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shiftylinguini
Recipient:digthewriter
Title: Safe
Pairing: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Rating:Mature
Word Count: 1,969
Warnings: angst with a happy/hopeful ending, post-war, Sirius!lives (mostly Deathly Hallows compliant, though), Sirius POV, reference to Canon deaths, reference to ghosts, bed-sharing, reference to sexual relations, cross generation relationship, age disparity.
Summary: He’s not James, Sirius tells himself as Harry gets into bed with him on a cold Monday night. He’s not James, but Sirius is not Padfoot anymore either.
Author's Notes:Dearest Dig, I hope you enjoy this, even though it might not be quite what you had wanted, and happy holidays! <3
***
He’s not James.
He’s not James, but Sirius is not Padfoot anymore either. Those kids, those lanky limbed boys full of hope and aspirations, are long gone. In their stead are just ghosts ― beloved, treasured shadows, but ghosts all the same. They haunt Sirius, the only thing they’re good for these days. Their transparent figures whistle through the hallways of this dank, dark house, ruffling the curtains and chinking the chandeliers. Sirius doesn't know if he wants them to leave him alone, to fuck off for good, or if he should sink his teeth into them and make them stay, pin them down with paws and muzzle and keep them forever. But Padfoot would do that, and Sirius knows Padfoot is gone.
Gone as well is that baby boy, that apple cheeked infant with dimples and his mother’s bright, bright eyes. Life got to him, boy oh boy, does Sirius know that life got to that kid. There now in his place is a teenager ― a man, even ― and although Sirius can see still those rosy cheeks there, buried under a morning’s stubble, can see them when he squints and sometimes in the evenings when he doesn't try at all, he still knows that kid’s long gone. Sirius barely got to meet him, rotting in that cell as he was, with the rats and the Dementors, sucking on his memories as he cowered like a dog. Sirius missed those formative years, but at least Harry made it this far ― made it to eighteen, made it out of the forest ― the same way Sirius himself made it out of the veil. Made it out, and ended up back...here.
Back to these mildewed walls, the first home Sirius ever knew but never one he could settle in. He imagines sometimes that he can still hear the sound of his mother’s screeching, echoing through the hallways, even when they’re dead silent. But even she is gone now, tucked up in an attic where she belongs, where all the old and useless things Sirius can’t bear to throw away go. Sirius wonders sometimes, in fits of melancholy and whisky-tinged fatigue, if that’s where he should be now. But even though he feels old and like he’s creaking around the joints, and despite the grey in his hair and shadows under his eyes which no amount of sleep will ever get rid of, there’s use in him yet. Someone’s got to take care of Harry.
He’s all that’s left now, after all.
***
Sirius remembers how it felt that night, so warm in Harry’s palm as he carried that stone into the forest. Harry’s fingers hardly shook at all, even though Sirius could feel that pulse racing as he curled into the warmth of Harry’s hand.
He remembers everything that happened that night, but nothing much before it. What was there to remember? It was peaceful beyond the Veil. There was no pain or anger or sadness, just stillness and quiet. It was such a relief, after all those weeks, months, years of anger, that he let it swallow him whole. His work was done. Harry was safe; he’d made sure of that ― at least Sirius thought he had. He thought there was time to rest, now, and so he did.
He could gladly have spent his eternity in there, buried in ivory shadows, if Harry hadn’t needed him. If he hadn’t been called, been told to come back now, as James and Lily’s boy wrapped his fingers around that cold, powerful stone, as alone as he ever was. As unsafe as he ever was.
And so, Sirius went.
Afterwards, the Veil called him back. Sirius felt the peace and quiet of the fluttering nothing it offered, the glorious welcoming blankness he could sink back into. But this time, it wasn’t so enticing. Fuck that, he’d thought as he crammed his foot into the gap, holding open the doorway between life and death and refusing to let it shut. It was peaceful in the Veil, yeah, peaceful and quiet, but there was no way in hell he was going back there to marinate in harmony and peace when Harry was alone ― not after the Forest. Not after walking him to his death and seeing him come back, a boy of seventeen, brave enough to keep living when Sirius hadn’t been. No, he couldn't rest easy in the Veil now, not again.
Getting out was easier than he’d expected. No tricks, no traps, just one foot in front of the other and there he was, on solid ground again, wobbling under the somersaulting vertigo of being corporeal. See, for all its mystery, the real trick to leaving the Veil was remembering that you wanted to; once someone was in, swallowed up by that beautiful, wonderful calm, why would they want to go back? Back where there was hunger and pain and grief, where there were dead friends and brothers, and children you let down. No, the Veil was the perfect hiding space from all those people Sirius had not been able to save, hadn’t loved enough ― or worse, had loved too much and too late. But Sirius knew he couldn't stay there, in the Veil’s benevolent quicksand, and even though the second his feet hit the ground he was cold, and hungry, and confused, he knew where to go. Where Harry would be waiting.
It took a long time to get there ― a damn long time. Travelling was hard, without Padfoot. Sirius still wonders why Pads didn’t come back with him; perhaps the old dog was tired, too tired to make it. Perhaps there was just a part of Sirius that would always live in the Veil now, that wasn’t strong enough to make it out. Sirius misses him, misses that dog as badly as he misses that stag, that beautiful wolf and even that fucking rat. He wonders if it’s best this way, though; all four of them gone.
Harry’s face when Sirius knocked on that door ― that was a sight to behold. Harry had almost no expression at all, just dumb shock as Sirius stepped towards him, felt Harry place his hand on his chest. He looked like he expected it to go right through, like he was staring at a ghost. Sirius just laughed; the last time Harry’d seen him, he had been.
“Sirius?” Harry’d whispered, his voice small but deeper than Sirius ever remembered it being. Merlin, how long had he been gone?
“Harry.”
Sirius’s voice in return was a scratched and battered thing, but the smile came back to his face easily as he hugged Harry’s slack shoulders. Harry’s chin rested against Sirius’s chest, his eyes blinking away surprised tears which Sirius pretended not to see as he held him as tightly as he could. He’d do a better job of not letting go this time.
***
He’s not James, Sirius tells himself as Harry gets into bed with him on a cold Monday night. There’s ice on the windows, fog on the steps outside, and Sirius twitches as Harry’s bare feet touch his own.
“Socks, darling,” Sirius mumbles, peeling the covers back all the same and wrapping them back around Harry, feeling him burrow under, his back a hand’s width away from the warmth of Sirius’s chest. “Gotta wear socks, Harry, your feet are like icicles.”
James used to creep into Sirius’s bed too, on cold mornings, used to throw the covers of Sirius’s bed back and dive in, before dragging him down to breakfast. They used to share secrets, under the covers as close as brothers, but not the same way Sirius shares secrets with Harry. Not the same way Sirius wants to, as Harry presses his back against Sirius’s front, and Sirius folds his arms around him.
Sirius thinks it started with the nightmares. This is a big house with a big history, and some big personalities lurking in the woodwork and the patterns of the wallpaper. None of that seems to bother Harry, though; what he can’t stand is the nightmares, the dreams. Beyond that, the ghosts of Grimmauld Place don’t faze him at all; Sirius wonders sometimes if Harry even sees them.
The first night Sirius heard Harry wandering the hallways at two am, his eyes red and sore, Sirius had been awake himself. Harry’d walked in and there Sirius was, rattling around in the kitchen as he watched Moony and Regulus ― dear old Reg, poor, stupid kid ― playing chess by the liquor cabinet, their translucent hands moving translucent pieces. It seemed as natural as anything to invite Harry to sleep with him, when Harry quietly announced he couldn't rest, and even more natural that Harry would gratefully accept the offer. Sirius has always been a tactile person himself― ‘bit too tactile, eh?’ Prongs used to say, laughing as he shrugged Sirius’s arm off ― and it had been almost too easy to comfort Harry with arms and hands, and then more.
The sex shouldn’t have happened. Shouldn’t be happening. Shouldn’t happen. But it does, and Sirius hasn’t even tried to stop it; it feels as natural as anything ever has, as inevitable as a marble rolling until it hits a wall. He’s not James, and Sirius is sure as hell not the man he used to be anymore ― at least not in any way James would recognise after all this time. He’s not someone James does recognise when he passes Sirius in the halls, as he dances with Lily and smiles, looking right through Sirius. It should hurt, but it doesn’t; Sirius is almost glad he’s not recognizable as the same man anymore, that he’s not the same boy he was.
And thank Merlin and Godric and the heavens themselves that Prongs and his missus are too busy waltzing through eternity to pay attention to the two of them now, Sirius thinks as he moves his hand, spreads his fingers over Harry’s belly and feels him sigh and stretch his legs.
“What was it like in the Veil?” Harry murmurs, and Sirius thumbs the hem of his t-shirt, breathing in the scent of his neck.
“Like nowhere I’d ever been before,” he answers, and it’s not a lie.
“And you remember the Forest?” Harry frowns, turning onto his back. The movement bunches the material of his t-shirt under Sirius’s fingers. Sirius curls them gently, feels the jut of Harry’s hip bone under his palm. He kisses the crease between Harry’s brows.
“I remember coming back, yes.”
“Why did you?” Harry whispers. Sirius swallows, then kisses him gently, on the cheek then the bridge of his nose. He pretends to think, but the question is easy. He knows the answer to this one.
Because I love you. Because you weren’t safe, and you needed me. Because your hands didn’t even shake as you walked up to death, and they should have. Because living is harder than dying, and I’m no coward. Because you weren’t safe, and I needed you.
Sirius kisses him, gently at first, then deeper, his hand warm as he splays his fingers over Harry’s stomach. He slips his tongue into Harry’s mouth, kisses him until he feels Harry’s belly flutter under his fingers, feels his breathing quicken. Sirius tells him the same thing he says every time Harry asks that question.
“Unfinished business, that’s all,” he whispers against Harry’s lips, feels them part underneath his own. “Same reason all ghosts come back, sweetheart.” Harry bites his lower lip, his smile genuine, relieved.
“Are you haunting me then, old man?” he wonders, and Sirius laughs himself, as he pulls Harry’s legs around his waist, lets the blankets fall around them, hiding them from sight.
“Something like that, kid.”
-*-
shiftylinguiniRecipient:
digthewriterTitle: Safe
Pairing: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Rating:Mature
Word Count: 1,969
Warnings: angst with a happy/hopeful ending, post-war, Sirius!lives (mostly Deathly Hallows compliant, though), Sirius POV, reference to Canon deaths, reference to ghosts, bed-sharing, reference to sexual relations, cross generation relationship, age disparity.
Summary: He’s not James, Sirius tells himself as Harry gets into bed with him on a cold Monday night. He’s not James, but Sirius is not Padfoot anymore either.
Author's Notes:Dearest Dig, I hope you enjoy this, even though it might not be quite what you had wanted, and happy holidays! <3
***
He’s not James.
He’s not James, but Sirius is not Padfoot anymore either. Those kids, those lanky limbed boys full of hope and aspirations, are long gone. In their stead are just ghosts ― beloved, treasured shadows, but ghosts all the same. They haunt Sirius, the only thing they’re good for these days. Their transparent figures whistle through the hallways of this dank, dark house, ruffling the curtains and chinking the chandeliers. Sirius doesn't know if he wants them to leave him alone, to fuck off for good, or if he should sink his teeth into them and make them stay, pin them down with paws and muzzle and keep them forever. But Padfoot would do that, and Sirius knows Padfoot is gone.
Gone as well is that baby boy, that apple cheeked infant with dimples and his mother’s bright, bright eyes. Life got to him, boy oh boy, does Sirius know that life got to that kid. There now in his place is a teenager ― a man, even ― and although Sirius can see still those rosy cheeks there, buried under a morning’s stubble, can see them when he squints and sometimes in the evenings when he doesn't try at all, he still knows that kid’s long gone. Sirius barely got to meet him, rotting in that cell as he was, with the rats and the Dementors, sucking on his memories as he cowered like a dog. Sirius missed those formative years, but at least Harry made it this far ― made it to eighteen, made it out of the forest ― the same way Sirius himself made it out of the veil. Made it out, and ended up back...here.
Back to these mildewed walls, the first home Sirius ever knew but never one he could settle in. He imagines sometimes that he can still hear the sound of his mother’s screeching, echoing through the hallways, even when they’re dead silent. But even she is gone now, tucked up in an attic where she belongs, where all the old and useless things Sirius can’t bear to throw away go. Sirius wonders sometimes, in fits of melancholy and whisky-tinged fatigue, if that’s where he should be now. But even though he feels old and like he’s creaking around the joints, and despite the grey in his hair and shadows under his eyes which no amount of sleep will ever get rid of, there’s use in him yet. Someone’s got to take care of Harry.
He’s all that’s left now, after all.
***
Sirius remembers how it felt that night, so warm in Harry’s palm as he carried that stone into the forest. Harry’s fingers hardly shook at all, even though Sirius could feel that pulse racing as he curled into the warmth of Harry’s hand.
He remembers everything that happened that night, but nothing much before it. What was there to remember? It was peaceful beyond the Veil. There was no pain or anger or sadness, just stillness and quiet. It was such a relief, after all those weeks, months, years of anger, that he let it swallow him whole. His work was done. Harry was safe; he’d made sure of that ― at least Sirius thought he had. He thought there was time to rest, now, and so he did.
He could gladly have spent his eternity in there, buried in ivory shadows, if Harry hadn’t needed him. If he hadn’t been called, been told to come back now, as James and Lily’s boy wrapped his fingers around that cold, powerful stone, as alone as he ever was. As unsafe as he ever was.
And so, Sirius went.
Afterwards, the Veil called him back. Sirius felt the peace and quiet of the fluttering nothing it offered, the glorious welcoming blankness he could sink back into. But this time, it wasn’t so enticing. Fuck that, he’d thought as he crammed his foot into the gap, holding open the doorway between life and death and refusing to let it shut. It was peaceful in the Veil, yeah, peaceful and quiet, but there was no way in hell he was going back there to marinate in harmony and peace when Harry was alone ― not after the Forest. Not after walking him to his death and seeing him come back, a boy of seventeen, brave enough to keep living when Sirius hadn’t been. No, he couldn't rest easy in the Veil now, not again.
Getting out was easier than he’d expected. No tricks, no traps, just one foot in front of the other and there he was, on solid ground again, wobbling under the somersaulting vertigo of being corporeal. See, for all its mystery, the real trick to leaving the Veil was remembering that you wanted to; once someone was in, swallowed up by that beautiful, wonderful calm, why would they want to go back? Back where there was hunger and pain and grief, where there were dead friends and brothers, and children you let down. No, the Veil was the perfect hiding space from all those people Sirius had not been able to save, hadn’t loved enough ― or worse, had loved too much and too late. But Sirius knew he couldn't stay there, in the Veil’s benevolent quicksand, and even though the second his feet hit the ground he was cold, and hungry, and confused, he knew where to go. Where Harry would be waiting.
It took a long time to get there ― a damn long time. Travelling was hard, without Padfoot. Sirius still wonders why Pads didn’t come back with him; perhaps the old dog was tired, too tired to make it. Perhaps there was just a part of Sirius that would always live in the Veil now, that wasn’t strong enough to make it out. Sirius misses him, misses that dog as badly as he misses that stag, that beautiful wolf and even that fucking rat. He wonders if it’s best this way, though; all four of them gone.
Harry’s face when Sirius knocked on that door ― that was a sight to behold. Harry had almost no expression at all, just dumb shock as Sirius stepped towards him, felt Harry place his hand on his chest. He looked like he expected it to go right through, like he was staring at a ghost. Sirius just laughed; the last time Harry’d seen him, he had been.
“Sirius?” Harry’d whispered, his voice small but deeper than Sirius ever remembered it being. Merlin, how long had he been gone?
“Harry.”
Sirius’s voice in return was a scratched and battered thing, but the smile came back to his face easily as he hugged Harry’s slack shoulders. Harry’s chin rested against Sirius’s chest, his eyes blinking away surprised tears which Sirius pretended not to see as he held him as tightly as he could. He’d do a better job of not letting go this time.
***
He’s not James, Sirius tells himself as Harry gets into bed with him on a cold Monday night. There’s ice on the windows, fog on the steps outside, and Sirius twitches as Harry’s bare feet touch his own.
“Socks, darling,” Sirius mumbles, peeling the covers back all the same and wrapping them back around Harry, feeling him burrow under, his back a hand’s width away from the warmth of Sirius’s chest. “Gotta wear socks, Harry, your feet are like icicles.”
James used to creep into Sirius’s bed too, on cold mornings, used to throw the covers of Sirius’s bed back and dive in, before dragging him down to breakfast. They used to share secrets, under the covers as close as brothers, but not the same way Sirius shares secrets with Harry. Not the same way Sirius wants to, as Harry presses his back against Sirius’s front, and Sirius folds his arms around him.
Sirius thinks it started with the nightmares. This is a big house with a big history, and some big personalities lurking in the woodwork and the patterns of the wallpaper. None of that seems to bother Harry, though; what he can’t stand is the nightmares, the dreams. Beyond that, the ghosts of Grimmauld Place don’t faze him at all; Sirius wonders sometimes if Harry even sees them.
The first night Sirius heard Harry wandering the hallways at two am, his eyes red and sore, Sirius had been awake himself. Harry’d walked in and there Sirius was, rattling around in the kitchen as he watched Moony and Regulus ― dear old Reg, poor, stupid kid ― playing chess by the liquor cabinet, their translucent hands moving translucent pieces. It seemed as natural as anything to invite Harry to sleep with him, when Harry quietly announced he couldn't rest, and even more natural that Harry would gratefully accept the offer. Sirius has always been a tactile person himself― ‘bit too tactile, eh?’ Prongs used to say, laughing as he shrugged Sirius’s arm off ― and it had been almost too easy to comfort Harry with arms and hands, and then more.
The sex shouldn’t have happened. Shouldn’t be happening. Shouldn’t happen. But it does, and Sirius hasn’t even tried to stop it; it feels as natural as anything ever has, as inevitable as a marble rolling until it hits a wall. He’s not James, and Sirius is sure as hell not the man he used to be anymore ― at least not in any way James would recognise after all this time. He’s not someone James does recognise when he passes Sirius in the halls, as he dances with Lily and smiles, looking right through Sirius. It should hurt, but it doesn’t; Sirius is almost glad he’s not recognizable as the same man anymore, that he’s not the same boy he was.
And thank Merlin and Godric and the heavens themselves that Prongs and his missus are too busy waltzing through eternity to pay attention to the two of them now, Sirius thinks as he moves his hand, spreads his fingers over Harry’s belly and feels him sigh and stretch his legs.
“What was it like in the Veil?” Harry murmurs, and Sirius thumbs the hem of his t-shirt, breathing in the scent of his neck.
“Like nowhere I’d ever been before,” he answers, and it’s not a lie.
“And you remember the Forest?” Harry frowns, turning onto his back. The movement bunches the material of his t-shirt under Sirius’s fingers. Sirius curls them gently, feels the jut of Harry’s hip bone under his palm. He kisses the crease between Harry’s brows.
“I remember coming back, yes.”
“Why did you?” Harry whispers. Sirius swallows, then kisses him gently, on the cheek then the bridge of his nose. He pretends to think, but the question is easy. He knows the answer to this one.
Because I love you. Because you weren’t safe, and you needed me. Because your hands didn’t even shake as you walked up to death, and they should have. Because living is harder than dying, and I’m no coward. Because you weren’t safe, and I needed you.
Sirius kisses him, gently at first, then deeper, his hand warm as he splays his fingers over Harry’s stomach. He slips his tongue into Harry’s mouth, kisses him until he feels Harry’s belly flutter under his fingers, feels his breathing quicken. Sirius tells him the same thing he says every time Harry asks that question.
“Unfinished business, that’s all,” he whispers against Harry’s lips, feels them part underneath his own. “Same reason all ghosts come back, sweetheart.” Harry bites his lower lip, his smile genuine, relieved.
“Are you haunting me then, old man?” he wonders, and Sirius laughs himself, as he pulls Harry’s legs around his waist, lets the blankets fall around them, hiding them from sight.
“Something like that, kid.”
-*-
