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

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*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.

Comments

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*When he sees Ted comes in, Sirius ducks his head lower and turns it away. He heard, of course, about Ted’s parents, and everyone can guess who did it, the Mark is so fucking obvious that even now the Auror office is inquiring what they might have done to make the Death Eaters angry, and any evidence they find will most likely point back to a woman and a man they refuse to investigate, and it’ll come to absofuckinglutely nothing. And with Remus busy being a wolf for the evening, Sirius has resorted to an age-old method of drowning his guilt: shameless drunkenness. It is entirely his fault, Ted’s suit, the red eyes, everything strikes Sirius like a blow to the gut, tangible proof of what an idiot he is for even considering this bargain with Bellatrix. As if Regulus’ life mattered so fucking much to Ted. As if saving him, giving him protection made it all worth it.

Sirius can’t help peering at him, though, through a haze of smoke and his own drunkenness from where he sits slumped in the corner. He drains his glass and watches from behind the empty and his hand, thinking himself sneaky. The bar is empty enough that it’s less sneaky and more idiotic, a mockery of some spy-work.*

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

AND ONE OF WHAT HE’S HAVING, AS WELL.

*It takes awhile to notice Sirius Black, the way he’s skulking in the corner, but eventually Ted does even through the impressive Firewhisky goggles he is currently wearing. He waves magisterially to Tom, indicating the second-saddest-sack in the bar. Perhaps counter-intuitively, he is pleased to see Sirius, genuinely so: he sees in him company, a stalwart companion in the noble pursuit of temporary oblivion. Leaning back, he kicks out one of the empty chairs at his table, the loud bang an indication that Sirius is to come and sit.*

All right, Black, up you get!

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*Sirius practically jumps at being caught out, but he recovers well enough. Leaving the empty glass on the bar, he gets to his feet, swaying a bit, and makes his way over carefully, shaking his head. He stops a bit short of the chair, spreading his hands.*

If’n you’re gonna kill me, I’d rather be standing, thanks. Just . . . twenny paces, like men, yeah?

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

I amnot going to kill you. . .I am going t’get you drunk.

*He kicks the chair again, loudly, further out--it collides with Sirius. Their drinks arrive, and he inclines his head--a much more swooping motion than needed, he almost hits the table.*

Don’t s’pose you’ve seen my tie anywhere.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

I think--I think I might’n be already drunk, Ted.

*The chair practically knocks him off his feet. He looks like a droopy fifteen year old in this sorry state, all insecurity and despair. He eyes Ted suspiciously, and then scoots the chair in, picks up the drink, and sips. He doesn’t quite meet Ted’s gaze.*

Was it a nice funeral?

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*He considers the question, thoughtfully staring into his Firewhisky before sipping it.*

The food was good, I think. Didn’t have any.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

‘sgood. Food. I like food.

*He didn’t get an invitation and didn’t want one, he would probably be more of a mess now and the funeral was a small and private affair for the family besides, but he feels the need to apologize, or at least make an excuse.*

I had to--I thought about--I was gonna go, I swear. I just had a . . . thing.

*A thing named Remus Lupin getting sicker and sicker as the day wore on, and now this, his own all-consuming, lonely guilt.*

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*He gulps his drink, in one long bolt, and then coughs a little, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The suitjacket's long discarded by now, and his sleeves are jammed up to the elbow, his shirt rumpled, his tie who-knows-where, probably crushed into the floor beneath their feet.*

No, you great lump, you weren’t invited.

No offense, mate.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

Yeah, well. I’m not very good at . . . things. Like that. In general. Family, you know. Not so good with the family.

*Sirius’ head has been drooping toward the table and now, gently, meets it, his cheek flattened against the wood next to his glass.*

If you’re going to spring the killing thing on me as a surprise, now would be a good time. I would be very surprised.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*Ted looks down at Sirius with a soft and thoughtful pity, shaking his head. The boy is not the second-saddest-sack in the bar: in fact, he has triumphantly emerged the winner. Deliberately, he takes Sirius’ glass and drains it himself, telling himself he is doing the boy a favor.*

It’s not your fault, stupid.

Well, of course it is, but not like that, not like you’re thinking. Stupid.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

You’re right. I think. I am stupid. I don’t even know why--why would anyone really--it’s a mess. James and Peter and Remus . . .

*He pulls his hand over his face, dragging hair with it.*

Remus really--I don’t even know why--but he cares so much and I just fuck things up constantly and someone should probably put me in a box in the back of the closet or something. So I don’t--

*He gestures. Get a family killed, listen to Bellatrix, try to fix or save anyone or anything--*

--You know. Again. Because I will, because I am all kinds of stupid. I’m sorry. I'm really, really sorry.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*Ted nods sagely, gesturing for two more Firewhiskeys. They are both for him.*

Yes. Yes, you are stupid and we may officially agree that you are stupid. But listen, all right? Listen. Listen. Lishen. Lishen. They would’ve done it anyway. You know that and I know that. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, or next bloody year, they would’ve done it, because it’s what they do.

*A few tears leak out of his eyes, but he scrubs unabashedly at them with his handkerchief, which is now in a sorrier state than either of them.*

Where is Remus, anyway? He’s got a good head on his shoulders at least.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*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?

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*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?

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

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

I am good at permanent sticking charms.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

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?

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

‘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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

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.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*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.*

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

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.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*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.