shifting so slowly, and Kate has started giggling for no reason.

And then Johnny finds that he doesn’t need to move, after all, because the man is walking over to him now. He sways slightly as he walks, or maybe it’s Johnny’s vision that’s swaying. He blinks as the man leans in close, grinning, and wonders vaguely if those gold teeth are real.

“So what they told me is true, then,” the man says in Johnny’s voice, but slightly lower in register and with a certain sharpness at the ends of his words.

“True?” Johnny repeats blankly.

The man laughs, and pats Johnny on the shoulder. Worn hands, brown from the sun, work-calloused; age-calloused. “Eloquent,” he says, “I like you.”

There is something Johnny needs to know, but he cannot, for the life of him, remember what it is. “What’s true?” he asks instead.

“Us,” the man tells him. “We. You and I. Alike, love.”

I know, Johnny wants to say, but why? What comes out, instead, is, “Oh.”

There is a moment of silence, where there is nothing but the syncopated thudding of club music. Then the man says, “I’ll leave you to it, then,” gesturing to the half-finished speed and god-knows-what lying on the table in front of them. “Never liked the stuff,” he adds, “Much preferred rum.”

2. (secret)

They are on an island in the Bahamas when they meet again. This time, Johnny knows his name.

He can hardly say it, though. He has done nothing but caper around on beaches and cave sets in this man’s identity and pretend to be the authority on Sparrow’s idiosyncrasies for months and months, but now, face to face with Captain Jack Sparrow himself, Johnny can only stare open-mouthed at the man. “Captain Sparrow,” he manages, finally. He hasn’t expected them to ever meet again, but he has to admit that he’s been rehearsing this conversation in his head every since the Pirates script first landed on his desk. Even so, he is still unsure about how exactly he should greet this other self, this reverse doppelganger of his.

Sparrow is not wearing his suit this time; he looks rather worn, at the moment, standing on the beach in a grubby white shirt and ill-fitting trousers. Looking at him, Johnny realises, is like looking at a keen reflection of himself, even more so now that he’s gotten the same gold teeth fitted in, that same brownness to his skin. Sparrow doesn’t have the dreadlocks now, though, or the tricorne and coat; he couldn’t have survived the past several hundred years as a seventeenth-century pirate.

“I’ve watched it,” Sparrow says, with a bleary off-focus grin Johnny has only ever seen in the mirror of his trailer bathroom. Private, congratulatory.

Johnny squints at him in the harsh sunlight, trying to get over how bizarre this feels, because for the longest time he has assumed Sparrow to be yet another hallucination amidst that drug-filled haze years ago, the most vivid of the lot.

There is something that might just be pride in Sparrow’s voice when he says, “You have a knack, Johnny Depp.”

“Johnny,” Johnny tells him. “Call me Johnny.”

“Tell me, Johnny,” Sparrow says, turning abruptly and starting to count steps along the beach. “Do you like this island?”

Johnny watches him for a moment, takes in that gait that he has become so familiar with as Sparrow meanders away from him. “It’s all right, I suppose,” he tells Sparrow. “Rather sunny, very empty.”

Sparrow shuffles his bare feet in the sand, which must be scorching hot under the blazing sunlight. “Did anybody mention an unlimited stash of rum on this island? Did they tell you that it was cursed, or did they tell you it was charmed?”

“They told me nothing,” Johnny replies, grinning despite himself. “So I’ll assume it’s both.”

Sparrow swivels around and Johnny can already see that gleam in his eyes, that Sparrow is calculating, playing out an impending bargain in his head.

“If you buy this island, Johnny Depp, and I’ll tell you the truth as I know it,” says Sparrow, spreading his hands imploringly. “One favour, for old Jack, and I’ll tell you the secrets of this island.”

Johnny knows the tone Sparrow is using; he’s used it before, but never so desperately. “How about I propose another exchange,” he says, and the moment he does he knows it’s a done deal; he’s already estimating the amount of money this island will cost and how he’s going to go about purchasing it, whether Sparrow knows it or not. “I’ll buy this island, you don’t tell me any of its secrets-”

“-brilliant idea” Sparrow interjects.

“-and you tell me why you’re still alive,” Johnny finishes. “No tricks.”

“None at all,” says Sparrow with a wriggle of his fingers and a grin. “All right, so you toddle along now and buy this pretty little island, and when you return, I will tell you-”

Johnny knows it’s incredibly rude, but he cuts Sparrow off and says, “Or you can tell me now, and I give you my word that I’ll do the toddling after.” After all, Johnny’s the one paying for the island, not Sparrow.

“Answers first, you mean?” Sparrow asks. He has now turned to look at Johnny again, with a sharpness in his expression that is completely foreign. “You want to know how one Captain Jack Sparrow has come to be the last bloody pirate on earth?”

“Yes.”

Sparrow steps over to him, bare feet scattering hot sand, until he’s standing face to face with Johnny.
“You want to know?”

Johnny swallows, throat dry. “Yes, I do want to know.”

There is a gleam in Sparrow’s eyes now, and a twisting not-quite-smile on his face that tells Johnny of secrets buried for hundreds of years, a hidden burden of seeing too many lifetimes. He regards Johnny for a slow second before leaning in, close.

“Fountain of Youth, love.”

Johnny’s not sure whether to believe him. What he does, later on, is to buy the island: his side of their dubious bargain.

3. (secret II)

At any event or other, Johnny will always meet some random kid who has dressed up as Captain Jack. Always, for a second, he will stop and look them in the eye, searching for his own face in another’s.

“Doppelgangers are bad luck,” Vanessa will say, “Don’t look for him.”

Johnny will shrug and reply, “Should be bad luck for him then, since I’d be his doppelganger.”

He catches sight of Sparrow some hours after the premiere of the third film has ended, when it’s already early morning the next day and he’s on his way into the hotel. Sparrow glances at him for a brief moment, before he saunters round the corner, cigarette in hand.

It has been a long time since Johnny has really bothered about what other people say about his work. He sticks to his choices once he’s made them, and if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t. With Sparrow, however, Johnny cares. He finds that he needs to know if he’s got it right, he needs to know if he’s nailed it, because this is Jack fucking Sparrow still alive and quick as always, the part of Johnny that is and is not.

“Cigarette?” Sparrow asks, when they’ve reached the back of the hotel building.

Johnny nods tersely, partly because it’s some unforgivable time in the morning and he’s exhausted beyond imagination, and partly because he needs to know.

“I’ve watched it,” Sparrow says while he lights Johnny’s cigarette.

“We took a few liberties with the Locker, and Bootstrap,” Johnny tells him rather too quickly, trying to ignore how much it sounds like a pre-emptive apology.

Sparrow glances sidelong at him, before drawing another long breath from his cigarette. For a few heavy moments they stand there in nicotine-thick silence. Somebody on the lower floors of the hotel switches off their television, leaving a sudden dip of quiet amidst the night’s white noise. A car goes past. Sparrow exhales; smoke curls from his mouth and nostrils.

“You got it about right, that whole business with Davy Jones,” Sparrow says, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette. “Fountain of Youth, nice touch,” he continues, “Keith whatshisface, not quite my father, and Turner had a more… sodden look about him the last time we met, but that’s the movies for you.”

“And yourself?” Johnny cannot help but ask. “Was it all right?”

Sparrow pauses for a moment, contemplates his cigarette, looks at Johnny from the corner of his eye. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, love – you have a knack. But a knack’s a knack, it takes you this far and then that’s it.” He drops his cigarette on the ground with a wriggle of his fingers, and grinds it under the sole of his boot.

“So-” Johnny begins to say, but Sparrow gestures to him to keep quiet.

“I’ll tell you this, Johnny, because quite honestly, I like you. You are a brilliant human being; eloquent, evocative, elusive… elastic–” he stops for a moment to tug critically at Johnny’s jacket – “and you are very, very good at playing me.” He beams widely at Johnny.

“You couldn’t have known about it, really,” he continues, “but there is one thing, mate. There’s just one thing you missed out.” Here Sparrow pauses for effect.

After the pause goes on for a bit too long, Johnny hazards cautiously, “And what’s this one thing?”

With a smile that might be a grimace (hard to see in the darkness), Sparrow tells him.

Title: The Nineteenth Autumn
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Pictures may take a while to load, depending on your connection speed. Otherwise, none.
Summary: What might have happened between August 1979 and November 1980. AU, if you squint.
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: For darong; happy birthday. Special thanks to ailura, awesome awesome beta reader.

It started like this: After their NEWTs James went off to Auror school so he could earn enough money to buy Lily’s engagement ring, and Peter vanished into the unknown depths of the Ministry of Magic. Sirius and Remus, on the other hand, found jobs in James’ father’s business, where they found themselves handling inordinate amounts of Dark Creature extermination, as well as the sale of High Quality Sneakoscopes.

August 1979

Remus could smell motor oil and hot metal long before Sirius Black, Dark Creature Exterminator, walked into Potter & Sons, ltd.

Sirius Black in August 1979 still entered rooms as if he was accompanied by a small tempest of his own; nothing stood still in his presence. The photographs pinned on his side of the wall came alive in a flurry of colour and movement, and memos on his desk rustled urgent greetings. He reshuffled his files with a clatter, flicked the lamps on and off with his wand until they were of a perfect brightness and found a completely new spot in the office to haphazardly throw down his leather jacket.

Remus clutched his eagle-feather quill a little tighter, and continued writing in the ledger.

“Morning, Moony,” Sirius said, his voice scratchy from flying at high speed through the cold morning air.

“One second,” Remus gritted out, working on the accounts with a look of utmost concentration on his face. These would need to be done by the end of the morning; his bicycle was broken, meaning that he would be making deliveries on foot later on and needed all the time he could get.

Sirius stopped at his desk and set down a mug of freshly brewed Earl Grey, charmed to stay steaming hot. “Don’t have a second, Moony; I’m zipping off for a bit of Boggart banishing ‘round Knightsbridge,” he said breezily, attempting to arrange a stack of Sneakoscope orders on Remus’ table but only succeeding in making them more disorganised than before.

Remus didn’t look up, but flicked his quill sideways and down, indicating his annoyance. “Off you go, then,” he said absently. “Don’t want you running late.”

“Don’t want you forgetting that delivery of Sneakoscopes,” Sirius retorted, tapping Remus’ table with his wand for emphasis. Remus flicked his quill again in a jerky up and down motion, which meant, “Bugger off, you”.

“There’s tea; it’s a cold day,” Sirius said in a last-ditch attempt to get Remus’ attention, but upon getting no response, he made an exasperated sound and buggered off.

“Oh, sod it,” Remus muttered five seconds later, having realised that he’d copied a whole list of values into the wrong column. He squinted at them in irritation, trying to make out the numbers even as he felt the beginnings of a headache gathering behind his eyes. He walked over to the door so he could get out for a while to clear his mind, and discovered that Sirius had left his leather jacket hanging on the doorknob.

October 1979

It was a particularly cold Sunday in autumn, and Remus found Sirius on a bench in the park opposite the Auror Academy, huddled in his leather jacket, cupping a cigarette to himself like a warm secret.

“Just like sodding James Potter, standing us up like this,” Sirius grumbled when he saw Remus, and shifted over to make room on the bench.

“I brought sandwiches,” Remus replied, by way of greeting.

They spent the next half an hour watching a small child (gender unidentifiable) learn how to ride a bicycle, and then they started on the sandwiches, slowly, to make them last. Around them the trees blazed up in orange and red and yellow; the child – a boy with a very high-pitched voice, Sirius asserted – flew through the curling leaves with a wild shriek of exhilaration before going down again, cushioned by the breathlessness of childhood and thick layers of jumper.

Remus glanced over at Sirius for a moment, watching him pick at a piece of lettuce that was poking out of his sandwich, and then take a puff of cigarette. Exhale, coiling brief darkness diffusing quickly from between his lips.

Sirius Black, it seemed, was the only person in the world who could smoke and eat a sandwich at the same time.

“So anyway,” he said, with his mouth full of sandwich, “This Lord Voldy-whatsit. D’you reckon he’s for real?”

Remus swallowed his mouthful carefully. “Seems real enough to me.”

“Yeah?” Sirius’ tone sounded offhand, but Remus could tell that he was anything but cavalier when he said, “Prongs and those blokes down at MLE, they’ll have to deal with him, won’t they?”

“Yeah,” Remus replied, afraid to say what went unsaid, that if this new Dark wizard was as terrible as they all said he was, James might get hurt, or killed. Instead, he looked out in the distance and said, half to reassure himself, “And Dumbledore. He’ll take care of it.”

December 1979

Sirius left for the countryside a week before Christmas, on an assignment to rid a customer’s house of bundimuns. Remus, in the meantime, filled out more pages in the thick, leather-bound ledger, and made the Christmas deliveries for the usual Sneakoscopes, as well as Potter & Sons’ Pocket Foe Glass. He drank too much tea, helped Lily and James (more Lily than James, for James was mostly away for Auror business) redecorate their house at Godric’s Hollow, and tried not to read more than two paragraphs of the Daily Prophet each day.

With winter came Christmas, and also more news of Voldemort. The Dark Mark appeared even more frequently over the smoking ruins of wizarding houses, ominous semaphores in the darkness that said: you are no longer safe.

Lily’s face took on the drawn look of someone perpetually plunged in anxiety; slowly the twinkle of her green eyes faded, she smiled very little and laughed even less. They talked about Hogwarts when Remus came over, Hogwarts and James and how James’s mother knew just which colour curtains would suit the house. He slapped yellow paint on the walls of the master bedroom and wondered if Sirius was still at McKidd’s, ripping up floorboards to scour away the last of the bundimuns, speaking with a wizarding foreman about which rooms were the most heavily infested and needed restructuring.

“God, McKidd, that’s tough,” Remus imagined Sirius saying, staring at the expanse of green mould with an expression of mingled disgust and awe on his pale face. And then he would go back outside and leave his leather jacket on his motorcycle, so nothing would get on it while he worked on the house.

Christmas Eve drew near, and as the festivities continued the moon became fuller; there was now no sign of Peter and no word from Sirius, apart from a badly taken photograph scribbled over with a felt-tip permanent marker. Remus pinned it up onto Sirius’ side of the wall, along with a bit of leftover holly Lily had wanted to discard.

With the beast in his blood, scents grew sharp and painful; the slightest sounds made his head throb. He slept the same way that he used to as a boy, with his hands fisted in the sheets, in fear that he would claw himself into a feral stranger while he slept. Alone, it was much easier to be afraid, to wonder irrationally if he would stay a werewolf forever after he transformed and have to be put down by the Ministry.

On the eve of Christmas Eve, Remus holed himself up in the scratchy cocoon of his sheets, dreading the next night’s searing transformation. Already he trembled and shook, fitful and feverish, wrists and ankles anticipating the icy bite of Ministry-issue chains.

He dreamt of darkness and burning, of waking and words, of Sirius’ voice. It was saying, in an urgent whisper: Oi, Moony, wake up.

“Oi, Moony, wake up,” Sirius whispered again, tapping impatiently on Remus’ window. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”

Remus pulled the sheets off of his head, only to see the outline of Sirius’ face through the frosted-over glass of his window. He stumbled out of bed and shuffled over, pulling the window open with some difficulty.

“Thanks, mate,” Sirius told him, clapping ice-cold hands on Remus’ shoulders but removing them abruptly when he saw Remus’ shudder

“You’re back,” said Remus, half disbelieving, half relieved.

Sirius grinned blindingly at him, despite the fact that he had just survived an eight-hour motorcycle ride through the winter air and there was an icy night breeze blowing in through the window. “It’s Christmas Eve, Moony; what did you think I was going to do, leave you alone?”

February 1980

Winter blurred into spring, a wash of colour to chase away some of the damp starkness. Remus received a promotion; he now delivered Foe Glasses and Remembralls permanently, having convinced James’ dad that he was good with breakables.

Sirius started pinning up increasingly inexplicable photos with no labels on them – the sky, partly cloudy; one leaf, green; a darkened alleyway that contrasted sharply with an odd beam of light in the background.

“The composition for that isn’t very good,” Remus told Sirius one day, pointing at the darkened alleyway.

“Not supposed to be,” Sirius replied, poking fondly at the photograph with his wand. “That’s what makes it unique.”

This was how Sirius’ photographs were: brief, fleeting point-and-shoot moments; poetry, on Muggle film; the vivid colour and light of the frivolous or pedestrian. This was how Sirius’ photographs were beautiful.

With spring came good news – a child; James and Lily’s. Now Remus had more reason to anticipate the days to come: the soft swell of Lily’s belly, James’ restless energy, and later a baby’s squalling to add to the clatter of the Potters’ household.

With spring also came news from James, gleaned through his numerous Auror sources. Sirius’ brother, originally missing, was dead.

Remus had never liked Regulus in school; he had always been a poor copy of Sirius, all immature arrogance and impotent anger, paler, sharper, more mean spirited. Sirius might have loved him despite this, might have hoped that a distant shadow of their childhood still remained in his once-baby brother. Remus didn’t think he would ever know for sure.

And this is how a first kiss would begin:

In a darkened alleyway, deep browns and reds in the shadows, light falling awkwardly due to the disorganized jut of walls and roofs. This was where Remus found Sirius, white and speechless.

There were no words now, just the tight scrabble of Sirius’ fingers as they clutched at the front of Remus’ woollen vest; a wet huff of breath; the still closeness between them, thick and aching. A touch of fingers clenched around fabric, a touch of skin, forehead to forehead, noses bumping. A touch of lips.

August 1980

It was August of 1980, and Harry James Potter was making his steady transition from being a dear, cooing little thing, to a small monster capable of screeching at entirely unearthly volumes. Sirius Black, official godfather of said small monster, contented himself with shouting instructions to Remus Lupin, official nothing-at-all and default babysitter, from the comfort of the living room. In the meantime, Remus struggled to amuse Harry with rubber ducks in the upstairs bedroom.

“Have you tried levitating them?” Sirius yelled, for the second time that afternoon.

Remus swished and flicked fruitlessly; Harry squalled right through the ungainly flight of the three yellow ducks. Holding his wand in a manner that allowed the ducks to remain aloft, Remus reached down to tug at Harry’s nappy so he could give it a cautious sniff. Baby powder; still fresh.

“Stop sniffing his bits, you pervert,” Sirius said, and Remus looked up to see him standing in the doorway. He stepped over to pick Harry up, and there was suddenly a very strange sound that Remus recognised as silence.

“I was not sniffing his bits, I was checking his nappy,” he protested, watching Sirius bounce Harry up and down in his arms.

“I’m hurt,” Sirius declared mid-bounce, “That you’d sniff little Harry’s bits and not pay mine the least bit attention.”

“Oh shut up, he’s asleep now.”

“He only fell asleep because his godfather’s here,” Sirius said proudly. “The moment I stepped through the door: absolute silence.”

“That’s because you’re so bloody boring, even babies can’t seem to stand your presence,” Remus snapped, directing one of the rubber ducks to hit Sirius’ shoulder with a satisfying thwack sound.

Sirius bared his teeth in a wolfish grin and, before Remus could back away, pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Remus was inclined to respond in kind, but a loud ahem caused them to spring apart abruptly.

“For Merlin’s sake, at least put the baby down before you start snogging,” Lily said in rebuke, scowling as she removed her innocent child from the arms of Sirius Black, possible godfather of Harry Potter (currently pending for probation), sometimes dog, and complete pervert.

Later that night they climbed into Remus’ bed together without any awkwardness between them, just a collective weariness and a mutual need for warmth.

“You still smell of baby’s vomit,” Remus told Sirius, squirming away from him.

Sirius laughed apologetically, and got out of bed again to cast a quick cleansing charm. After a pause, Remus grudgingly let him slide in under the covers.

They lay there in the darkness, squashed awkwardly against each other because the bed was far too small for the haphazard sprawl of Sirius’ limbs.

“You’re like ice,” Remus complained, his voice too loud in the pressing silence.

Sirius responded with a muffled chuckle, and then his hands were catching the front of Remus’ nightshirt, pulling him close. For a moment Remus watched Sirius look at him, eyes bright in the darkness. Then he squirmed a little, buried his forehead into Sirius’ shoulder, and fell asleep.

November 1980

Only now did they call it a war, even though it had been raging on for years already. And now, on the brink of one of the harshest winters ahead, the wizarding world cowered before Lord Voldemort, frightened into a trembling silence by the impending collapse of the Ministry.

The sale of Sneakoscopes and Foe Glasses was brisk, but the digits on Remus’ ledger faded and blurred in the face of the overwhelming numbers in the Prophet: they counted the dead, the seriously injured, the missing.

Of the series of Sirius’ snapshots not many would remain; he both hated and loved them in their poignant brutality. Rubble and dust littered their surfaces, harsh landscapes of the once familiar, made more distant by the grey layers of snow and the angry thrust of bare trees against the sky. And yet there were moments of colour: the matching grins on James and baby Harry’s faces, illuminated by evening firelight; Lily’s determined studiousness as she swotted over thick books on magical theory; and Remus, face partially obscured in the shadows cast by the blackout charms they had to put up.

There was no concerted resistance force, no single Order put in place to fight against the Dark Lord. There were too many spies and too few reasons to trust anybody. Sirius went on skirmishes with James and the other Aurors every night, but his wandwork set him apart from them, all pureblood twirls and flourishes that had been ingrained at a young age, sharp contrast to the Aurors’ economical point-and-curse methods. Remus could not follow, because too many of his kind had already sworn loyalty to the Dark Lord, and werewolves were no longer welcome. Instead, he smuggled messages with his deliveries; parchment carefully stuffed into a box, orders for contraband potions ingredients hidden up the sleeve of his cardigan.

It was near midnight when Sirius stumbled into Remus’ bedroom, his right arm bleeding profusely. Remus got out of bed almost immediately, for anxiousness had kept him awake in the darkness for most of the night.

“Bastards, the lot of them,” Sirius growled as Remus set to healing his arm. He poked his fingers forlornly through the ugly-looking gash in the sleeve of his leather jacket. “My jacket will never be the same again.”

“Better your jacket than your entire arm,” Remus told him matter-of-factly, sealing up the cut rather neatly. He paused for a moment, letting his wand hover over Sirius’ newly healed skin. “Better your arm than your life.”

Sirius glanced sharply at him. “Moony-”

“Don’t tell me not to worry, Sirius,” Remus snapped, fatigue and anxiety making him short-tempered. “Not when you’re out there every night, and nobody’s safe.”

There were many other things Remus wanted to tell Sirius, things that he thought about in the day, when there was nothing to accompany him but an overactive imagination and the battered boxes of Sneakoscopes tied to the back of his bicycle. He wanted to say, don’t go; he wanted to say, I can’t lose you; he wanted to say how afraid he was, now that Voldemort was after Harry and nothing seemed to be secure any more. Increasingly, however, he found himself unable to put words to his fears, almost as if verbalising them would cause them to come true; a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“We’ll be all right, Moony,” Sirius told him reassuringly, changing into his nightclothes and settling down onto Remus’ bed. “The two of us, we’re not going anywhere.”

“We don’t know that,” Remus began to say as he lay down next to Sirius, but within seconds Sirius was curled up against him, fast asleep.

The few hours Remus had alone with Sirius were too precious to squander on sleep. Instead, he lay awake and listened to the sound of Sirius’ breathing, trying to warm Sirius’ icy limbs with the press of his own skin. Beyond the blackout charms they had put up, grey darkness curled languidly outside the windows, and everything was still and silent, poised for a fitful awakening.

When McGonagall Apparated outside the entrance to Potter and Sons, Ltd., the worried expression on her face told Remus that this was not going to be one of her usual messages.

“Bad news, Remus,” she told him, hustling him back into the shop and casting some rather complicated silencing charms at the door. “We need you to go into hiding.”

Remus stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Hiding? I’m hardly-”

“You’ll be taking Harry, he’s not safe right now,” McGonagall continued, pressing a sherbet lemon into his hand. “We’ll contact you once you’re there.”

“What about Sirius-” Remus began, helpless with confusion.

“He can’t know,” McGonagall said, but upon seeing Remus’ stricken expression, she added, “We’ll tell him as soon as it’s safe.”

“We can’t do that, Sirius has to know-”

“Do it for Harry, if not for anything else,” said McGonagall.

“What’s wrong with James and Lily?” Remus asked, irrational panic cold in his gut.

McGonagall stiffened visibly. “Nothing’s wrong with James and Lily, we just need you to trust us with this, Remus. Please.”

Remus wanted very badly to refuse, to ask McGonagall to find someone else – for who in their right mind would trust lycanthrope to care for a small baby, especially during a war? This wasn’t the time to make decisions like this; Sirius would be back soon, he’d know what was going on-

“I can’t-” began Remus, but something in McGonagall’s expression stopped him from finishing his sentence. Instead, he nodded mutely.

Relief flooded McGonagall’s face. “I will tell Sirius, I promise. And thank you.” McGonagall’s eyes darted to the sherbet lemon in Remus’ hand.

“Swallow it,” she said tersely.

He placed the sweet in his mouth, feeling rather silly to be eating one at a time like this, but almost immediately an image surfaced in his mind like a forgotten memory. He could recall the place now, a small cottage tucked away in the mountains.

“All right then, Remus, Godric’s Hollow first,” McGonagall was saying briskly.

There would be no turning back now, Remus knew, not until the war was over. Before him stretched bleak and endless days in hiding, with nobody for company but baby Harry. This would be his choice, and he would live by it.

Remus took one last look at the shop, at Sirius’ wall, covered in photographs squashed chaotically against each other. He thought of Sirius’ persistent we’ll be all right, his adamant hopefulness. After a moment’s consideration he pointed his wand at a random picture and accioed it over. A piece of Sirius, for the loneliness ahead.

Then he stepped out of the door, locked the place up, and went on his way.

Picture credits
All the images used do not belong to me; I merely photoshopped them for my own purposes.

August 1979 – Dublin Street, taken from www.rootsweb.com
October 1979 – A door at Dublin Castle, photographed by bregalad_ent
December 1979 – Monastic Ruins in Glendalough, County Wicklow, Ireland, photographed by bregalad_ent
February 1980 – A street in London or Dublin (cannot recall), photographed by Colin Gregory Palmer
August 1980 – a baby (gender unidentifiable), gettyimages
November 1980 – two boys running down a street, gettyimages

Pairing: John Constantine/Sirius Black
Theme set: Gamma
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Abuse of semicolons and hyphens.
Summary: AU. Hellblazer and Harry Potter crossover. When Sirius falls through the veil he expects to fall straight to hell;
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: Thanks to ailura, brilliant beta reader. Written for 1sentence , originally.

#01 – Ring

When Sirius falls through the veil he expects to fall straight to hell; what he doesn’t expect is the sharp sound of a Muggle phone ringing, and this man, standing over Sirius with incredulity written all over his face.

#02 – Hero

“So you’re a fucking hero back in your magic world, huh?” Constantine asks later, lighting a cigarette, and Sirius thinks he can’t be any farther from the truth.

#03 – Memory

He tries to find Remus, to Apparate to Grimmauld Place, but there are no owls here, no Diagon Alley, not even a memory of the world he grew up in – only his magic remains the same.

#04 – Box

A simple Alohomora is enough for Sirius to open the box that Constantine has been struggling with for the past half an hour – it makes him drop his cigarette in surprise and, more importantly, agree to take him along for a deportation.

#05 – Run

With some luck they make it out onto the street unscathed, but judging from the awful screeching noise still coming from the building it would be better to keep running for their lives.

#06 – Hurricane

The streetlamps flicker out one after another as the hurricane – whirling, frenetic blackness – draws nearer, and they stand, huddled in a street corner, wand drawn and dragon’s breath flamethrower at the ready.

#07 – Wings

The creatures have wings that resemble a bat’s, wings that make scaly schrifting noises against each other as they jostle towards the two men, and in a moment of hysteria Sirius thinks, thank goodness Voldemort hasn’t discovered these yet.

#08 – Cold

As the creatures draw nearer, a paralysing cold takes hold of Sirius’ limbs and claws up towards his chest; he hears a distant screaming grow louder and louder in his ears.

#09 – Red

A rush of flames, unbearably hot, takes out a large number of the beasts, and before Constantine can fire another burst Sirius thinks desperately of Remus’ gently curving smile and shouts, “Expecto Patronum!”

#10 – Drink

They stumble back to Constantine’s apartment after the last of the creatures have disappeared, and settle in his kitchen for some scotch to calm their nerves.

#11 – Midnight

Past midnight, and there is paralysis; Sirius cannot move in the pressing darkness, even as Constantine leans over him, too close, too near, and asks, “Who are you, really?”

#12 – Temptation

Constantine’s skin burns under Sirius’ fingertips; there is tobacco on his breath and a hot spark of want in his eyes – Sirius, who has never stopped being cold after Azkaban, cannot resist this temptation.

#13 – View

Sirius finds that there are two ways in which one can view John Constantine: the first is with the pitying knowledge that one day, he’ll find himself completely out of his league; the second is with skin, and fingers: a touch here, here, and here.

#14 – Music

They pick through the contents of the mysterious box and find a number of things: an old grimoire, a bronze goblet, and a small music box, which plays a tune that seems vaguely familiar.

#15 – Silk

“If I’ve run out of silk cuts I will personally-” Constantine begins, not caring to finish his threat as he empties out the pockets of the pair of trousers he left on the floor the night before, while Sirius smirks at him in the doorway.

#16 – Cover

“This isn’t for me,” Constantine says, running his fingers over the cover of the Grimoire, “It’s for your return trip.”

#17 – Promise

“You want to go home, don’t you?” Constantine asks, that unspoken promise stretching between them, and Sirius thinks, not without a pang of guilt, yes, to Remus.

#18 – Dream

He dreams that Harry is calling for him, saying Sirius, Sirius Black in James’ eager, sad voice, but when Sirius tries to reply, Harry doesn’t seem to hear him.

#19 – Candle

Sirius cannot help but chuckle as Constantine lights a candle in the middle of the room and draws a circle of protection round it with an old piece of chalk, but the laughter dies on his lips when he realises that the circle is for him, while Constantine ventures out to look for a man named Papa Midnite.

#20 – Talent

“Look at me, fucking look at me!” Sirius snarls, and transforms swiftly into Padfoot.

#21 – Silence

There is a long silence as Constantine regards Padfoot incredulously, and after what seems like forever he asks, “You’re sure you’re not some sort of demon?”

#22 – Journey

Sirius realises midway on the journey to New York – (all the way to fucking New York, and that bugger didn’t even mention it) – that he would have had to stay in that circle for three whole days, at the very least, one more prison in his life of captivity.

#23 – Fire

When they finally get to what seems to be the seediest nightclub in New York; when they encounter Sirius’ first zombie, his dog-senses blaze with the knowledge that something is very wrong.

#24 – Strength

Papa Midnite is seething with rage at the sight of John Constantine, and Sirius is momentarily unsure whether he should be afraid of this strong, foreign magic, which hangs so thick in the air he can taste it with his tongue.

#25 – Mask

Constantine’s face is a mask of pain as Papa Midnite pins him to the wall, pins him through the wall, even.

#26 – Ice

Sirius ignores the gasps of surprise when he transforms back to human form; instead he says, loudly, “When you’re done shoving people against walls, I’d like to bargain with you.”

#27 – Fall

“Where do you come from?” Papa Midnite asks warily, and Sirius smiles and replies, simply, “I fell.”

#28 – Forgotten

As they negotiate the price of Papa Midnite’s services Sirius realises that he has never completely forgotten how to behave like a Black, how to command with his father’s arrogance.

#29 – Dance

This is how Papa Midnite divines the origins of the music box: Sirius watches the purple dust dance just above the surface of the lid, and grips his wand even more tightly underneath his robes.

#30 – Body

“This is not from around here: it is a soul, separated from the body,” Papa Midnite says with some relish, while Sirius seriously wonders if they’ve all lost their minds.

#31 – Sacred

“Our bargain has been made sacred, Black,” Papa Midnite reminds him, “I expect it in two days.”

#32 – Farewells

After their guarded farewells Constantine leans in towards Sirius and murmurs in his ear, “You don’t have a fucking clue what the Ace of Winchesters is, do you?”

#33 – World

The Ace of Winchesters turns out to be some sort of supernatural rifle, one that Constantine thinks he sold to a museum somewhere, but could be anywhere in the world now, really, maybe (if the rumours are true) even hell.

#34 – Formal

During the formal ceremony Sirius presents Papa Midnite with an ordinary Winchester rifle and promises that each bullet is cursed to put its victims in a full body-bind, but when Papa Midnite calls him a liar and sets his zombies on Sirius, Sirius has no choice but to shoot him in the shoulder, stupefy everyone in the room, and get the hell out of there.

#35 – Fever

They pelt down dark alleys and crowded streets, adrenaline like a fever burning past their skin.

#36 – Laugh

“Some wand you’ve got there,” Constantine is saying, and Sirius barks a laugh before wrapping an arm around him and Apparating.

#37 – Lies

“How did you do that?” Constantine demands, but Sirius just grins and says, “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”

#38 – Forever

Over the remains of the scotch they didn’t manage to finish the last time around, Constantine notes that they’ll probably never be able to set foot in New York again.

#39 – Overwhelmed

Sirius watches Constantine drag a large metal tub filled with water to the window so he can catch the light of the full moon, and wonders, with a hollow ache in his chest, if he’ll ever see Remus again.

#40 – Whisper

Later, after Constantine has filled the bronze goblet with water and splashed it across the threshold of the front door, Sirius thinks he hears the whisper of something, of old magic, maybe – Sirius’ magic.

#41 – Wait

They sit in Constantine’s kitchen and wait, let time creep past them in the darkness, not bothering to fill the breathless silence between them.

#42 – Talk

Just before they step past the blackened threshold that used to be Constantine’s front door, Constantine looks sharply at Sirius and says, in a startling fit of honesty, “I don’t fucking know what I’m doing; thought I might inform you beforehand.”

#43 – Search

They walk through what seems like a no-man’s-land between worlds; after a while Sirius recognises this place as the Ministry of Magic, but not: it is a shadow of the place, empty, silent, inverted.

#44 – Hope

The series of doors is familiar – all Sirius hopes is that they will lead to the veil.

#45 – Eclipse

This is what it is: an eclipse of the senses, a fall through the dark, the curving line across two planes.

#46 – Gravity

Constantine circles the veil once, to see what is on the other side; Sirius watches the fabric flutter with the air of something distant, it tugs on him like the pull of another sphere.

#47 – Highway

A far road, a narrow walkway, a passage: it is impossible to discern if he will be walking away, or going home.

#48 – Unknown

“Piece of cloth doesn’t smell like hell,” Constantine offers helpfully, “Although if it turns out to be bloody Hades you can at least try looking around for that Ace of Winchesters.”

#49 – Lock

And then they are locked in this position for one brief moment, standing close together face-to-face, lips barely brushing – “Alohomora,” Constantine says, a prayer, a talisman, and Sirius stumbles backwards, back.

#50 – Breathe

Inside the Burrow they are still taking apart the music box; outside, Padfoot lifts his head at the familiar scent of cigarette smoke.

There is something about WordPress that is just incredibly alluring; I have yet to put my finger on it but I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.

I’ll be using this to archive all my fic, because it’s nice to have someplace other than LJ to put things, and I really, really like WordPress.