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]

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.*

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

*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.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

Horseshit.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

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.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

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.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

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

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

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

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.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

Probably not, no.

Christ, Sirius, but you need to relax. You’re always just. . . running around. In circles.

*He makes circles with his glass to explain. A little Firewhisky sloshes onto the table and he stops at once.*

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*Sirius describes a circle in the air with his finger, nodding.*

Chasing my own tail. Y’never know how invested a dog is in catching the damn thing til you start doing it yourself. It’s all--tail, woof woof, tail, gonnacatchit.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

Smoke some of Xeno Lovegood’s reefer, it’ll set you right.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

I do. Could you imagine what I’d be like without it? Fucking hell.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

Christ.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*He seems to be nodding off a bit, now, mumbling.*

If’n I try to apparate home I will definitely end up switching round my legs and arms and Remus Soup Wolf Lupin will need me to sponge his head and mix up packets of soup for him when he’s done with his--thing that he has to do, and I can’t do it with my feet.

Well. Maybe I could.

*Sirius gives Ted a squinty, precise look.*

That’s not--I mean, the whole thing--with Remus--it’s very complicated and I shouldn’t have said.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

Horseshit. It’s the simpl’st thing there is. I’m about to beam myself home with magical fireplace powder and my parents were murdered in a wizard war Thursday night. I think I can handle a fairy or two, Black.

*He rummages in his pocket and produces a small square envelope of thick yellow parchment, neatly labeled ‘FLOO’ in Andromeda’s fine hand.*

Speaking of which, you’re not Apparating if I have anything to say about it. Stupid.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

Magical fireplace--bloody hell, you’ve been around it most of your life, don’t act like it’s weird.

And apparating will be fine, I’m getting used to the idea of feet-for-hands, it sounds fun.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

It will never not be weird.

ANOTHER ROUND, PLEASE.

One to grow on, what do you say?

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

I will vomit. On you. My vomiting prowess is unparallelled, ask Andy some time about that time I got doxycide poisoning. It got on the ceiling. Yknow how hard it is to get kid vomit out of one of those little gargoyley things they have up in the corners of my old room? Kreacher could have strangled me.

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

NEVER MIND, THANK YOU.

*As he rises from his chair for the first time in... a long time, Ted realizes that Sirius may be right. His legs are miles away and don’t seem to speak English, and he nearly knocks over the chair as he goes. Still, he manages to pick up Sirius under the arms and hoist him bodily to his feet, as if he were a recalcitrant and colicky pegasus foal.*

All right, up you get.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*He finds his feet under him, though how is really unclear to his brain, as it’s located very far away from his feet and currently pickling in firewhiskey.*

‘M up. I’m up. I’m not Dora. I’m up. Seriously. Ha. Seriously up. Ha.

*He’s clearly not very good at “up,” though, judging by how he leans on the table and still manages to sway.*

You sending me home, then?

[seniortonks.livejournal.com]

Nope. Come on, then, into the fire.

*He has a tab here and he’d just as soon never look at his jacket or tie again, so it seems now’s the time. Ted throws an arm around Sirius’ shoulders, at once leaning on him heavily and supporting him so that they create a strange and drunken four-legged thing, staggering forward in the direction of the fireplace with an inexorable momentum. He pauses, lurching, at the hearthstone, digging in his pocket for Andromeda’s neat envelope and tossing a pinch forward into the fire.*

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*They lurch through the fire together and Sirius contemplates evacuating his stomach into the pocket of Ted’s coat just to get it over with, but then they’re stepping through into a public hearth that’s closest to the house and vomiting in public is something Sirius sincerely dislikes so he swallows it back down again. It’s a short walk from there but they are very drunk, and Ted starts them to singing, and soon enough Sirius is making up half the words and cackling madly. They are both holding each other up, and by the time they hit the front door--literally hit it, with a thunk from Sirius’ head against the wood--there are no thoughts of vomit in Sirius’ mind.*

Am I going to sleep on your couch? Is this the plan? It’s a shit plan. I am a grown man and I do not sleep on couches and Andromeda is going to wake me at the crack of dawn and tip me out the window like a chamber-pot.