#* first war

body is slanted against the door-jam, feet planted but stumbling on the front stoop of perhaps the LAST place he should have gone. at least he is fairly certain he has lost the ones who DID THIS before arriving on regulus’ black’s ( dead regulus black, regulus black he really should try to contact someone about ) doorstep. “looks worse than it,” he stumbles, leans heavier against the doorframe, “ - than it is.” it’s a weak finish and remus offers a smile that fights against his tense jaw and the aching pain that radiates from a gash below his left eye from when face bounced off an unfortunately placed stone after the third time he went down.

they don’t listen anyway. remus cannot fault them for it ; the ORDER has little to offer in comparison to the luring promises of greyback and his cohort. remus knows it, remus knows the WANT, the way those words glisten prettily and are far more appealing than his own paltry offerings. his head throbs and he tries his best to push the thoughts from his mind.

he’s been holed up in a little cottage that is cold and bare, and he is out of food, and this is not the time to indulge the thing inside him that has hackles raised and teeth bared. eyes are trained on the display of apples and remus reaches forward to inspect one when hand bumps that of another. “ah - sorry,” he begins in his accented french with an apologetic smile that MELTS off his face when remus looks up to see who he has jostled.

a GHOST. or - someone who ought to be one, if his eyes aren’t playing tricks. he can feel his face go cold and his breath snag in his throat as he looks into the eyes of REGULUS BLACK ; regulus black, who is dead. or - who is assumed dead. who had been gone too long to be alive, who sirius had said something about a TAPESTRY about, who - regulus black should not be alive, and if he is, he should not be in this tiny french village buying fucking APPLES. remus doesn’t realize he’s dropped his shopping basket until a can rolls against the side of his foot.

“ - what the fuck?”

remus’ hands are moving before he can stop them, setting the book he was reading down on the table more forcefully than necessary and looking at james with HOT, still eyes. “if there’s something you want to SAY, then say it.” the words are bitten out, each syllable sharp and staccato. still in the way something DEAD is, or something STALKING something else. “i get enough of this from sirius.” AND OTHERS, though he manages to stop himself to say it despite the way hackles are raised. remus isn’t as OBLIVIOUS to the fact sirius is not alone in mistrusting remus ; in thinking his LOYALTIES might be split.

how could they even BLAME HIM if they were? it’s a dangerous thought, one remus doesn’t voice - it would make it all worse. BUT TRULY - there is a REASON werewolves are so willing to fall in line with greyback. promises, even false ones, seem better than the future the order promises when viewed through the eyes of one deemed MONSTER by the powers the order is trying to uphold.

he wants to BALK at the statement. it’s more HABIT than anything else, the want to SNARL and slap worried hands away. it’s something remus has TEMPERED over the years ; an impulse shoved down and always denied. he can’t even summon THAT now. not with his head ringing as though someone roundly slammed him over the head with something and joins aching. gaze is fuzzy and he looks at severus through shuttered eyes. “it’s fine,” the words are meant to be a hiss but come out a sigh, “there’s not much to be DONE, anyhow. it’ll pass on it’s own.” 

WHEN DID THREE WEEKS BEGIN FEELING LIKE A YEAR? the door creaks as remus opens it and he frowns at the sound, pausing in the doorway on aching feet to peer in and see if he had woken anyone up. when silence persists he carries on ; door is closed cautiously behind him and boots toed off, stowed nearly against the wall before he pads on socks towards the kitchen. remus doesn’t turn on the light and navigates by memory. a wave of the wand and a whispered spell has the kettle putting itself on to boil and a mug floating down to rest on the counter beside it.

when he slumps into a kitchen chair it is with a smarting side and a hand pressed tentatively to the swollen, split lip he really ought to throw a healing charm or two at. instead lithe, calloused fingers run through mussed hair and hold there for a moment, warm against his scalp. debriefing had gone longer than usual ; things had tipped sidelong, the knot of werewolves he was meant to befriend had been met by HOSTILE FORCES before remus could come along. by the time he had integrated himself into the little village and was safe enough to introduce himself, they had been WARNED and TOLD WHAT TO DO by some who take none too kindly to remus’ face. the fact they had known he was coming is - CONCERNING.