Chapter Text
Remus bites the inside of his cheek and breathes in through his nose, trying to keep from yawning openly. Briefings are always dull, no matter how interesting the subject, and this one is no exception. Still, it’s important to make a good impression - Operation Phoenix is an exciting prospect, as well as being his best shot at making DI. It’s not often that big investigations specifically include his art fraud team. Even so, two hours in an overcrowded, soulless briefing room is enough to suck the life out of any subject, even international crime syndicates.
Glancing to the side, Remus sees that Alice is staring vacantly out of the window, not that she’s likely to see anything from that angle. He slides his foot over to give hers a quick nudge, startling her back to wakefulness. Better that than have DCI Moody catch her daydreaming. On the other side of the room, Kingsley’s doing his part for the reputation of the Art and Antiques Unit, sitting bolt upright and appearing to take copious notes. Remus is quietly confident he’s actually drawing another amusing caricature of DS Snape but, as long as no-one else notices, that’s fine by him.
The meeting must be nearly over, as Moody’s PowerPoint presentation of various suspects, witnesses, and potential targets has covered all the big fish and moved on to the minnows. Some of them Remus has heard of, most he hasn’t. Half are probably dead ends, but he makes notes of any he’s likely to be asked to question anyway.
‘And this,’ says Moody, clicking onto the next screen and bringing up a photograph of the most attractive man Remus has ever seen, ‘is Sirius Black. Black’s got previous for a string of petty offences, and did a stint in a Young Offenders’ Institute back in the nineties. Since then there’s been nothing much on him – he’s been in and out for questioning like he’s dancing the hokey cokey but nothing much ever sticks. Dropped out of a Fine Art degree at St Martin’s when he inherited his uncle’s restoration business. Comes from old money, and word is he ran with the Potter gang back in the day. We’ve got intel that he might be forging artworks – he’s got skills that would make him useful to Riddle’s lot – but my hunch is he’s just a small time confidence trickster.’
‘Still an improvement on turning tricks,’ Snape drawls. He’s been listening to the entire briefly with a vaguely superior expression, like he’s heard it all before. ‘I pulled that one in for soliciting when I was back in uniform.’
Remus ought to be listening, because Snape’s information could be useful, however irritating the man himself might be. Instead he finds himself gazing at the picture on the screen. Little wonder that Black’s some kind of artist; he looks like fresh-painted sin, with full lips and tousled hair falling into come-to-bed eyes. Remus wouldn’t mind pulling him at all. Moody moves onto the next subject, and Remus forces himself to pay attention.
#
A week later Moody asks Remus to sound out Black about a couple of fake Sisleys that found their way into the luggage lining of some chancer who swears blind he’s no idea how they got there, and of course he’s never even heard of Riddle. Moody reckons Black’s a possible for creating the works, although it’s nothing more than a hunch just yet.
‘Take DC Longbottom with you,’ orders Moody. ‘Makes sure she keeps her eyes open while you talk to Black, if you get my drift.’
Remus knows exactly what he means; there’s no basis for a search warrant on Black’s studio, but anything an officer happens to see when they’re invited in for a chat is fair game, and there’s not much gets past Alice. She only joined his team a few months back, although she looks far more the part of detective specialising in art fraud than Remus does: she’s white, for starters, speaks with a pleasantly middle-class Home Counties accent, and she got her degree the traditional way, rather than slogging away at evening classes. She’s also smart, and kind, and a little bit cheeky, which is why Remus likes her.
‘You know, Sarge, if they ever pass a law against pretentious fuckwittage we’ll clean up here,’ says Alice, as they near the end of their long schlep from Scotland Yard to Hoxton. ‘Look at that – seven quid for a loaf of bread, and it looks like it’s been rolled in floorsweepings. They’re taking the piss.’
‘Organic floorsweepings,’ says Remus, glancing over at the bakery Alice pointed out. It’s decorated like a cross between a warehouse and the kitchen at his primary school. ‘Although they look like they’d put wood shavings on the floor if Environmental Health would let them get away with it.’
They find Black’s shop fairly easily, but it’s closed and there’s no sign of opening hours on the door, just one small sign that he’s not running a legitimate business. He has a workshop and flat above, so they’ll just have to go up the outside way.
Alice mutters darkly about poncing artist twats as they climb the stairs - really just a trumped up fire escape - to Black’s studio. Despite knowing that Alphard Black established the studio, and the restoration shop below, years back, well before the area had turned into a hipster hell-hole, Remus suspects she may have a point. The photos on Black’s case file, which Remus has spent longer than he ought to looking at, all suggest that Sirius Black is a little too cool for his own good.
It’s not Black who answers the door, though, but an ice-blonde who looks like she could rip the still-beating heart out of a man’s chest and crush it to dust without breaking a fingernail. She seems to be in a bit of a hurry.
‘Good morning, madam. I’m DS Lupin, this is my colleague DC Longbottom,’ says Remus, in the same pleasantly respectful tone he uses for everyone from frightened old dears to frightful old lags. Elderly citizens find it reassuring; criminals find it unnerving. ‘We were hoping to have a chat with Sirius Black. Do you know if he’s about?’
The East End Valkyrie doesn’t answer, just turns and walks back into the studio. She’s left the door wide open, which is enough of an invitation for Remus and Alice to follow her inside.
‘Old Bill for you,’ yells the woman, not bothering to look back as she pulls her coat on.
‘Fuck’s sake, Marlene, I’m working,’ comes a voice – distant, male, posh but trying not to sound it; must be Black – ‘tell them I’m not here.’
‘He says he’s not here,’ says Marlene, pulling up her zip. She glances between Remus and Alice. ‘Don’t touch, loves, you can’t afford the breakages,’ she tells them, before opening the door and yelling back at Black. ‘Remember, 20%. I’ll be back at eight.’
The door slams behind her, and Remus turns to see Black walk in from a distant part of the studio, looking vaguely disgruntled as he wipes his hands on a rag. The moment he lays eyes on Sirius Black, Remus decides whoever took the photographs on the case file ought to have their camera confiscated and chucked in the river, because they do not do him justice. The picture Sirius looked exceptionally attractive; when seen in three dimensions Sirius looks like the devil’s found a way to sculpt temptation out of human flesh. He’s not just classically handsome – tall, dark hair, perfect teeth, cheekbones you could hang your dreams on – there’s more; his clothes are expensive, his hair’s a sensual mess, and he carries himself with the sort of detached swagger than a thousand would-be wide boys would kill for.
Remus is just about to pull himself together and run through the whole professional, officer-of-the-law introduction, when Black stops short and points at him.
‘I know you,’ he says.
‘That hardly seems likely, sir,’ Remus tells him. He can’t imagine he’d meet and forget anyone who looked like that. ‘Although I do believe a number of my colleagues have enjoyed the pleasure of your company for questioning.’
Black moves towards him, curious and smug in equal measure. ‘I never forget a face,’ he says, leaning right into Remus’ personal space. ‘Or… anything else.’
‘Are these yours?’ Alice saves the day – and Remus’ composure – by breaking the tension and drawing Black’s attention away. It’s enough to allow Remus to get himself back on track and remind himself that Black is a con-artist – and a Tom if Snape’s to be believed – manipulating people is what he does. Remus knows better than to fall for any of it.
Black appears relaxed enough – he answers some general questions from Alice with good cheer, in between flirting and casting smug, amused glances at Remus – so when Alice wanders off, pretending to casually check out some paintings, it seems like as good a time as any to raise the question of the fake Sisleys. Black’s unlikely to confess, of course, but they’ve no real evidence yet so it’s worth a punt on the off-chance he lets something slip. He’s smart enough to know he’ll be a suspect, and Black seems to take it more as some sort of professional slight than anything else.
‘State of that brushwork,’ he mutters, frowning at the collection of photographs Remus has laid out. ‘Even in a photo it looks a mess, fuck knows how bad it is in the flesh.’
Remus almost smiles. ‘I suppose any forgery you carried out would be of superior quality?’
‘Damn right my work is superior quality.’ Black winks at him before turning his attention back to the photographs. ‘These are diabolical. Mind, shitty knock-off Sisleys are two a penny – some muppets think “Impressionist” means they can get away with any old zhooshed-up finger-painting. Honestly, just because something isn’t mannered doesn’t mean it’s a mess of random splodges.’
He’s got a point; the quality of the paintings isn’t great, though Remus is surprised – and a little impressed – that Black can see it just from photographs. Remus has had time to take a proper look at the canvases back at the station, and they are, for want of a better word, a touch “splodgey”. It’s interesting too, to see how Black’s demeanour shifts, and the fact that he’s not only knowledgeable about art, he’s passionate as well.
‘I take it this isn’t your work, then,’ says Remus, collecting the photographs back up. ‘Any ideas who the culprit might be?’
‘Are you asking me to help you with your enquiries?’ asks Black, his tone so salacious he might as well be offering to strip Remus naked and lick the length of him.
‘We’d be very interested in any relevant information,’ says Remus, doing his level best to maintain his composure and act like he’s not thinking about Black licking anything at all. He must be doing a decent job of it, because Black shrugs and steps back.
‘I’d start asking around the local schools,’ Black says with a sarcastic sneer. ‘Find out who got a D in GCSE Art. Be sure to confiscate their brushes if you find them.’
Remus glances across at Alice, who has been sauntering around the studio glancing at whatever’s on display – not searching, of course, since they’ve not got a warrant – and when she nods he decides it’s time to call it a day. They’re not going to get anything useful out of Sirius Black just yet.
#
Two days later, a letter arrives for him. Only it’s not actually a letter; the envelope addressed to DS Lupin, New Scotland Yard, contains a single piece of paper, apparently torn from a sketchbook. There’s a drawing on it, simple yet elegantly done, of a man’s hip and upper thigh. It’s such a strange composition that Remus might not have immediately recognised what it was, if not for the fact that the drawing was also clearly of him; the ill-advised squid tattoo he’d had done to celebrate his eighteenth birthday is hard to miss.
He could waste a lot of time wondering about who would send him such a thing and why, but Remus has work to do. Just thinking about it makes him feel vulnerable and uncomfortable, so he drops the drawing in the recycling and gets on with things.
A week later there’s another drawing, hands unfastening a belt, and a fortnight after that a mouth, the tip of a tongue just poking out. Then the mystery artist takes things up a notch, sending Remus a lovingly inked illustration of a cock. Remus has a sneaking suspicion it’s meant to be his cock. Finally there’s a reproduction of the smiling moon logo of a private gallery, The Oliver in Town, and then Remus knows exactly where he’s seen Sirius Black before.
Fourteen years earlier…
Remus had come to London all bright-eyed and ready for action, shaking off the dust of Caernarfon for the excitement of the big city. The Met was a big change from the North Wales Police, and he was still finding his feet, learning to soften his accent because even in cosmopolitan London people still struggled to understand how someone who looked like him could talk like that. (His habit of assuring people that no, of course there aren’t any Black Welsh people, his mum had met his dad on a day trip to Liverpool wasn’t doing him any favours either.)
He’d spent his day off mooching around, exploring, and had stumbled over the private exhibition by pure chance. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, but even off-duty he thought he ought to perform his civic responsibility and find someone to tell them they’d left the back door open.
‘Hello?’ called Remus, wrapping his fingers against the door and peering into the half-light of an empty corridor. ‘Anyone home?’
There was the sound of distant scuffling and a moment later Remus was startled by a body behind him and a voice in his ear whispering some cheesy line about a nice boy like him in a place like this. Remus didn’t think he was that nice a boy, and he’d certainly been in rougher places, but the quip he’d normally make died at the back of his throat. This man, this stranger, was coming on to him, and he wasn’t giving Remus long to decide how he felt about it.
Soon there were hands on his fly and lips on his neck, and soon Remus wasn’t thinking of much at all. He was no blushing virgin, but while he’d done alright picking up girls at youth club discos, he’d never done much more than look and wonder when it came to boys. The corridor was dark enough that Remus couldn’t properly see the bloke who spun him around, pressing Remus up against the wall like he’d done it a thousand times before.
It was exciting, all the better for not having time to think. This was part of what Remus had come to London for, sexual experimentation and the chance to live a little. He knew where the right clubs were, the right parks, but he hadn’t chanced them yet. It was better this way, more spontaneous, nothing to analyse or feel responsible for. Remus pulled the stranger closer and kissed him, eager to feel the brush of stubble against his cheek, the heat of another erection pressing against his own. The other man didn’t speak again just laughed, deep and throaty, as he fell to his knees. He didn’t stop to ask as he unbuckled Remus’ belt quickly, then made equally short work of his flies.
Remus had been given blow jobs before and they’d been good, sometimes even spectacular, but this was something special. Maybe because it was his first time with a bloke, or maybe it was the thrill of getting off with a stranger, or the excitement of knowing they could get caught at any moment. Maybe it was because the man running his tongue under the length of Remus’ dick was really, really good at it, some sort of champion cock-sucker. Remus was enjoying himself far too much to ask questions. He twisted his fingers in the stranger’s hair, liking how soft it felt, the contrast between that and the five o’clock shadow on his face, and the dirtiness of what they were doing. The only words Remus managed to form were a strangled warning before he came, quick and hard, spilling his load down the throat of a complete stranger.
Still panting, Remus pulled up his pants and trousers, not quite managing to fasten his belt. ‘Do you want me to, er…?’ He broke off, uncertain. What was the etiquette in these situations?
The other man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. In the dim light of the corridor it was hard to see his face – he seemed young, and his hair was dark, and he looked pretty good from the little Remus could make out. There was another sound, distant banging from the other side of the building. That caught the man’s attention – he looked up, alert as a hunting dog.
‘You need to go,’ he said, all but manhandling Remus to the door. ‘Now. And don’t look back.’
Not waiting to be told twice – and definitely not waiting to get caught – Remus did as he was told, blinking in the afternoon sun as he hurried back down the street, doing his best to refasten his belt without attracting attention. Not that anyone was looking. Not that anyone would guess, Remus thought to himself with a sly grin, that he’d just had a very pleasurable introduction to gay sex, getting his cock sucked in the middle of the afternoon. The speed, the anonymity was even better – he’d been spared the ordeal of psyching himself up first, and the stress of worrying about the consequences after. The fact that he’d never see the man ever again was a happy bonus.
‘How could I have forgotten?’ Remus mutters to himself. Anonymous sex with strangers isn’t something he makes a habit of any more – he isn’t stupid, he knows the risks, to more than his health – but it had been fun. He should be embarrassed by the memory, or at least the memory of the week after when he found out the Oliver in Town had been robbed that day, and his quickie in the corridor had almost certainly been a distraction to stop him walking in on it. He ought to feel ashamed, because he never said anything at the time, convinced himself that “one of them gives great head” wouldn’t have helped the investigating team find the perpetrators anyway. He really ought to go and speak to Moody, admit that he’s got a personal connection to Black – possibly without going into details – and hope to salvage some of his professionalism that way.
What he actually does is barricade himself in the nice bogs on the eighth floor, adding the knowledge of Sirius’ face to the image of him back on his knees, and lets his imagination run wild as his hand strokes his cock, pumping frantically. Memory’s a poor substitute for reality, but he comes quickly, and soon he’s sitting with his trousers around his ankles and sweat cooling on his forehead, wondering what the hell he’s doing with his life.
#
They bring Sirius Black in for questioning three weeks later.
He looks relaxed, which seems about right, because he’s got Minerva McGonagall with him. She’s a familiar face from way back, and it’s a standing joke in the Yard that when a suspect has McGonagall as their brief it’s a sure sign of two things:
They’re guilty – maybe not of what they’re in for, but something.
They’re going to get away with it anyway.
McGonagall’s old school, representing the sort of villains who imagine themselves to have some sort of code of honour, who’ll smash the teeth from their enemies’ mouths but are always good to their mums. Back when the Potters’ gang was a force to be reckoned with - before it all fell to pieces after the still unsolved murders of Lily and James Potter - she was a permanent fixture at the Yard, and she’s still a regular. If she’s not bent herself she knows enough people who are, and she is good at what she does.
‘It’s my understanding that my client has already furnished your officers with the benefits of his professional advice,’ she says curtly, fixing Remus with the sort of beady-eyed stare that would have lesser men squirming like schoolboys. ‘Under the circumstances, I trust you have a pressing reason for hauling him in for questioning like some common criminal?’
Remus ignores her, allowing Alice to take care of the introductions. McGonagall’s trying to bait him, and he’s not going to be distracted from the task of cross-examining Black by getting into a row with his brief. Instead he makes a great show of sorting through the pile of photographs on the desk in front of him. He’d sooner not be the one interrogating Black, especially when they’ve got fuck-all on him, but he could scarcely object to Moody’s assignment without a very uncomfortable conversation.
‘Someone in your neck of the woods has been fencing goods from the Burkes job,’ says Remus, referring to one of the biggest thefts from a private collector in recent years. ‘A little bird tells me you’ve got some new stock in.’
Black leans back in his chair, looking supremely unconcerned. ‘This little birdie, did it have a search warrant?’
‘A warrant’s not much use when you’ve already shifted the gear,’ says Remus. ‘A camera, though… recognise this?’
He slides a picture across the desk, showing Sirius meeting with a local seller, one who they hadgot a warrant for, and found with stolen property in his shop.
‘Aw, DS Lupin, I’m flattered,’ says Black. ‘But if you wanted something to remember me by, I could’ve given you a much better picture. This one doesn’t show my best side.’
‘Oh, so you have one?
Alice coughs beside him, and it’s probably genuine rather than pointed, but Remus takes it as a timely reminder not to let himself get drawn into flirting with Black anyway. He straightens his tie, and manages to keep it professional. The interview progresses more-or-less as expected after that – Black admits to knowing Fletcher, and having done some restoration work for him in the past, but denies any recent dealings. He also claims never to have seen anything dodgy coming through his workshop, which is almost certainly a lie, but Remus contents himself with raising an eyebrow. It does the trick, as Black appears to grow frustrated with Remus’ refusal to react to his knowing glances and stream of double entendres.
It’s gratifying that Black’s the first to break, leaning across the desk to switch off the tape.
‘Let’s make a deal.’
Remus lifts his hand to reassure Alice that it’s fine to continue. ‘What do you have to offer?’
Black smirks, and it’s so infuriating and so sexy Remus could just about slap him. ‘Me,’ he says. ‘You let me off, and I’ll let you fuck me. I know you want to.’
Alice coughs again, and this time she’s definitely suppressing laughter. McGonagall has apparently developed selective hearing, calmly writing in her notepad and giving no visible sign that she might have heard her client attempt to bribe a police officer.
‘Is that all you’ve got to offer, sexual favours?’ asks Remus. ‘Looks like you’re preparing yourself for prison. Plenty of desperate men in there.’
Black shrugs, grinning. ‘Sounds fun.’
‘But I thought you were innocent,’ says Remus. ‘Aren’t you?’
Black leans back in, elbows on the desk and eyes boring into Remus’. ‘For you, I could be.’
They’re getting nowhere. Remus swallows heavily, straightens his tie, and turns the tape back on. It’ll take more than a bit of silly flirting to stop him doing his job.
#
As expected, Black’s released without charge, having provided only minimally useful information. He doesn’t say much, but the man has limited control of his emotional responses, despite how cool he thinks he is. His reaction to the names of some of Riddle’s mob – Lestrange, Malfoy, Pettigrew – confirmed Remus’ suspicions that the old rivalry between gangs still rumbles on and, whatever else Black might be up to, he wasn’t probably isn’t running with them.
They’ve other leads to work on, most coming from the raid on Mun Fletcher’s shop, and Remus still has seemingly ever-growing piles of paperwork to contend with. It’s late when he gets home, carrying take-away piri-piri chicken and scant hopes of staying awake for Newsnight. Tired and distracted, it’s perhaps not surprising he doesn’t notice anything suspicious when he finds the window wide open, pulling it shut with muttered disgruntlement at his past carelessness.
‘Nice one. Wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbours.’
Remus nearly drops the take-away carton as he spins around to see Sirius Black lounging against his bedroom door.
‘What the fuck are you doing in my flat?’
‘Tch, officer, that’s no sort of a welcome,’ says Sirius, pushing off the door jamb and sauntering towards Remus, all louche grace and insouciant sex appeal. ‘I came to make good on my promise.’
Remus rubs his head the way he does at work when he wants everyone to know he’s sick of their bullshit. It’s a gesture that says “you’re giving me a headache, kindly fuck off”. He hopes it’s convincing.
‘Back at the station, I made certain… offers in exchange for my liberty,’ says Black. ‘As you can see, I am very much at large. And I’m a man of my word.’
He’s standing close enough that Remus can smell him, the fresh perspiration on his skin, expensive shampoo on his hair, and a mix of leather, smoke, and linseed oil from his clothes. Remus would like nothing better than to lean right in, inhale his scent, taste his skin. Fuck, why does everything about Black have to be so intoxicating?
‘You’re trespassing,’ says Remus, turning away. That way, it’s easier to resist the temptation to give Black exactly what he wants.
‘Are you going to arrest me?’ Black doesn’t sound the least bit worried. ‘I’m afraid I can’t promise to come quietly.’
‘How about you just leave quietly,’ said Remus, with a genuine bite of annoyance. ‘And quickly, too.’
Black affects a pout, and Remus prays to all the gods he doesn’t believe in for the strength to stop thinking about all the things he could do with that mouth.
‘That’s not very sociable, treacle,’ says Black. ‘Anyone would think we weren’t old friends.’
Remus sighs. Well, it’s not like he didn’t expect it to come to this.
‘So you do remember me,’ Black says.
‘Unfortunately,’ mutters Remus tersely. ‘I’m rather surprised that you remembered me.’
‘What, you think I’ve sucked off that many blokes I might have forgotten?’
Remus scoffs, to make it clear that’s exactly what he thinks.
‘Fair play,’ says Black good naturedly. ‘My peepers never fail, and nor does my memory. Comes in dead handy in my line of work. Art restoration, you know.’
He’s playing games, that much is obvious. What’s also clear is that the stakes are much, much higher for Remus.
‘Are you going to tell anyone?’
He wants to be shot of it, this power that Black has over him. Of course, it would only be his word against Remus’, and who would believe a chancer like Black anyway? Officially at least Remus might get away with it, but the whiff of scandal – of gay sex scandal – won’t do his ambitions to make DI any favours.
Black looks thoughtful, and for once Remus thinks he’s genuinely considering the matter, rather than making a show of weighing up his options to make Remus sweat.
‘It’ll be just our little secret,’ he says at last, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the corner of Remus’ mouth. The kiss is brief, dry, and surprisingly sweet. ‘Until next time.’
And just like that, he takes his leave, pausing only to wink at Remus before he climbs out of the window (treating Remus to a rather lovely view of his backside as he goes).
Alone at last, Remus takes several steadying breaths before he closes the window again, and goes to find a plate for his dinner. It’s a relief, he tells himself, that Black left so easily. Remus is in no hurry to see him again.
#
There are no more surprise visits or lewd drawings in the post from Black, but it still feels like he’s everywhere. Remus finds himself turning, again and again, to the photos they have of him on file, and his mind wanders back to the night Black appeared in his flat. He can’t stop himself fantasizing about what might have happened if he hadn’t turned Black down, all the things he might have done to him.
‘I need to get laid,’ says Remus when he wakes up at 3 a.m. in hot sweat and with an aching erection for the fourth night in a row. The next night he hits up a friendly bar, though it makes him feel old and a bit sad, and he remembers why he moved from keeping it casual to serial monogamy when he hit thirty. He sinks seven pints and goes back to West Hampstead with some boring dude who seems to be into him and Remus hopes that’s maybe enough, but the git kisses like he’s got a spare tongue in his mouth and his hands have all the erotic appeal of raw sausages. Against his better judgement – which, in all honesty, he washed away with pint number five – Remus closes his eyes and pictures Sirius Black lying over him instead as wotisface grapples with his flies. It’s enough to make him hard at least, though not to make him come, but mercifully Tedious of West Hampstead is out like a light after a half-hearted hand shandy, and Remus is left with the soundtrack of his nasal snoring while he contemplates his headache and poor life choices.
A few days later he goes through his address book, quaintly retro thing that it is. Benjy’s emigrated, Emmeline is engaged to a minicab driver, and Mary reckons she likes blokes a lot better now she’s stopped shagging them and moved in with some women she met at Pilates.
Well, it’s probably for the best. Relationships and sex are unnecessary complications at a time when Remus ought to be concentrating on his career. He resigns himself to some early nights, tucked up cosily with a milky tea and Blackstone’s Guide to the Serious and Organised Crime and Police Act, and tries to ignore the part of his soul that’s screaming.
#
Another day, another tedious briefing session, and Operation Phoenix is hitting a series of brick walls. Moody’s always been a fan of following the money, something Remus respects, but so far all they’ve got is whispers and rumours that Riddle’s mob are using the art world to launder their ill-gotten gains. All of this everyone knows, and Remus doesn’t see much for it but a lot of old-fashioned grunt work, on the basis that if they turn over enough stones one of them should have something under it.
‘Lupin, a word,’ says Moody as they break up. Alice punches his arm in a go-get-‘em-tiger gesture, and Kingsley grins. Best of all, DS Snape looks sick with jealousy that Remus has been singled out. Remus follows Moody without a word – Moody’s not a fan of chit-chat – and waits until he’s spoken to.
‘What we need is some decent intel,’ says Moody. ‘A steady source.’
Remus nods. It’s something he’s realised himself, but Riddle’s mob are tight – and terrified of him. Getting any of them to turn grass is not going to be easy.
Moody produces a file, flips it open and slides it across the desk to Remus. The woman in the photographs looks familiar; Remus remembers meeting her the day he first visited Sirius Black.
‘Marlene McKinnon,’ says Moody. ‘She’s what you might call a fixer. Got her fingers in a lot of pies, and any dodgy dealer she doesn’t know probably isn’t worth knowing. We had quite the lengthy chat earlier in the week.’
‘And you want to sign her up as an informant?’ asks Remus, wondering where he comes in.
Moody shakes his head. ‘Naw, this one’s tough as nails. Damn near got herself sent down for a long stretch for giving one of Riddle’s lackies a Glasgow kiss and a bottle in the ribs. It was touch and go whether the little scrote would make it.’
‘But she didn’t,’ says Remus. ‘Go down for it, I mean?’
‘Watertight alibi, or close as,’ says Moody. ‘Some undated CCTV footage the café owner swears was from the night in question, the word of a few scumbags who could be bought off for the price of a bag of chips, and this fella: our very own local Leonardo.’
He turns the page, to show a photograph taken through a long lens, but clearly showing Sirius Black with McKinnon. ‘He’s the one we want,’ continues Moody.
Remus silently wonders what bad deeds he did in a previous life, and schools his face into a neutral expression. ‘Black’s not going to grass on McKinnon, though?’
‘Not on her, no, but he could be a way to getting some of her information,’ says Moody. ‘You been getting far with investigating him?’
‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ says Remus. ‘I haven’t come up with much.’
‘And you won’t,’ says Moody. ‘Either Black’s a bloody genius at covering his tracks, or he’s not really up to much. But he knows people – McKinnon and Fletcher, for starters – and I’ve a hunch he’s still nursing a grudge against the Riddle mob. McKinnon certainly is.’
Remus listens politely, and ends up agreeing to sound Black out. What else can he do?
#
He goes to visit Black alone. That’s perfectly normal, you don’t go in mob-handed when you’re trying to recruit an informant, but still Remus feels vaguely uncomfortable about it, like he’s up to something furtive. He’s crossed a line, agreeing to this without giving Moody any reason to believe he’s compromised, because he couldn’t stand the shame of disappointing his mentor. And because he wants to be the one to approach Black.
There’s no answer to Remus’ knock, but the door isn’t locked, so he lets himself in. The workshop area is empty, but he can hear the sound of the shower running somewhere in the distance, leaving Remus a few moments to mooch about, looking at some of the sketches on the walls, until Black puts in an appearance.
He doesn’t do it by halves; Black emerges, apparently fresh from the shower, with his hair dripping wet and a towel slung low on his hips. Black looked good with his clothes on; now that he’s practically naked he could put Michelangelo's David in the shade, walking with a swagger and dripping with sin. Remus is only a mortal man; there’s only so much temptation he can stand.
‘Detective Sergeant Lupin, what a pleasant surprise,’ says Black, and somehow he even makes Remus’ name sound like a come-on. ‘Tell me now, did you come to arrest me or for trade?’
He offers his hands out in mock-surrender, as though expecting Remus to cuff him. In a moment of lust-induced madness he may never understand, Remus reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his handcuffs, and slaps one on Black’s left wrist, keeping a tight hold on the other. He’s still in shock at his own behaviour when Black uses his free hand to pull the towel off, holding it to one side like a matador’s cape before dropping it on the ground.
In an instant he’s wrapping himself around Remus, one long leg hooked behind Remus’ as their mouths crush together. There’s no time for thought, no hesitation, as Remus lets himself go, hands grabbing at Black; his arms, his chest, his back, his arse, as they dance an awkward backwards tango through the studio and into the bedroom. Remus barely registers what the room looks like, just the large wrought-iron bed with unmade covers that he pushes Black onto backwards.
Black kisses like it’s the last thing he might ever do, deep and perfect, and Remus could just about allow Black to eat him whole. He looks wonderfully debauched flat on his back, wet tendrils of hair framing his face while he looks up at Remus with a gleeful mixture of mischief and lust. Remus pins Black’s arms above his head and then, better yet, fastens the spare ring of his handcuffs to the headboard, shackling Black to the bed.
‘Kink –’ Black begins, but Remus cuts him off with a kiss, letting his tongue explore that wicked, longed-for mouth. Black’s a writhing, gasping mess as Remus works his way down his body, hands roving over Black’s chest like he’s committing every millimetre to memory, lips and teeth nipping, touching, tasting his marble-perfect skin. He’s still wearing far too many clothes himself, though, absurdly overdressed in his thoroughly sensible Marks & Sparks suit.
Remus props himself up on his knees, tossing his jacket behind him and risking garrotting himself in his haste to tug off his tie. Black seems equally keen to divest Remus of his clothing, his free hand grappling with Remus’ belt. He’s less elegant now; his fingernails – still bearing tell-tale paint stains – fumble with the fastening.
‘Patience, you tart,’ says Remus, displaying precious little of that virtue himself as he risks every button in his haste to remove his shirt.
‘Aw, c’mon, sergeant, show me your truncheon.’
Remus pauses, half-in and half-out of his shirt. ‘This is no time for shit jokes,’ he says.
‘If you say so,’ says Black, with a seductive roll of his hips. ‘Reckon it’s time for you to stop rabbiting and fuck me.’
It’s intoxicating, the sight of this exquisite man sprawled out before him, muscles taut and perfectly defined and, in the arm raised above Sirius’ head, straining against the handcuffs Remus used to tether him to the bed. Sirius displays himself like an advertisement for carnality and it’s a glorious thing to see, but even better is the frantic edge to his behaviour now, the knowledge that he’s losing his cool, that Remus is making him lose it.
Finally liberated from his clothes, Remus rummages through the bedside table for condoms and lube, finding multiple brands tucked between tissue boxes and packs of wet wipes. Of course, Sirius would be well-supplied, wouldn’t he? Remus isn’t sure if he really is a Tom, but he knows how easily Sirius uses sex as a bargaining chip, a means to an end. How many other men has he offered himself up to as a diversion, or bribe, some form of fuck pro quo?
One way or another Remus will end up paying for it too, but right now he doesn’t care. It’s good to give in to temptation. His desire for Sirius has reached a vertigo rush, and there’s no force on Earth that could talk him down from jumping.
‘On your knees,’ he says, issuing a sharp slap to Sirius’ hip to underline the command.
Sirius looks altogether too pleased with himself as he rolls over, but the metallic clink of handcuffs locking him to the headboard is strangely satisfying. The sight of Sirius presenting his arse, round and perfect and ready for Remus to enjoy, is even better.
‘I’m glad to see you’ve showered,’ says Remus, trying to sound cool as he shoves two lubed fingers into Black’s arsehole. It’s important he retains some degree of control. ‘Knowing what a slut you are, Black, I half expected to find someone else’s load up here.’
‘Slutty’s good,’ says Black, pushing back onto him. ‘Like sticking your fingers up someone’s arse when you’re not on first name terms.’
Remus twists his fingers, angling to brush against Black’s prostate. His other hand rests on Black’s back, and he can feel the gasp Sirius inhales. ‘Like that, Sirius?’
In a distant recess of his mind Remus knows there’s some significance to what Black – Sirius – said about his name, but he’ll unpack it later. Right now he’s busy taking Sirius apart, sliding his fingers back and forth as slow as he can manage, desperately restraining the urge to shove his dick into Sirius and plough him raw.
He’s trembling as he unwraps the condom, having to wipe excess lube from his hand onto Sirius’ thigh. Remus closes his eyes as he rolls it down his cock, because even that touch combined with the side of Sirius, arse up and slick with lube, ready for Remus’ cock, might be too much for him.
‘Get on with it,’ mutters Sirius, gratifyingly impatient. If Remus hadn’t surrendered most of his own self-control he might have liked to tease him, to relish the just desserts of Sirius being rendered frantic and needy. He’s too eager himself now, and thrusts into Sirius’ warm and wanting body with undue haste, more passion than precision.
Sirius’ come-ons are reduced to breathy sobs as Remus fucks him, interspersed with pleas for more, harder, and please. Sweat beads on Remus’ brow, his lungs are hot in his chest, but he feels triumphant, like he’s head of the pack, running a race he knows he’s going to win. He pushes Sirius’ head down, pressing him into the pillow and making the handcuff around his wrist clank, but lets him use his free hand to wank himself off. Remus is too busy pounding his perfectly snug arse to do anything about it himself. Sirius cries out, a hot splatter of come decorating the bed sheets as Remus buries himself balls-deep, thrusting into Sirius again and again, until he’s gasping with exertion as he comes.
Afterwards, Remus feels light-headed and fuzzily satisfied. He’s still on an endorphin high, wandering half-blind though the vacant space between doing the deed and the guilt crash to come. When he’s got his breath back he goes through a methodical post-shag routine; tying off and chucking the condom, dabbing around with tissues, and carefully retrieving and pulling back on his clothes, wincing at the uncomfortable pull of fabric over skin still tacky with sweat.
It’s hard to look at Sirius, lounging idly as Remus retrieves the key and unshackles him from the bed, guilt swirling like the first rumbles of indigestion in his stomach as he puts the handcuffs back into his pocket. Sirius makes no effort to cover or clean himself up, just watches Remus through lidded eyes, drowsily self-satisfied.
Remus fastens his tie, and turns to face Sirius directly again. ‘This can’t happen again,’ is all he can manage.
Sirius props himself up on his elbow, grinning at Remus. ‘Oh, I think it can.’