bait_backup | Let the yoke fall from our shoulders--don't carry it all

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Let the yoke fall from our shoulders--don't carry it all

*It seems like it's taken no time at all to get here, to the pub. One moment the telephone rings and it's the neighbors in Ambleside saying there's a big green. . .thing. . .over the house, and shouldn't he better check on Angela and Ted Senior, and then the smooth machine of death and calamity starts working double-time and it's all a blur of Apparition and owls to friends and telephone calls to family and the Ministry neatly Obliviating the neighbors, concealing the Mark, and telling him not to look at his parents but he does anyway, immediately wishes he hadn't, and Aurors asking him questions, and remembering over and over the man outside the broom closet saying affront, who even says affront in this day and age, and making the Muggle arrangements because he has to, Andromeda's picked up an awful lot but not enough for this, even he has trouble with it--and explaining it to Nymphadora, or trying to, and the steady unrelenting succession of owls bearing food, and putting the condolence cards in a neat pile and digging out a nice suit from the back of the closet and sending out owls asking for the few wizarding attendees to wear Muggle clothing if possible, black if possible, and yes, he would like closed caskets, absolutely closed caskets.

Before he knows it he's standing up at the funeral, shifting and uncomfortable in his best suit, and Ted's always been shit at this sort of thing, he's stumbling over his words and blowing his nose into his handkerchief and dropping his notes until Andromeda comes up and takes over for him and he concedes it to her with a rush of gratitude so massive that it almost bears him away, she's always spoken beautifully and she speaks beautifully now.

Before he knows it he is done with the never-ending line of my-condolences and I am sorry for your loss and oh what a tragedy and it's over, and people are packing up the food and Dromeda takes Junior home to answer the hardest questions a parent has to answer and Ted does what the Tonks men have always done in their time of grief: he goes to the pub and takes off his tie and gets rip-roaring drunk.

He's red-faced now, from crying and Firewhisky, but he's reached an odd peace about it: it is the Tonks way to meet pain head on and take the measure of it, and do what it takes to surmount it, and that is what he is doing now. His voice is loud and hoarse, and Tom does his bidding almost before he's done shouting.*

ANOTHER ROUND, I THINK.

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Oh. He’s off. Doing. A thing.

*He makes a claw with his hand and make a sound, rawr.*

Rest of the month he’s all snuggles and sunshine and he makes me soup when I get sick. I don’t deserve soup. I think he even knows I don’t deserve soup. But he makes me soup anyway.

*He looks up at Ted, mournfully.*

It’s good soup. He says he puts love in it.

*Soup, and soup with love in it, is a topic Ted is more comfortable with than Sirius Black’s emotional difficulties, or Remus Lupin’s lycanthropic troubles, and he seizes on it willingly, slamming his fist into the table.*

Dromeda makes me soup, as well. And there is very often love in it. She is the most wonderful woman in the world prob’ly. Got all the brains. From your family I mean.

Is it like a fairy thing with you two, then?

*The Firewhisky’s have arrived--both of them--for Ted--and he starts unconcernedly on the first of them.*

What’ll you be having?

*When confronted with it so bluntly, Sirius turns shades of his father. Just because he practically came out and said it doesn’t mean he particularly wants Ted to repeat it back in simpler terms. He wrinkles his nose.*

It’s not--that’s vulgar--and I--how dare--I mean--I don’t want anything.

*Guilt is written across his face.*

I may vomit.

*Ted isn’t listening. He’s well into the second of his Firewhiskys.*

What I think--what I really think, right? I really, really think, I think that if you find Andromeda, or somebody like Andromeda, you stick yourself to them right away before they have a chance to forget you, or wise up, like, with a Permanent Sticking Charm, do you follow? Do you follow?

*His voice seems to have some kind of dawning realization in it.*

I am good at permanent sticking charms.

Well that’s something, at least.

*He takes a deep breath into large lungs, raising his glass. Anyone sober would recognize the signs of an impending Declaration.*

Andromeda is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever. Apart from Junior. And, it’s like, everyone thought it was funny, y’know, or weird, everyone who didn’t want us dead for even thinking about it I mean, but I never thought it was funny. I mean, come on. How is that funny?

‘Snot. ‘Snot funny. It’s--the only important thing, y’know? It’s. The only important thing. Loving someone and having them love you back.

*Sirius lifts his wobbly head from the table and lifts one of Ted’s empty glasses to meet his in the air, like a toast, perhaps harder than it really safe with glass.*

Fuck ‘em if they think it’s funny. Fuck ‘em.

It is. It is. It is. It really is. Yeah, fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em.

*Their toast is punctuated with Ted’s jabbing fingers into Sirius’ shoulder, which are not meant to be painful, but he is very big and very drunk.*

If you love someone and they love you back you better Permanent Stick It.

And if there is soup involved, forget it. You--you--you stick that twice if you can.

Fucking. Soup.

*His head falls back to the table with a loud thump. He holds up his right hand and, wordlessly, takes off the ring and puts it on the table. He pushes it toward Ted with his index finger like it’s more of a response than the words.*

I think you’re right. About everything.

*Squinting and curious, Ted holds the ring right up to his eye, oddly resembling a drunken pirate as he inspects it, frowning.*

That’s good, I like it. Dromeda’s has a pearl. But she is a lady.

*At that, he chuckles, and then the chuckle turns into laughter--completely drunken, not unkind laughter. It is funny because it is true. Carefully, unsteadily, he holds the ring out for Sirius to take it back.*

*He’s rather too drunk to distinguish between mocking laughter and friendly laughter, so when he picks up his head again it’s to hold out an accusing index finger and glare, unsteadily, snatching the ring back and putting it back on.*

Hey. Hey.

Lady. Like it matters. Shit. Shouldn’t tell you a damn thing. You’re having a laugh at me.

Sirius, you would be twice as good if you talked half as much. But you’re all right. You know that? You’re all right.

*Impulsively, he crushes Sirius to him in a fierce and sloppy hug, smelling of Firewhisky, mumbling into his hair.*

I’m not sorry I hit you, though.

*Squished in Ted’s arms, Sirius’ voice is a little strained.*

I deserved that, I deserved that, you can hit me again and I probably won’t even feel it right now what with the firewhiskey and--feelings about. Things.

That’s two of us.

*He isn’t letting go, not yet.*

You’re all right. You’re all right. You’re family, you know?

I’m somethingorother. Still shouldn’t have told--that. Jus’ forgettaboutit.

*But the hug is all right, and it feels better than moping about and drinking himself into a stupor alone. They can be in a stupor together. Apparently.*

*Finally, after a bit too long, Ted releases Sirius, clapping him soundly on the back with his big hands.*

Nonsense. Family. Come around the house more, bring Soup with you. Just no more. . . shenanigans.

Soup and I are--we’re not--in general. And shenannigans--I mean--I’ve been practicing for years . . . Shennanigans are all I’m good at.

Horseshit.

If by shenannigans you mean--I can’t just leave Reg, he’ll die. He’s small and stupid and he’s all mushy on his insides. Like a--like a loaf of white bread. Cheap shitty white bread. Asshole won’t talk to me type white bread.

I don’t know what to tell you, Sirius. Andromeda knows, and she’s better at this sort of thing than I am.

*Andromeda, for instance, would not be swaying in her seat nearly as much as Ted is, or blowing her nose into a sodden handkerchief nearly so often, and nor would she ever on her worst day look half the mess Ted is now. Still, he presses on, bravely, slurring, pointing an emphatic finger.*

Listen listen listen. Lishen. Lishen. You’ve made your choices, right, and your brother’s made his. He’s not a babe-in-arms. And family’s family, I know you need to look to your family, I know, I do, I understand that Sirius, believe me, but I don’t mean the blood kind. The blood kind’s shit.

I mean the soup kind.

*The idea that he may have to someday chose between keeping Regulus safe and keeping Remus safe has not totally escaped him, but it hit Sirius like a physical blow anyway, sending him reeling back toward sitting upright and shaking his head.*

I know. It’s not simple like that but I know.

Blood is shit as a whole thing and I’m--I’m here feeling sorry for myself when it’s you with the--the real reason.

*He mumbles into his own front as if he can avoid being heard by shaking his head.*

Wunner if I’ll hate them all less when they’re dead. It’d be nice to just--fuck the lot of you, spit on the grave, that sort of thing.

You’re stupid.

What’s nice is, what’s nice is living the way you do and not saying fuck the lot of them because you’re too busy making sure Junior doesn’t explode the house. You don’t even have time to say fuck the lot of them, with a girl like that.

Much better, yeah?

*He sighs, then, mopping at his eyes again peacefully.*

Besides, it’s the natural order of things. Burying your parents, I mean. Junior will bury Dromeda and me. . . so it goes.

That--that is a dumb idea. Dying. Completely stupid. Whoever came up with that should be smacked. That’s the bloke I can pass your punch along to.

*Ted holds his glass at eye-level, inspecting it sagely.*

We’d run out of room soon enough, otherwise.

Without it Dumbledore’d still be around and he’d--he’d give me sage looks over his spectacles and I’d know a thing was stupid or something. Not do stupid things as often.

Maybe.

Probably not.

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