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Jun 17, 2022

I’ll Be Seeing You

A Wolfstar/Coops WW2 AU.

Hey, y'all!! This is a collab with the wonderful @fruitcoops ! It's part of the Rendezvous with Destiny universe, although you don't need to read that one first! There are a few nods to that story in here, but that's it. This has been such a joy to write, and I hope y'all like it as much as we LOVED writing it! Happy reading! <3

Character credit to @lumosinlove

CWs: WW2 AU (no violence or graphic details, but it is the premise of the fic), food/drink

ao3 link

May 6, 1941

The streets felt too empty, Remus noted with a twitch of his nose as he headed down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets and rucksack slung casually over his shoulder. He forced himself to keep a steady, leisurely pace. One foot and then the other. His fancy shoes were silent on the cobblestones - they were artfully battered to fit his look, but still nicer than anything he could have bought for himself at home.

They weren’t his, though. Not really. Just like the rucksack with no less than eighteen hidden pockets wasn’t his, nor were his high-waisted pants. Not even his wristwatch - silver, with a camera in the winding mechanism - had come from a real manufacturer.

Remus passed under a cracked streetlamp and forced himself to breathe normally. Paris was full of eyes. The key to making them slide right over him lay in being just visible enough to forget.

He walked for another ten minutes, marking each turn against the mental map in his head until he could slip off the main roads into an alley, where broken sandbags spilled their contents onto the rough cobblestones and made Remus’ soft footsteps crunch in time to the jolting of his pulse. He would need to find an alternate route, next time. Something quieter.

He had been given a name for his contact and nothing else–no height, no hair color, no eye color, no clothing, not even a gender. Just Padfoot. He supposed he could look for someone with a camera, but that wasn’t exactly rare on such a lovely summer day. Remus could only hope random civilians didn’t make a habit of taking shortcuts through half-ruined alleyways.

He leaned against the nearest solid wall, pulled a book from his messenger bag, and settled in to wait.

–

Sirius watched from his spot at the table as people began to trickle in, one by one. Celeste, supplied with cheese and crackers she undoubtedly got from the underground market. Logan, with a quiet, reserved smile and silent steps - he was perfect for this, a life in the shadows. Nadeau, still nursing a long, deep gash on his face from a mission gone wrong but holding his head high. LeBlanc, Lavolie, and finally Pascal bringing up the rear and locking the door behind him.

“Sirius?” he prompted.

“Ten minutes.” Enough time to finish my coffee , he added internally with no small amount of gratitude. Anxiety had kept him up all night, and with his shift at the café, there was no time to nap. Beneath the table, his knee measured the same rhythm as his rapid pulse. Everyone else had been running missions for months and yet he was the one to get stuck with the only long-term OSS connection.

No pressure.

Lavolie rapped his knuckles on the table as he passed. “You should head out soon,” he advised, heedless to Sirius’ glare as he mopped up a few drops of espresso that had spilled. The only Canadian and fluent English-speaker among them, he was their short-term OSS expert, but his accented French already put him at too much risk for extended missions as the German agents grew more suspicious each day. “It’s always better to be early in case you get lost.”

“I was raised here, I won’t get lost,” Sirius muttered.

“Up, kid.”

Sirius caught Nadeau’s wink when he grudgingly stood and returned his cup to the counter; taking off his coffee-stained apron felt like shedding one guise for another. One movement was all it took for him to lose the protection of a friendly young worker out for a supply run and transformed him into just another civilian. That was what he had to be, of course–unrecognizable. Untrackable. Anonymous to the point where even his name disappeared. The cache of Resistance personnel in the café was rare, to say the least. He was lucky to have found them when he did.

Celeste tucked a napkin-wrapped piece of shortbread into his coat pocket when he turned to leave. “Mais, non–”

“In case you get hungry,” she interrupted, shooing him toward the door.

If it weren’t for the clear worry tightening the corners of her eyes and mouth, Sirius would have protested more. As it was, he bent obediently for a kiss to each cheek. “Merci, maman.”

She made the same little ‘tch’ sound as always when he called her that, but her anxious grip eased on the countertop and she kissed his forehead as well. “Be home before blackout.”

“I will.” Promises had been hard to make, lately, and harder to keep. But Sirius had faith in that one as he left the café - it was only his first mission, after all. A simple trade. Minerva had said it should take five minutes at most when she dropped off the thick packet of new information. He didn’t know what the packet contained, just that he was supposed to meet an OSS agent and deliver it. That was probably for the best - the ignorance, that is. The better kept their secrets, the higher their chances of being successful.

And making it out of this alive.

It was always a gamble, being involved in something of this nature - especially at this scale - yet Sirius knew there was nowhere he’d rather be. He thought of his parents, his brother, off in hiding somewhere even he didn't know, and knew he’d be going insane if he were there. Sure, his parents were insufferable, miserable people, but the boredom… that would do Sirius in, no question about it. No, he was much happier here - not in the middle of the action (thank god) but behind the scenes, slyly moving chess pieces when the opponent’s back was turned.

That and the destruction of their railways, trucks, and roads.

Sirius loved that there wasn’t a fine line between the types of missions they did - it was a full-fledged crater. Subtlety or explosions, those were usually his two options. He tended to like the explosions better, if he was being truthful. They were relatively straight-forward: get in, blow something up, get the hell out. And yet here he was, anchored down to a long-term mission that involved more stealth and finesse than anything else. It was something he wasn’t used to, between his brief stint in the French army (before the invasion, before Dunkirk) and his experience in the demolition side of the Resistance. He wondered why it was him instead of Logan, who thrived in the secrecy. What the hell was Logan doing that was so important, so time-consuming that they’d chosen Sirius, of all people, to fill in?

It was fine. He’d deal with it. He signed up for this, after all. And it gave him a purpose, a way he could help his country, his people. He wanted to see them free again. What better reason to fight was there?

It didn't take him long to reach his destination, with the shortcuts and back alleys he took. Besides a general location, though, he wasn't sure who exactly he was looking for. Moony was the name he’d been told, but nothing else. There was a code in place, of course, to make sure he found the right person - something casual enough to be a simple conversation starter, but that required a specific answer to confirm that they were the right person. Luckily, they were meeting in an alley far off the beaten path, so it wouldn’t be too hard.

Sure enough, there was one solitary figure at their rendezvous spot, his back propped against the old brick wall, a book held daintily in a thin, long-fingered hand. A figure that was almost striking in its… plainness. Brown hair styled in the most generic fashion, off-white button down - older, the cuffs tattered - that was a few sizes too big, scuffed shoes, boring slacks. Sirius supposed it was a good thing, being so unremarkable. Eyes probably flitted right over him and on to the next person in a crowd. That was a good thing, for a spy.

Sirius approached the man with caution (hopefully not too obvious, god this was why he was such a bad spy - he overthought everything) and caught just a glint of his gaze as he watched Sirius out of the corner of his eye before casually returning to his book. Sirius cleared his throat, then quickly tried to hide his grimace. Smooth.

“Lousy weather we’re having, huh?” he asked.

The man closed his book with a quiet snap and looked over at him with barely-concealed amusement. “Maybe it’ll shape up,” he replied, and Sirius’ shoulders relaxed a fraction. This must be Moony, then. Clear, amber eyes crinkled up at the edges, and all previous thoughts Sirius had about this man’s plainness went straight out the window. Those eyes… they sure were something.

“You’re new to this whole espionage thing, aren’t you?” Moony queried, his bottom lip trapped under one canine as he fought back a smile.

Sirius huffed in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest in a petulant sign of defiance. “No.”

“You’ll get the hang of it, Padfoot. Maybe start by not inconspicuously clearing your throat when you meet your informant.”

“Yeah, I bet this is fucking hilarious to you, mister master spy .” Sirius bantered back, earning a quiet puff of what could’ve been either laughter or exasperation - Sirius couldn’t really tell which. He reached for the envelope tucked into the inside pocket of his thin jacket. He handed it over quickly, and Moony nimbly transferred it to his satchel, movements smooth and precise, like he’d done this thousands of times before. He probably had, the bastard.

“We’ll be in contact.” Moony’s words were definitive, confident, and clearly the end of their conversation. Minerva had said it would be a quick meeting, but Sirius hadn’t thought it would be this quick.

Moony continued, “Take care getting home, Padfoot.” And then he was gone, turning the corner and disappearing from view.

Sirius stared after him, at a bit of a loss for words, only realizing he should’ve said his own goodbye when he noticed his mouth was gaping open, eyes still stuck on the place where Moony had disappeared.

August 30, 1941

“You need to slow down.”

“I can’t. Paris needs me.”

“You can’t help her behind bars, mon fils.”

Sirius turned back to the jammed coffee machine, hiding his scowl from Dumo’s view. He had no doubt the older man would pick up on it anyway. “You say that as if you’re not running the whole operation.”

“That’s different.” A heavy hand brushed his shoulder; Sirius let Dumo pull him around, but didn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t stand any more concern. This argument had been going on long enough to weather him down to bare bones. “Sirius, look at me.”

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset. I’m worried.”

“I don’t need your worry,” Sirius snapped, lowering his voice as the floorboards creaked overhead. “We all have to do our part–”

“All I’m asking is that you take more care. This isn’t some railroad explosion.”

He shook his head. Dumo had been running their pie-slice of the greater Parisian Resistance for…Sirius didn’t even know how long. Long enough to know that there was life-or-death risk in every mission. The new laws may have made Resistance work punishable by death, but that didn’t mean the occupiers wouldn’t have shot him on sight during any of his other transfer meetings if they suspected something.

“I’m being careful,” he finally said, setting a dish towel aside. They would need to do laundry again soon. Maybe he could sneak the bag away before Celeste got to it–her hands were cracked and dry enough from work already. “As careful as I can be.”

The look on Dumo’s face told Sirius he didn’t really believe it, but neither of them were in the mood to argue further. Fighting took up so much of their lives already - they didn’t need it at home, as well. Too many had already started to go missing. Sirius wanted to believe things would be better soon–they all did, that was the whole point of the network–but he could feel the others’ faith fading as Germany’s stranglehold on their beloved city grew tighter. He wouldn’t fail them. He would fight and bleed and die if that’s what it took to fill his home with the life that had been stolen from it.

“I care about you very much, Sirius.” The quiet, somber confession brought Sirius back from his musings and he forced himself to look up. Dumo’s forehead was creased with worry; the twinkle of kindly mischief in his eye had dulled. Guilt soaked in, like the coffee spill he’d just cleaned up with his towel. He looked down at it instead of having to deal with the agonizing reality of being cared for in the middle of a war. There were so many ways he could hurt them, even if it wasn’t intentional.

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to go out and not come back.”

“I don’t, either.”

Dumo’s broad hand was gentle on his arm. Sirius figured that was a move most good fathers pulled when their kids were stubborn and stupid, not that he had any experience with it. “I don’t know what you’re doing out there,” Dumo said, moving away to arrange the clean mugs on their shelf. “I don’t know who this ‘Moony’ is, and I don’t want to. I just need you to promise you’ll keep your head and listen to your heart.”

Sirius twisted his espresso-smudged apron for a moment, then reached out and touched Dumo’s wrist. His worry sat on his face like letters on a page, and Sirius felt his heart ache at the thought that he was the one who put it there. “You have my word.”

—

November 30, 1941

Sirius hated the total, resolute darkness of the nightly blackouts, but he had to admit that there were some advantages. For one, the stars. He had never seen them this bright before, but especially not in Paris of all places. Logan said you could see them pretty well from the countryside where his family lived, but Sirius had never been there himself. But this… this was the picture of beauty in dark times. Not that his camera would capture it, of course, but Sirius didn’t mind too much. There was something about the mind’s eye, keeping things in his head to look back on rather than printing them out onto sleek pages. It was special - something only he would see.

Another thing about the blackouts was the silence. Before the war, it was like someone was always out and about in the city - kids laughing, cars and bikes racing down the streets, vendors selling their goods in the square. But now, with the curfew in place and enemies allowed to prowl freely in the streets, it was quiet as a ghost town. It didn’t feel real - like a single loose cobblestone, a quiet whisper of fabric, would break the illusion.

How he wished for the illusion to break.

Moony was right where he was supposed to be, blending into the shadows of a cranny Sirius remembered hiding in when he was a kid. He would’ve missed the agent completely if he hadn’t been actively looking for him. But there he was, as promised.

Sirius stepped up beside him, only hoping he blended in as well as Moony did. It was harder to find his pictures in darkness like this, but he managed after rummaging around in his bag for an embarrassing amount of time. Six months on the job, and he still managed to bungle the small stuff. At least he could blame it on the cold.

“Here,” he dared to whisper as he handed the photos he’d taken over, clumsy fingers brushing against Moony’s as he tried to find him better in the dark.

Moony didn’t reply; he didn't look at the photos, either (not that he could’ve seen them very well). He just slid the stack of them into a hidden pocket in his coat and nodded firmly. “Thanks.”

Sirius watched him - noted the too-tense set to his shoulders and the tight muscles in his jaw, his honey eyes, too closed off and worried - and couldn’t help but linger, even though he knew he should be moving on. Neither of them were safe here.

Although to be fair, neither of them were safe anywhere, not with what they were doing, the secrets they were keeping.

He itched to do something, though - to find some sort of buoy in this aimless, restless sea. To linger when he shouldn’t. To reach out and make a connection with someone, one that wasn’t built on lies or deceptions.

“Moony!” he hissed, even as the agent was walking away. Moony stopped, turning to look at him curiously over his shoulder, eyes reflecting the moonlight above, shining in a way that was entirely unfair.

How fitting.

“Tell me something,” Sirius blurted, not quite sure where he was going but rolling with it anyway. At Moony’s shuttered, wary expression, Sirius rushed to continue. “Nothing important, don’t worry. It’s just… I get a little lonely, sometimes, and I’m guessing you do too. It’d be nice to have a friend, don’t you think?”

Moony didn’t answer at first, but he also didn’t turn around and leave, so Sirius took that as a win. He regarded Sirius with that warm yet detached gaze and continued to linger.

“What would you like to know?” he finally asked, and Sirius smiled wolfishly at him.

A game was afoot, and anyone who knew Sirius knew how much he loved those.

“A secret for a secret. I’ll tell you something about me and vice versa - it doesn’t have to be important, I know that’s not ideal for spies, but something to help us get to know each other. For example: I am seriously allergic to shellfish.”

Moony laughed, quiet and billowing in the still night air. ”Really?”

Sirius nodded, unreasonably eager to keep the conversation going, to hear that laugh again. His stomach kicked at Moony’s quiet smile and he twisted the strap of his new bag in his hands. “My parents were hosting a fancy dinner one evening when I was… six? Seven? Anyways, they served shellfish, I took one bite , and the next thing I knew my face looked like a balloon.”

Moony laughed again; Sirius took it as a reward.

“Alright. Let’s see…” Moony seemed to ponder it for a few seconds. He finally settled on a simple, “I love to read.”

Sirius wanted more, so much more.

“Yeah? What’s your favorite author?”

But Moony just smiled - a coy, secretive riddle that Sirius wanted so badly to solve. “That’s a secret for another time, Padfoot. Have a good night.”

And with that he walked away, leaving Sirius standing there with a goofy grin on his face and a foreign feeling stirring in his chest.

March 2, 1942

Remus found himself in Paris earlier than he was used to for their next meet-up. They were switching up their designated times and locations, to keep from being predictable and raising suspicion. Remus couldn’t say he minded. The city looked different in the light, without the blackouts and the deserted streets - more alive, more like a city instead of a movie backdrop. He passed people with their own lives to live, their own stories to tell, and he was infinitely fascinated by it. Even though they were in the same place, living through the same events, their stories were so different from his own. Remus found himself wondering about the woman he passed on the street as he approached their meeting place, pace brisk but nonchalant. He entered the Luxembourg Gardens, found their park bench, and sat down with his book, more than content to finish a chapter or two while he waited.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long. He’d barely finished ten pages by the time Padfoot was sliding into place on the bench next to him with a friendly smile.

“Hey, stranger,” he greeted, making Remus laugh quietly.

“Hi,” he replied, taking his ‘bookmark’ and handing it to Padfoot. “Here’s the address you wanted.”

The Resistance would find supplies from the OSS there. It wasn’t much, but it was what they were able to provide while staying under the radar. Padfoot, in turn, passed him what looked like a gift bag or present. Remus hadn’t noticed it until then, and he laughed at the bright colors and clashing tissue paper.

“For me? You shouldn’t have.”

Padfoot just grinned unapologetically. “Happy birthday, Moony dearest. Go ahead and open it.”

It wasn’t his birthday (although it was admittedly close) and he certainly wasn’t Padfoot’s dearest, but he allowed the ruse due to the public nature of this meeting.

Remus gave him an exasperated but undeniably fond side-eye and removed the tissue paper. Inside were the photographs Padfoot had taken and, to Remus’ surprise, a book. He picked it up delicately and inspected the cover.

“You, uh, you said you like to read. Last time we swapped secrets, that is. And I don’t have any new books - those are kind of hard to come by these days, you know? - but this was always one of my favorites growing up. So…” Padfoot’s rambling tapered off, foot tapping away nervously. It was beyond endearing, like the man himself.

“The Three Musketeers,” Remus read aloud, tracing the gold lettering on the cover. “A French classic.”

Padfoot nodded enthusiastically. “Oui.”

Remus smiled, bright and real, at the gesture. He’d read the book before, but never in the original French. He was excited at the thought of seeing the differences in translations. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t sure what else to say, really. The thoughtfulness had surprised him. Not only had this stranger listened to him, but he’d done something with the knowledge - something selfless and (seemingly) just for Remus. No angle, no ulterior motive. He was just being nice. It was hard to find these days.

Maybe Remus could consider him more than just an informant - a means to an end, as callous as that sounded. Maybe he wasn't such a stranger anymore.

“Secret for a secret?” Remus was the first to ask this time, and it was worth it for the way Padfoot’s face brightened a little. He really was beautiful when he smiled; hard lines softened, blue-gray eyes shone, and sometimes - if Remus was lucky enough - the world seemed to brighten right along with him.

Remus leaned in closer, partly to make Padfoot think his secret was going to be something of extreme importance, partly because he simply couldn’t help himself. He stretched out the silence, the anticipation, before whispering seriously, “My favorite pastry is a plain buttered croissant.”

Padfoot jerked back to look him in the eyes, hesitated as he parsed out if Remus was serious or not, then burst into delighted laughter. “No way.”

Remus kept his eyes trained on him, unable to look anywhere else, and shrugged. “I’m a fan of the classics.”

“The boring classics, maybe.”

“Aren’t you French? I thought you guys loved croissants.”

Padfoot spluttered indignantly. Remus grinned at the havoc he was causing.

“There are so many other pastries to love, though! And your favorite is a plain croissant?”

“With butter.”

“Oh, so sorry. We can’t forget about that, now can we?”

Remus laughed, nudging Padfoot’s shoulder with his own. This… this was the closest he’d come to having a friend in a long time. Between the job and the trust issues that came with it, he’d become lonelier than he thought he could be. In all honesty, being a reclusive scholar had always appealed to him before. Now he wasn't so sure. There were things in life, things that only companionship could bring, that were worth the harrowing nature of socialization. Sitting there on a lonely park bench with a newfound friend, sharing laughs and goofy quips, Remus found clarity in the thought. He broke himself from his thoughts and turned to look at Padfoot again. “Your turn, pastry aficionado.”

That warm smile turned softer, pensive as he thought of a good secret to tell.

“I used to love photography.”

Used to. Past tense.

Padfoot looked out at the sun setting over the gardens, strangely at peace with his words. Remus waited for him to continue, watching golden rays strike the side of his face, his dark hair.

“The first thing I bought with my own money, not what my parents had given me, was that camera. I’d go out after school, get lost in the city, and take pictures of everything I saw - beautiful things, things I thought were worthy enough to capture with my lens, to immortalize in glossy pages.” He sighed then, a tragic one not of defeat, exactly, but acceptance. It was almost worse. “Now I look through my camera at tanks and battle formations and anti-aircraft and I wonder if I’ll ever find something worth capturing again.”

Remus frowned in thought, unsure of how to proceed. What could he possibly say to that? Padfoot had lived through battles and occupation and had seen things Remus never even wanted to imagine. He’d witnessed the ransacking of his home, the despair and hopelessness of his people. It must be hard to see any light at the end of that tunnel.

“You will,” Remus said, forcing all the confidence he had into the words. “It’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it?”

He just hoped there was some beauty to be found after all this was said and done.

–

May 6, 1942

“Happy anniversary.”

Sirius was smiling before he even looked away from the river, brows rising as Moony gave his arm another gentle nudge and he took the half-sandwich, split perfectly down the middle. Precise, but caring. Just like the man himself. “Anniversary?”

“The sixth of May.” Moony took a bite of his sandwich and chewed for a moment, watching the water rush beneath the Pont Neuf. “One year. 52 meetings. I thought it called for a bit of celebration.”

“Thank you,” Sirius said softly. One year of knowing Moony, and it felt like forever already. He had had such big dreams of action and adventure when he first joined the Resistance. Those dreams had changed for the better.

It may have just been the sunset casting pastels over them both, but he could have sworn Moony’s cheeks tinted pink when he faced the river again. “No problem. There’s a great little café a few streets down. They had coffee, too, but I forgot my thermos.”

“Really?” Sirius frowned. There were a few places he could think of off the top of his head, but none worth writing home about. None that gave Dumo any real competition. “What’s it called?”

But Sirius knew what he was going to say the second his teeth sank into perfectly-toasted bread. “Café Dumais. Cute place.”

“Mmm,” he managed, torn between howling laughter and a screech of horror. Miracle of miracles, he choked both back - Moony appeared not to notice as enjoyed Celeste’s perfect ham and cheese melt. “Oui, I’ve been there a few times.”

“They have perfect croissants.”

Moony’s quirk of a smile sent a fluttery feeling through Sirius’ stomach. “Perfect for you, then,” he said, much quieter than he intended. Moony held his gaze. A beat of silence passed, and suddenly the single stone’s worth of space between them didn’t seem very far at all.

–

October 25, 1942

Remus kept a careful eye on Padfoot as he flicked through picture after picture. His broad shoulders were slumped, shoes scuffed and dusty, the front of his shirt striped with wrinkles where he had obviously tried to iron it in a rush. “They’re not very good this week,” Padfoot murmured.

“They’re excellent,” Remus said, his voice quiet despite the bustling city around them. Padfoot kept staring at the ground with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Your pictures always are.”

“No, not–” Padfoot broke off with a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s bad out there. It’s getting worse. I’m sorry, I’m just frustrated.”

Remus swallowed; for once, he was lost for words in every language. “It will get better,” he said at last. “We have to keep believing that, even when everyone else doesn’t. You, and me, and everyone else working to fix it every day. Did you hear we got a new codebreaker?”

That earned him a huffed laugh. “Yeah.”

“Whoever he is, we’ve broken twice our usual number in the past week, and he’s only getting faster.” Lily had lost her mind when she saw the count of successfully broken codes from their station–the letter she scribbled out to Remus had lacked all of her usual careful lettering and been a mess of exclamation points, capital letters, and elation he could feel from thousands of miles away.

He loved Paris, but some days he missed his best friend more than anything.

Padfoot shook his head. Some of his familiar confidence returned, straightening his shoulders. “You’re right. I’m being pessimistic. I–”

He faltered again, biting back the next words with a twitch of his nose. Remus folded the envelope flap down again, hugging both it and his messenger bag close to his chest. He was growing to love the thing after so long with it as his only constant companion. A car drove past with a brash honk, but Padfoot didn’t so much as flinch. Remus took one step forward, then a tentative second. “Pads?”

Padfoot shook his head again, then ran a hand through his hair and looked up. His expression was unreadable as it flickered over Remus. “I got a letter from my brother,” he said. “It put me in a funk. I've been a bad contact this week, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Remus bit the inside of his lip, then reached out and touched Padfoot’s arm until their eyes met. “There’s nothing to forgive. I hope you and your brother can figure it out, whatever it is.”

His heart lurched at the tired smile he received in response. Even with shadows under his eyes, Padfoot lit the whole alley with a simple tilt of his lips. “We’ll try.”

January 9, 1942

“Regulus!”

Regulus cursed under his breath. “One moment, maman!”

“Dinner is on the table!”

Her screeching voice nearly drowned out the next word and he gritted his teeth, daring to turn the dial up by a single degree. Two more sentences. Two more and you’ve got it. His pencil scratched against the last blank centimeter available.

“Regulus Arcturus!”

“Coming, maman!” God, he was so close. The German was fuzzy and staticky, but he could already understand it better than his first official assignment only a handful of weeks prior. Footsteps echoed in the staircase and Regulus’ throat seized as he jotted down the last two words and spun the dial in one desperate lunge.

The door to his bedroom slammed open. His mother’s cheeks were red with barely-contained annoyance. “Downstairs,” she ordered, as if he was still five years old. “Your radio program can wait.”

“Yes, maman.” He kept his face carefully neutral despite the hammering of his heart and slipped the papers inside his desk. Stay calm. Stay cool.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, nearly drawing a flinch from him.

“Writing a letter to Evan,” he lied. Lying was always easy, especially to his parents. Sirius was the only one who had ever been able to see through him, but he was long gone.

“While listening to the radio?”

“It helps me think,” he answered innocently.

His mother sniffed. “Get downstairs immediately. This behavior will not be tolerated, and if it happens again, you’ll never see that lump of wires again.”

Regulus lowered his eyes in an effort to appear chastised. Anger flared hot in his chest. He didn’t know what they had done to hide his existence from the government to allow them to escape, but he did know that Sirius was still stuck in Paris, fighting like he always did–furious and capable and so full of bullheaded stubbornness it was bound to get him killed.

It had taken Regulus weeks to dig up the translation books in the attic and even longer to get in contact with the Resistance, and through them, the American intelligence agency. His parents could hide newspapers and silence dinner conversation about the war all they liked, but they didn’t control the airwaves. They didn’t control Regulus’ letters, and they didn’t control his mind.

The German codes were growing easier to crack by the day, and he had all the time in the world.

April 17, 1943

Padfoot was quiet the next time Remus saw him; not the peaceful, calm quiet, no - this was energy and anger and frustration too big, too monumentous to be anything but silent. It was the eye of the hurricane, it was a lion in crouch mere seconds before pouncing.

Remus flitted between watching him cautiously and thumbing through the pictures and codes he’d handed over, observing and planning out his best method of approach. He’d stay quiet, for now. If Sirius wanted to talk about whatever was bothering him, he’d speak up in his own time.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to wait long. Padfoot was as impatient with getting his feelings off his chest as he was for change in France.

“They’re shipping us out,” he spat, pure vitriol venom. “Thousands of us, off to Germany to work in their fucking factories.”

Remus knew this, but he figured it wouldn’t make matters better if he said it out loud. He stood still, calculating while Padfoot paced, back and forth, back and forth with sharp, angry turns.

Padfoot’s boot connected with the nearest wall with a dull thud and Remus winced in sympathy, watching his pale knuckles flex. “Is there anything you can do about it?” he asked calmly, even as his pulse pounded in his throat. Lots of Resistance members were fleeing the denser cities and hiding in the forests and mountains, hoping to avoid the orders. Remus couldn’t help but hope Padfoot would tamp down his pride and do the same. They could find a different rendezvous, somewhere far away from enemy outposts. As long as he stayed out of Germany, Remus didn’t much care where they met.

Losing Padfoot would make his job even more difficult, if he was allowed to keep it at all. A new contact would force his defensive walls back up; he would have to keep a much closer eye on them, build a new rapport, remind them to place thin sheafs of paper between each photograph so the ink didn’t bleed, lose his one solid contact in northern France–

He would lose Padfoot. Remus exhaled through his nose to dispel the pressure in his chest. He could rationalize til the cows came home, but it seemed his big stupid embarrassing feelings didn’t care about rationality anymore. Not when it came to the man taking his anger out on a broken sandbag like it had personally wronged him.

With a final kick to the battered burlap, Padfoot turned to Remus with a face like a thundercloud. “What happens if I go?”

Remus blinked. He hadn’t expected that. “Well, my best guess is that you’d end up in–”

“Not that,” Padfoot interrupted, waving a hand in frustration. “What happens to this? To us?”

We both end up miserable. “You’ll be assigned a replacement. I’ll probably get a new location, as well.”

“And you’re alright with that?”

Remus sighed and closed his eyes. “Why would I be alright with that?”

“You seem awfully fucking calm about the whole situation,” Padfoot snapped. Remus flinched back on instinct - they had never spoken to each other like that, not once over the two years of budding friendship. When he opened his eyes again, Padfoot’s ears were red and his mouth was tight at the corners.

“It’s not up to me,” he said simply. “None of this is. It doesn’t matter how well we get along, Padfoot, or how well we work together. My job is to transport this information, no matter who it comes from.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Padfoot’s jaw ticked. His hands balled into fists. Remus had never paid much attention to how tall Padfoot was, but when he squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height, those two inches of difference may as well have been two feet. “Excuse me?”

Remus arched a brow, keeping his expression passive. “What?”

“Your job is to protect the people of France,” Padfoot seethed, getting right up in Remus’ space until Remus could feel the heat of his body. “Your job is to make sure their sacrifices are not in vain, no matter what the cost is to you. You might be able to take those photographs back to your office and fall asleep knowing your family is safe, but the rest of us–”

“I haven’t seen my family in almost four years, so don’t you dare talk to me about sacrifice like I don’t know what it means.” Remus kept his voice low and precise despite the urge to scream it in Padfoot’s face. He could feel his pulse in his stomach, in his lungs, in his teeth. All those emotions he'd buried for so long were now bubbling over, raw and angry and, for the first time in years, unfiltered. “I’ve slept in more trains than beds so my baby brother, who was six when I last saw him, doesn’t get caught up in a war he didn’t ask for and my parents don’t bring me home in a box. If I make a single mistake, a single ripple in anyone’s plans, they could die and I wouldn’t even know.”

Padfoot faltered. Blood roared in Remus’ ears as he held unyielding eye contact. “I…”

“I’m sorry this war is on your doorstep, Pads.” His next inhale trembled as he tried to bring each breath back to a steady pattern. You need to calm the fuck down, Lupin. “I’m sorry your family is in the direct path and that your people are dying through no fault of their own. But don’t try and act like nobody else is lifting a finger to help. We’re all doing the best we can to keep the people we love out of danger.”

He watched the fire in Padfoot’s eyes dim, standing firm until the lightning-charged tension eased and he stepped back. “I’m sorry.” Every word sounded like it had been forced out. “I didn’t know.”

“You’re not supposed to.” His superior officers would kill him if they ever found out about his slip-up. Maybe literally. He turned back to the photographs, flicking through until he found where he had left off. Losing his temper was a rookie mistake, not something for the captain of his division. Stupid. Four years of perfection could be ruined in an instant.

“What’s his name?”

“Whose?”

“Your little brother.” Remus bit the inside of his cheek. Tanks, tanks, more tanks, railroad supplies… Padfoot sighed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t–”

“Julian.”

A beat of silence fell over their little alley, broken only by the rustling of thin paper. “What?”

“My little brother. Julian. His tenth birthday is today.” Remus hoped the white-hot stab of pain through his heart wasn’t as visible as it had felt all day. He glanced up briefly. “You asked.”

A faint smile tilted Padfoot’s mouth. “Mine is Regulus. He’s 19.”

“Joined the Resistance yet?”

Remus regretted asking the second the words left his mouth - Padfoot’s nose crinkled, as if he had smelled something particularly unpleasant. “Ah, no. My parents took him and left for their country house as soon as the German threats began.”

He paused, a crystal-clear picture of an anti-aircraft gun poised delicately between his fingers. “They didn’t take you?”

“Even if they wanted to, I wouldn’t have let them.” Padfoot crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. The set of his jaw was stubborn, but Remus could see the quiet hurt in every shadow. “My place is here. I could never forgive myself if I stood by while others fought a war for me.”

“Safety isn’t shameful.”

“Cowardice is.” Padfoot looked to him for a moment with an unreadable expression. “There is honor in protecting children and seeking refuge from violence, but they didn’t leave because they wanted to protect Regulus, Moony. They left because they think war is beneath them. That it’s not their battle. I love my country too much to run for those reasons.”

Remus ducked his head back down to hide his wry smile. “How patriotic.”

“I prefer the term ‘courageous’.” He could hear the amusement in Padfoot’s voice, and a pebble came skipping over to bump the front of his shoe. “‘Brave’, perhaps. ‘Noble’, if you’re feeling particularly kind.”

He kicked the pebble back and Padfoot’s grin finally broke through, bright as the stars just beginning to peek out above them. “How about ‘reckless’? I think ‘reckless’ sums you up pretty well.”

–

September 15, 1943

It had been six days since Moony’s mistake, and Sirius still didn’t know how to fix it. The letter was written in broken, attempted French–adorable, really–and rambled on for a page and a half about the most mundane parts of life.

Re: , the letter began, though there was no followup. Sirius had been wondering about that since the first time he read it. RE: …what? RE: Your last letter? RE: My birthday present?

I miss you. Mom and dad and I to go to the school fair the next week. The garden –misspelled with a ‘g’ instead of a ‘j’-- is growing well. Mom is happy. My birthday kite was stuck in a tree the week last but dad helped me get it back. We should fly it together in the summer.

The letter continued, on and on, in the slanted letters of someone clearly trying their best to make their handwriting look tidy. Someone who was trying even harder to make their French as coherent as possible despite the struggle. Sirius guessed the author long before he reached the sign-off.

I miss you, it repeated. Be safe. Come home soon. Thank you for the French chocolate.

Love,

Jules

The last line was written in English. There was no envelope with an address, no name to identify Moony, but Sirius still felt as if he had been given a keyhole peek into the real life of his most trusted friend. He called his ten-year-old brother ‘Jules’ instead of ‘Julian’. They flew kites together. Moony’s mother had a garden.

It felt illegal for Sirius to know those things, but he treasured them close all the same.

He stayed mostly quiet for their meeting that night, and judging by Moony’s worried glances, it did not go unnoticed. The letter weighed him down the way he assumed a ring sat heavy in the pocket of a soon-to-be fiancé. Every time he tried to do more than hum a response, his chest constricted so hard it hurt.

Moony gave him one last look before slipping the packet into his bag. “Alright,” he began. “Okay, well, have a good–”

“Moony.”

Caramel eyes went wide. “Oh, god, what happened?”

Sirius took a deep breath through his nose, then let it out through his mouth. His hands shook where he had shoved them in his pockets. “First of all, I’m sorry.”

Moony’s concern became terror faster than Sirius could blink; he closed the flap of his messenger bag and began to back away. “Padfoot, what did you do?”

“No!” Sirius blurted, rocking his weight forward until Moony flinched back and he stopped himself. “No, no, it’s - you’re not in danger, I promise. I just wanted you to know that I read it, but only twice, and I’m so sorry because that’s private and I shouldn’t have opened it in the first place.”

“I don’t understand,” Moony said slowly, his eyes still darting toward shadowy corners of the alley.

Fuck. Okay. Sirius wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. “Please don’t be angry.”

“Padfoot, what did you do?”

He took the letter out with great care, keeping his other hand up in a gesture of peace. “It was mixed in with the pictures last week,” he confessed.

Moony stared at the small paper for a long moment before he finally took it, their fingers brushing. “I thought…I thought I lost this.” His gaze flickered back to Sirius and the fear returned. “You read it?”

And I hate myself for it. “Yes.”

“So you know.” Moony’s face crumpled as he smoothed his thumb over the middle seam that had been folded and refolded with great care. “Fuck, you know everything.”

Sirius was only sidetracked for a moment by the surprise of Moony swearing before shaking his head. “I don’t know much at all. There was no envelope. I took no pictures. It doesn’t even have your name.”

“It–” Moony faltered. He was silent for close to a minute before he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I fucked this whole thing up. You know where I’m from now. We can’t be contacts anymore.”

“I don’t!” Sirius’ heart lurched. “I don’t, I swear –”

“You know I’m not French.”

“I knew that already!” he said desperately. Moony’s eyebrows disappeared under his floppy hair. “I mean, come on, you don’t work for the Resistance and you speak textbook French. That letter told me nothing we haven’t already shared.”

The fear became sadness, and oh, it was so much worse. “You have to tell them,” Moony murmured. “I compromised myself.”

Sirius knew that. Sirius had read the rules inside and out, had measured every second of his life by them. By those rules, Sirius had to report Moony to the Resistance and find a new contact whose anonymity was firmly in place. A complete and utter stranger who could carry the cargo with smoke and mirrors to the OSS headquarters.

“I won’t.”

Moony looked up from the letter. “What?”

“I won’t,” Sirius said again. His pulse kicked like a faulty engine. “I won’t do it. Your secrets are always safe with me. Nobody will know about this.”

Moony stared at him for a long, long moment, lit only by moonlight in the darkened city. Sirius did not look away. “Ik hou van je.”

Sirius frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Moony sniffled, though his eyes were dry. A small smile tilted his lips. “Thank you, Padfoot. I’ll see you next week.”

April 5, 1944

Through the miracle of scheduling, they had spent the new year together. Remus had missed the end of the office party, but he couldn’t bring himself to be upset about it - the memory of sitting by the Seine with Padfoot while cheers went up around the city replayed in his best dreams throughout the bitter tail of winter.

It was spring, now, and the small flowers growing in the cracks of the cobblestones were beginning to bloom. Notre Dame’s rose window shone in the sun and cast a rainbow over the plaza. Remus was not very religious, but he could understand why so many people believed in a higher power when they saw that kind of display.

“Morning, Padfoot.” He offered a smile and half a croissant as he approached; Padfoot took it happily. He seemed especially partial to the pastries from Café Dumais, and Remus couldn’t blame him - not only were the shopkeeper’s kids adorable, the food was absolutely fantastic even with ration restrictions. “Nice day for breakfast, isn’t it?”

Padfoot hummed around a mouthful of buttery dough. “It’ll rain later.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm.”

“Good to know.” Remus took his own croissant out and raised it in a ‘cheers’ motion before following him to the riverbank and digging in. Their morning meetings were rare, but certainly his favorites. There was no better way to start the day than with his friend of close to three years. Had it really been that long? “The city needs a wash, anyway.”

Padfoot laughed, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I know you love it here, or else that would be a serious offense.”

“I’ll try to be more careful.” And then there was this development, the… whatever they were calling it. Not quite flirting, but not simple friendly banter, either. Remus didn’t know when it started. He just knew he never wanted it to end. They ate in silence, shoulders brushing, Padfoot’s legs swinging absently over the edge of the bulkhead.

“Alright,” Padfoot said at last, brushing the remnants of his croissant off his hands, then stretching his arms high over his head. Remus pointedly did not look at the thin sliver of his waist that was revealed as his shirt slid up. “Secrets. You go first.”

“Oh, god,” Remus laughed. His stomach gave a little thrill as he licked the last of the butter from his thumb and forefinger, then looked out over the water. They hadn’t played this game in nearly two months; he’d have to think of something good. “In the summer, my dad and I catch fish for dinner every Saturday.”

“From a river?”

“That’s a secret for another time.” Padfoot scowled playfully; Remus loved every bit of it. “Your turn.”

“I’ve never been fishing.”

“Never?”

“Not once.”

“I guess I’ll just have to take you sometime, then.”

The words hung between them, suspended in a moment of unsure hope, before Padfoot smiled. His eyes were the same color as the stormclouds gathering on the horizon–Remus couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to. “I guess you will. Tell me another?”

Remus didn’t even have to think before he answered. “Kocham cię.”

Padfoot scrunched his nose up and kicked him lightly. “Cheater. I can’t understand. Saying it in another language doesn’t count.”

It does if I mean it.

April 22, 1944

It was only a matter of time until one of their rendezvous went wrong.

Logically, Sirius knew this. He’d been living under occupation for four years now; he knew the dangers, the risks. But he had been naively hoping they’d manage to escape them for just a little longer. There were whispers going around about an Allied invasion and liberation of France - no one knew the when or where, obviously, but they were all wishing that it would be soon… that if they could stick it out for just a little longer, they’d be free again before summer. But the months were unfailingly ticking by, the weather was getting warmer, and they were still in the same position - not quite a standstill, but progress was painfully slow.

It had started off as a normal enough meet-up: Moony was always early, Sirius always a minute or two late. Sirius would get to witness that sharp, crooked smile and smile back at the agent, excitement and intrigue and the adrenaline rush that came with these meetings thrumming in his veins.

But then the script got flipped on them. That was the problem with having a routine - you got too used to the monotony (as ironic as that sounded for a Resistance member and an OSS agent), you ignored small signs that should’ve been glaringly obvious, you got sloppy. And it could get you killed.

Not even five minutes after Sirius had found Moony in their designated Parisian alleyway, they heard voices too close for comfort and too late after curfew to just be a civilian.

If they were discovered…

Sirius thought of the photographs and codes now in Moony’s jacket pocket and fear crashed into him like a tidal wave against an already-battered shoreline. Their cypher was pretty hard to break, Sirius was fairly sure of that, but there was still too much information there in the pages. And, to make matters worse, Moony was the one who had them. Even though they were constantly in some degree of danger (and Sirius didn’t even know the extent of Moony’s job outside of their information trade-offs) the thought of him getting caught, getting taken - no. Not on his watch, not if he could help it.

He could just barely identify the language being spoken as German before Moony was grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him farther back into the alleyway, where they were better shrouded by shadows and hidden from the scant sliver of moonlight. The blackout was in their favor this time. He pressed in closer against Moony, protectively stationed between him and the alley entrance, chest to heaving chest, warmth and comfort in the late night chill, barely daring to breathe as the voices got louder, closer.

Moony was shaking just a bit, his heart a galloping echo of Sirius’ own. It was all Sirius could feel. The rush of his own blood in his ears was all he could hear. He knew he needed to breathe, to center himself and calm the fuck down, but his lungs refused to obey, trapping him between one breath and the next.

That was when the tapping started.

Soft, light taps of Moony’s finger against the back of his wrist, varying in pressure and rhythm. Sirius willed himself to breathe - in and out, nice and deep and steady - as he focused on the tap tap tap and tried to find a pattern.

Two uniformed figures appeared at the end of the alleyway.

Sirius figured out the pattern. Morse code.

.. . -.. --- …- .

I love…

He held his breath, his heart pounding in such a fierce, wild way that Moony could undoubtedly feel it in the pulsepoint of his wrist, the place where their chests were pressed against each other.

I love…

The tapping stopped.

The figures disappeared into the night, voices melting into the eerie, chilling quiet.

Moony dropped his wrist, then shoved his hands deep into his own pockets, leaving only the phantom of his touch in his wake.

Sirius was left reeling, lost without a tether, mind racing.

I love what? What was the end of that statement?

Could it possibly, unbelievably have been I love you?

Moony cleared his throat awkwardly, shoulders hunched, shoe scraping against the street. “No time for secrets tonight, I’m afraid. We need to get out of here.”

Sirius wanted to shake his head, to beg Moony to stop and explain - explain what the tapping meant, what the undecipherable but decidedly fond looks he gave Sirius meant, what all of it meant.

You love what, Moony?

Moony gave him one last look and a half-twist of his lips - almost a smile, but not the one Sirius was used to, not the one he pictured whenever he thought of the agent. It was wrong, and Sirius didn't know the first thing about fixing it.

“Stay safe,” Moony said briefly, then he was gone.

Sirius pressed his back against the rough brick of the wall and exhaled shakily.

That unfinished code would haunt Sirius for the rest of time, it seemed.

.. . -.. --- …- .

I love…

Sirius tapped it himself, directly over the ghost of Moony’s code.

He couldn’t find it in himself to finish the phrase, either.

June 6, 1944

Sirius sat on the couch, leg bouncing in an indiscernible rhythm, while Celeste reread the same page of her novel and Dumo kept pushing aside the curtain to check the pitch-black street. They all glanced at the clock when it chimed the hour.

It marked twenty-four hours since they’d last heard from Logan.

Like all of them, he’d been sent on a mission to assist in the Allied invasion of Normandy (finally, finally they were getting the help they’d needed for the last four fucking years). They’d been blowing up more railways, sabotaging ammunition depots, neutralizing roads as best they could.

And now they’d all made it home, all except for one.

Celeste’s worn handkerchief lay next to the register, where she had abandoned it two hours earlier after scrubbing the countertop until it squeaked for an excuse to watch the window. The floorboards overhead creaked - that would be Adele, tiptoeing down the hall in her nightgown while the others slept on to wait by the top of the stairs. Sirius had memorized all their pattering footsteps ages ago. One was still missing.

Dumo’s coffee cup clinked against the saucer and all three of them flinched. He murmured an apology, though his hand trembled when he laid it in his lap again. Newspapers caught the wind gathering outside and rushed over the cobblestones like rats on the run. Otherwise, it was calm. Terribly so. Sirius wanted thunder and lightning and skies split right down the middle, or else he was afraid he might just do it himself.

“Coffee?” Celeste’s voice broke at the end and she cleared her throat, vanishing into the back room before they could answer. Sirius didn’t think he could find his voice with a flashlight and a lure, but it would have been nice to try.

He glanced into his cup - only sludge remained. He should have been shaky from all the caffeine he had consumed over the past day. Dumo’s throat bobbed when Sirius folded his forearms on the table and rested his chin on top. “He’s not at the direct front, you know. Many kilometers from the fighting.”

Sirius hummed noncommittally. The radio announcer’s voice had wobbled as he relayed the news. So much fear. So much death.

“Logan is smart,” Dumo said after a long moment. “He would not go into danger without reason.”

Sirius thought of the younger man and his hot-headed tendencies and decided to keep his mouth shut.

He couldn’t do this anymore, though. The sitting and the silence and the waiting. So he got up, stretched his tensed, coiled tight muscles, and began gathering his things. Pictures, codes, camera. Dumo and Celeste were watching him silently, worriedly, and Sirius sighed, hating that he was adding to the worry.

“I’ve got a meet-up with the OSS. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Promises. Those were risky to make during wartime. It was something he couldn’t help, though - not with the Dumais family, not after they’d taken him in, provided for him, become the kind of family to him that he’d always wanted to have. He didn't want them worrying over him, but he didn’t want to set them up for heartbreak either. It was a fine line to walk, and Sirius still wasn’t sure he was doing it correctly.

He pressed a kiss to Celeste’s cheek in farewell and left out the front door. Quiet, assured steps led him to their designated meeting spot, where Moony was waiting for him, just like always. Sirius couldn’t help but feel relieved as he saw him. There was something about him that made everything calm; their surroundings faded, fuzzy like his camera lens out of focus.

Focus. He needed to focus.

“How would you go about finding a missing person?” he asked as soon as he was in earshot, not wasting a second.

Moony blinked in surprise. “Um-”

“He left last night for a mission and no one’s heard from him since. And with everything that’s been going on today, we’re worried-”

“Padfoot-”

“Sirius,” he corrected quietly, desperately, seeking any reassurance he could find. It was a risk, he knew, but it was Moony. Trusting him had yet to be a bad decision. “It’s Sirius.”

“Sirius,” Moony echoed and, with a pang, Sirius realized he had been right. Hearing Moony say his name, all soft and gentle and with intent, was exactly the balm he was looking for. The tension he’d been holding in his shoulders eased, his chest expanded in his first full breath in far too long. Moony seemed to notice (he seemed to notice everything) and grabbed Sirius’ arm in support.

Sirius felt it like a brand, burning hot and fierce, marking him permanently.

“It’s chaos out there, you know that right?” Moony’s voice was as gentle as his touch. “He probably just hasn’t had a chance to reach out.”

“He’s not usually late.”

“He’s not usually dealing with the side effects of an Allied invasion, either.” Moony argued wryly, arched eyebrow a teasing counterpoint. “I think we can cut him some slack.”

“I guess-”

A warm, encouraging smile that Sirius wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about for the foreseeable future. “The stress isn’t worth it when you don’t have the full picture.”

Sirius mulled over the words, then looked back up at Moony, an idea forming in his head. “Do you have the full picture?”

Moony instantly shut down. His eyes became guarded, his hand let go of Sirius and pulled back as if he was the one burned. “Padfoot-”

“Obviously you don’t have to tell me everything. I get that. But he was headed north, towards Calais. If you know anything-”

“Stop.”

“There’s some railways out there. If you know anything, Moony, please -”

“Sirius,” Moony took Sirius' face in his hands, a quick, sudden movement that brought his warm and calloused skin against the rough shadow of Sirius’ beard coming in. "I would but I can't." His voice was pained but firm, unyielding. “I can’t. And I need you to respect that, ok? You can’t be asking me things like that.”

Sirius nodded sadly, leaning into Moony’s hands, selfishly letting him take some of his weight, just for a moment. He was tired - so tired. “Sorry.”

Moony pulled away, to Sirius’ dismay. He wanted those hands on him, he wanted to be closer.

“You’re worried. I understand.” Moony said with a commiserating shrug before changing the subject. “You got pictures for me?”

Sirius had completely forgotten the reason they were meeting up. These visits were starting to feel less and less like a job. They were a break now, a respite from the outside world and a sense of comfort in a newfound friend. Sirius cherished these days - the excitement leading up to seeing him again, the conversations, the secrets shared, the way they’d shape his very dreams that night.

No, it definitely wasn't just a job anymore.

He rummaged in his bag for the pictures and codes and handed them over. Moony’s fingers brushed against his own as he took them, flipped through them. Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets.

Moony slipped the pictures into his own bag quietly, then looked almost timidly at Sirius. “Well, since you’ve already given me a pretty big secret for today, I guess it’s my turn, huh?”

Like always, Sirius perked up at the promise of learning something new about him. He leaned forward, anticipating whatever was coming next with a funny kick of his heart.

Moony smiled and uttered one single word into the air between them.

“Remus.”

Sirius had to think about it for a second before things clicked into place.

Oh.

“Oh.”

Moony - Remus - laughed as he turned to leave. “Have a good night, Sirius. Jag älskar dig,” he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

Sirius watched him go, with not a clue as to what those last words meant, but a smile tugging at his lips and affection in his eyes.

“Night… Remus.”

June 22, 1944

Sirius had gotten used to false alarms regarding Remus.

He saw him in the slope of a customer’s shoulders, the crooked smile of a child running down the street, the whiskey eyes of the old woman leaving the church Sirius passed every day on his way to work. Sirius saw fragments of him everywhere, but never the full picture. After D Day, their meetings had become a bit more sporadic as they rushed to get other things done to help the Allied invasion - they were spread so thin as it was, and they needed the Allies to reclaim France; they couldn’t afford to falter now. So Sirius was out of Paris often, finding the best courses for the Allies to take, marking German outposts on his maps, getting back into sabotage. And Sirius was grateful for the change in direction, of course he was, but he also found himself missing the man more than he thought possible. So every time he saw a flash of him - sloped shoulders, crooked smile, whiskey eyes - he stopped in his tracks and did a double-take, only to move on in disappointment.

He was a ghost that Sirius couldn’t seem to stop chasing.

That was probably why Sirius almost missed the agent when he actually saw him, used to false alarms as he was. He was walking on the opposite side of the street, satchel slung over his shoulder (Sirius wondered what secrets were stashed inside), the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to compensate for the summer heat (forearms, merde ). Their eyes met - a spark of recognition, that smile , and then Remus was crossing the street in long, unhurried strides, more relaxed than Sirius had ever seen him. He supposed that made sense, though - it was the first time they’d seen each other since liberation. That was a lot of stress off their shoulders. He was probably the most relaxed Remus had seen him, too. It was a good look on him, Sirius had to admit.

Remus came to stand in front of him, his freckles more numerous and darker from the summer sun, and he looked up at Sirius through his lashes, eyes shimmering as the light hit them. Sirius usually witnessed him in the cover of night, melding into the shadows, beautiful in the glow of the moonlight. But he belonged in the summertime, born to shine in the sun’s rays, no longer hidden. “Hello,” he said, sounding a little breathless.

Oh, Sirius had missed him.

“Hi,” he replied, gravitating towards Remus’ light like a sunflower.

Remus seemed to be waiting for him to continue (he was in no way prepared to say anything else, at least not coherently) but then he blurted, “Where are you headed?”

Sirius had genuinely forgotten. “Oh. Um, just headed to a friend’s place.” Logan had come back from his June 6 mission pining and introspective and broody, and had stayed that way for days now. Sirius was going to get him to talk about it, hopefully. He was pretty sure it would help him. If Logan didn’t want to talk… well, they could sit in companionable silence, Sirius supposed. Maybe listen to the radio, or something. He was fairly sure Logan had some liquor stashed away somewhere…

“What about you?” Sirius finally remembered to ask, choosing to ignore Remus’ teasingly quirked eyebrow. “Or is that classified information?”

Remus just laughed brightly. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he joked with a wink, then continued, “I’m off to find a present for my friends - they’re soon-to-be parents. Not quite sure what to get them, though, so I’m just wandering until something strikes up some inspiration.”

“Ah,” Sirius mused, thinking about his own friends that were expecting and the toys he’d made by hand for the kid. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Shopping district is that way, though.”

Remus obviously knew that, Sirius realized with a cringe. He’d been living in Paris for years now, god why did he say that-

Remus smiled anyways. “I’ll head that way next, then.”

He was so… so sweet. Sirius didn’t know what to do with it half of the time. He loved it, though - he loved how gentle and kind Remus still was, even after everything. He’d come to rely on it, after all these years of sharing intel with him. He loved how Remus calmed him seemingly effortlessly; all it took was a smile or a gentle reassurance, a light-hearted joke or a knowing look and Sirius felt infinitely better than before. Remus’ friendship was a balm, soothing wounds from his family and the war, some that he hadn’t even known about.

Sirius wasn’t exactly sure where he’d be without Remus.

He also wasn’t sure what he brought to the table. Remus had helped him so much, but Sirius… well, he didn’t feel like he’d done the same for Remus at all. He wasn’t sure how to make it up to him, if he could make it up to him. That scared him a little. But he figured it was the little things, right? Eventually they’d add up.

“Maybe go for something that’s not for a newborn?” he suggested with a shrug. “They’ll probably be stocked up on newborn stuff, but not for a toddler. Toys, toddler clothes, those kinds of things.”

Remus nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a really good idea, Pads. Thanks.”

Pads.

Sirius didn’t think he was going to swoon, but it was kind of up in the air at the moment.

“Yeah,” he said with a bit of a dreamy edge to his voice, getting a little lost in those eyes. He didn’t know how long he stood there, just admiring, fighting the urge to reach out and hold, to lean in closer, to cross that demarcation between friends and something more -

“I… I should probably go.” Remus’ voice jostled Sirius out of his thoughts. “But I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Sirius took a quick step back, remembering where he was all at once. The blinders came off, the rest of their surroundings came back into view, unfocused but there. Remus was still looking at him with something like longing in his eyes, and Sirius took that as a good omen.

“See you around,” he echoed finally. Maybe somewhere more quiet, where they were alone and he could pick up that earlier train of thought.

He found himself tapping again, after Remus had waved goodbye and turned around towards the shopping district - that same, repetitive code from months gone by.

.. . -.. --- …- .

I love…

This time, for the first time, Sirius finished the message.

August 28, 1944

For the first time in two months, there was a knock at Remus’ office door. It took him a moment to get over his surprise before calling a tentative, “come in?”

Dorcas popped her head in, already grinning. “Heya, Moonpie.”

“Jesus,” Remus muttered. “What?”

“Hello, Dorcas, it’s good to see you, too. How’s life? How’s work? We should get lunch, it’s been too long,” she said in a terrible imitation of his voice. “Oh, I’m doing well. Work’s a bitch. I got a papercut on my tongue, but there were fresh green beans at the market.”

“Hello, Dorcas,” he relented, setting aside his paperwork. “I’m sorry about your tongue. Congrats on the beans. What do you want?”

She stuck her tongue out, but was unable to keep her smile down for long. “The Weasel wants you in his office, and he’s got a friend. Sounds important, too.”

Remus grimaced. “If I die in there, you can have my paperweights.”

With a dramatic raise of her brows and a final pat to the doorframe, she vanished back into the hallway.

The brisk click-clack of her shoes faded into the background noise of Paris headquarters and Remus flexed his fingers, wincing when his joints cracked - typewriters were certainly quicker than hand-writing his weekly reports, but fuck if they didn’t start to hurt after a while. He stood, straightened his tie and double-checked his tucked shirt, then headed down the labyrinth of halls.

Joining the OSS was possibly the best decision Remus ever made, not just because it allowed him to miss the draft by less than six months but because it had opened up doors he never even knew existed. It gave him friends, connections, the thrill of travel, and better job security than any other career - he literally could not be fired due to the sensitive contents of his memory. The OSS valued his brain over any sort of brawn, an invaluable perk for a gangly 18-year-old with a war looming over his head. He had not regretted it once in five years.

Remus tried not to think about what would have happened in a different world.

He waved to his coworkers as he wandered down the long stretch of frosted office windows–Peter his lunch buddy, Benjy the archivist, Marlene the co-head of the translation department–and let his hands rest comfortably in his pockets. He would have to be all official in Arthur’s office, but among the people he commiserated with over drinks not two nights prior, he could just be Remus.

Not Moony. Not Mr. Lupin. Just Remus. A whole person, not a ghost slipping between shadows with lives in his messenger bag.

Arthur’s door was closed when he arrived; he heard his own quick knock echo off the walls inside and murmuring fell into silence. “Come in, Lupin.”

Remus paused, his hand halfway to the knob. He had never heard Arthur sound like that. The hair at the back of his neck prickled, and he schooled his posture into the picture of calm before stepping inside. “Good afternoon, sir.”

A tall, unfamiliar man stood to Arthur’s left. Remus waited with his eyes trained on the wall above Arthur’s desk, and let his peripheral vision do the work.

Khaki cotton, service pistol at his waist. Army.

Pins on his right collar point. General.

Files under the arm. Bad news.

Remus was suddenly glad he had remembered to tuck his shirt in before arriving.

The general arched a brow. “You’re Captain Remus Lupin, head of the linguistics division?”

“That’s correct, sir.” He carefully kept down a grimace at the formal address and the building ache in his back from standing at attention. Both had been trained out of him years ago - any sort of stiffness was a one-way ticket to blowing an operation sky-high.

“At ease.” Thank God. “Your file says you’ve been stationed in Paris for 2 years.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Do you like it here?”

I love it, especially one part. “Yes, sir, I think I could have done a lot worse for myself.”

The general snorted a laugh. “Weasley warned me half his staff were smart-asses.”

Remus swallowed, his throat desert-dry. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“It’s alright, officer.”

Arthur took the offered files from the general and opened the folder. “Well, I’ll just cut straight to it,” he said, looking up. “You get to go home, Lupin.”

Remus’ train of thought stuttered to a screeching, agonizing halt before tipping off the rails entirely.

Fired. Had he been fired? The OSS didn’t fire people, not unless they majorly fucked up and managed to survive the mistake, and Remus–

Remus did not make mistakes. Ever. Full stop. He was far too careful for that.

So it had to be about Sirius.

He kept his face neutral, his stance perfect, his hands folded despite the buckle of his suspenders digging into his wrist. “Can I ask why, sir?”

“Paris is free. Your services here are no longer required, and the rest of your team has been posted to smaller assignments.” Arthur sifted through the papers, then pulled one out so Remus could see, turning a warm smile on him. The words were a blur of ink. “This is a list of your missions in Paris. You have completed more than double the amount of successful drops and collections as any of your coworkers and shown remarkable flexibility in day trips to the surrounding area. We thought you could use a break.”

You get to go home, Lupin. Not a threat. A gift. It had been three weeks since the last letter from his family, and five months since he saw a recent picture of them. Nearly four years since he saw their faces. “Thank you, sir,” Remus managed as his hands began to tremble behind his back.

You get to go home, Lupin. The house would still be blue with white trim. The grass would be cut with his father’s meticulous care.

“Are you alright, son?” the general asked.

Remus blinked. The paper came into focus, full of acronyms and tally marks and the proof that he did his job better than anyone could have asked for. He cleared his throat and straightened again. Keep it perfect until they promise to let you go. “I am, sir, thank you. Thank you, Colonel Weasley.”

“You’ll be on-call until the war ends,” Arthur warned, though his eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re one of our best, and my superiors want you to live in New York for easy access. You’ll still be bound to the OSS code of conduct.”

The momentary high dissipated; Remus couldn’t quite keep his disbelief out of his voice. “New York?”

“You’re supposed to be there by October 5th,” Arthur said. A twinkle lit in his eye as he slipped the papers back into their folder and tapped it on the table. “But you leave in two days for Wisconsin.”

“Thank you.” There was the promise he had been looking for. He kept his expression calm, his stance solid, even as his heart threatened to pound right out of his chest with anticipation.

Arthur gave him a curt nod. “It’s the least we can do. We’ll be in touch. You’re dismissed.”

Remus didn’t remember walking back down the polished hallway, past the smiling faces of his coworkers that turned to worry when he didn’t respond. It was as if he blinked and he was back at his desk, hands spread over his half-finished report for the week. The last one he would have to write for… for however long. Forever.

He found himself staring at the small frame on his desk, where two pictures had been carefully folded to fit side-by-side–the first held the photograph he had brought when he first left home for Maryland, showing his parents and a six-year-old Jules beaming at the camera. The second had arrived in a letter for his most recent birthday. Jules’ front teeth had grown in and his mother’s hair was longer. Remus blew out an unsteady breath as the frame blurred.

72 hours, and he would be home for real.

He tilted his face toward the pristine white ceiling to blink back his tears, then returned to his report. Just because he was being shipped out didn’t mean he could trip at the finish line. “Successful information transfer on August the 17th, 1944,” he muttered as he typed, choking down the urge to throw all of his stuff in a rucksack and sprint for the nearest airport. “Contact name, Padfoot–”

And he stopped cold, his fingertips still hovering over the keys.

Sirius.

Remus covered his mouth with both hands and leaned on his desk. He had two days left in Paris, not nearly long enough to pull strings and find Sirius. Arthur liked him, but not enough to authorize a pointless mission in the wake of liberation.

You get to go home, Lupin.

But he had already found home. A little bit of it, at least, built by his own hands with the only consistent person in his life. Sirius was fire and stubbornness and eyes like a silver-blue lake in winter. He had a heart bigger than the city he fought to preserve and a mind more brilliant than anyone gave him credit for and–

And Remus was going back to America. And Remus had lost him in the crowd, vanished into smoke and mirrors just like he was supposed to. They weren’t even supposed to be people to each other and had become so much more.

He didn’t want to imagine a world without Sirius in it. So much beauty would be lost without him and his photographs, capturing breaths and moments and the smallest blip of time in a perfect frame. Remus loved it, just as he loved Sirius, just as he loved the cool autumn wind back home. He had been a fool to think he could keep any of it when the war seemed determined to leech joy from the very ground.

His hands shook as he got to his feet and hurried down the hallway, brushing past a very confused Peter who attempted a ‘hello’. The bathroom door was nothing more than a haze of dark wood when Remus fumbled it open–he spared only a moment to make sure he was alone before entering the last stall, locking it behind him, and clamping a hand over his mouth as silent sobs cracked him right in half.

–

September 1, 1944

Sirius gathered the leftover saucers and wiped the window tables where the Thursday regulars sat, like he always did before heading out. Business had skyrocketed since liberation–Adele had started working the register the week before, but he knew the Dumais were considering hiring more help.

The clock struck 11:30 when he stepped outside and let the wind roll over him. Parisians liked their late coffee. They liked it even more when celebrations carried deep into the small hours and joy-fueled adrenaline began to fade.

Sirius had walked the path so many times it had become its own kind of landmark; he kept his head on an unconscious swivel, scanned left-right-left-back for any shadows peeling away from alley walls. There would be none (never again, as long as he drew breath), but the habit was hard to kill.

Sirius arrived at their spot at midnight on the dot. Sand crunched under his shoes. The distant clock tower hummed a low reminder. He stood in the dark, hands in his pockets, and waited. He had a much more important message than pictures to deliver, one that made Sirius’ stomach flip if he thought too much about it. It was time to finish the code aloud. Three years was a long time to watch someone so incandescently lovely and bury his affection.

So he waited.

And he waited.

Sirius was not a patient man, but he remained in the alley for a full hour before unease began to drip along his edges. Remus was punctual, precise, professional - he had never kept Sirius waiting longer than five minutes before, and only because his train ran late.

Sirius’ heart leaped when a new set of footsteps echoed off the walls in front of him and a dark figure in a trenchcoat began their steady approach. Finally, he thought, breathless with relief. “I was–”

The words died in his throat when the figure entered the flickering lamplight and gave Sirius a confused up-and-down look. “Who are you?” the man asked. His voice was harsh, his French dripping with an American accent, so unlike Remus’ calm baritone that rolled like the sea.

Sirius blinked and choked back the initial burst of fear. “Lousy weather we’re having, huh?” he asked instead, falling back into the code phrase he had not used since his and Remus’ second meeting.

The American’s suspicion eased by a degree. “Maybe it’ll shape up,” he replied, and took Sirius’ hand for a firm shake. “Roscoe.”

“Padfoot.” Roscoe gave him a nod before opening his coat and drawing an unfamiliar package out. Sirius frowned. That wasn’t how the exchange worked. He took pictures, wrote Remus love letters disguised as notes on the thin separation papers, and then admired him in the moonlight for as long as it took for those clever eyes to make sure everything was in order. He shifted his weight to the side. “Is there a problem?”

“Hmm?” Roscoe glanced up from his bag of trinkets. “No, why?”

Sirius swallowed hard, and gripped the strap of his messenger bag as tight as his hands would allow. Now or never. Get it over with. The fear made every word molasses-thick in his throat. “Is Moony alright?”

“Yeah, probably. Didn’t see him in the obits.”

He was so casual about it. So damned flippant about something that made Sirius’ whole torso clench just to imagine. It was equal parts hurtful and infuriating. “Then where is he?”

Roscoe shrugged one shoulder, oblivious. “How should I know?”

“He’s my contact.”

“And he got reassigned,” Roscoe said in slow, clumsy French, as if he was speaking to a child. Sirius glowered down at him and was pleased to see a flicker of unease in his eyes.

“What do you mean, reassigned?”

“Paris is free. His services were no longer required here, and I doubt yours are, either. Check with your front office for new orders. I heard they’re letting a lot of civilians out.”

Sirius bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and exhaled through his nose. No fistfights. “Well, can you find him for me?”

Roscoe sighed heavily. “Even if I knew how, I wouldn’t. I’m not blowing his cover because you wanted to say ‘hello’. The OSS is a little more organized than your resistance.”

“Excuse you,” Sirius said coldly. The leather strap of his bag creaked under the force of his grip.

“Look, Padfoot, I’ve got a job to do.” Roscoe brandished a fine white cloth at him with an exasperated look before crouching. “This whole place has to be cleared of any evidence of you two by dawn. The OSS doesn’t need your pictures and it would be best if you just went back home. Moony’s not coming back.”

It took several seconds before Sirius registered the pounding in his ears as his own pulse. The August air was cloying and sticky, but he had never felt so cold. “What do you mean?”

“My French isn’t that bad,” Roscoe grumbled.

“What do you mean?” Sirius repeated. “I have the codes for R–for Moony to take back.”

Roscoe muttered something in English under his breath before turning to Sirius, though he didn’t rise. “I already told you he’s been reassigned. My best guess is Switzerland or Austria or, hell, somewhere else in France. I don’t know. They’re putting us all over. But you can bet he won’t be back here before the war’s over, and if I were him, I wouldn’t come back at all.”

It had become very difficult to swallow, suddenly. A fine tremor skittered down Sirius’ back and through his legs; he gave a single abrupt nod before turning on his heel. The corner of his mouth stung with salt and he swiped it away with the back of his hand, squaring his shoulders.

Reassigned, Roscoe had said. Gone. Switzerland, Austria, France. Moony’s never coming back–

Sirius paused halfway down the sidewalk to let out a shaky breath, and with it, a few wisps of his shattered heart. “Shit,” he whispered to the empty street, plaintive and pathetic. “Shit.”

He hadn’t even thought to take one picture. He hadn’t even thought to say goodbye.

February 14, 1945

New York was… fine. Closer to home than Paris, and certainly warmer than Wisconsin in winter. His government-funded house on the outskirts of Brooklyn was about as exciting as plain toast - Remus had never found the time or motivation to repaint, leaving the walls a regulation beige. The most exciting home renovation project he had managed was ripping out the bathroom carpet that had been laid down by a madman with a staple gun.

Snow fell outside his bedroom window, cold and crisp and white. If he let his vision blur, he could pretend he was looking into his parents’ backyard. At least then he wouldn’t be quite so alone.

Perhaps he was being dramatic. The house was great, one story with enough space to personalize, not that he had put more than his few framed photos up. His entire life had been packed into a single duffel and rucksack for half a decade, after all. There was a big front window to look out at the quaint suburban neighborhood; the people across the street brought him homemade cookies and a roast his first week there, and passing out candy to the mob of tiny trick-or-treaters had been the highlight of Remus’ autumn.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t make an effort to build a life, either - New York City was full of activity and possibility, and only a short distance away. He had favorite restaurants and coffee shops already (though none compared to Café Dumais), regular haunts and a growing list of museums to visit on a rainy day.

Hell, he had even found a friend in the man a little younger than himself who ran a bookshop in a quiet corner of Manhattan. While his taste in books was excellent, he seemed just as lonely, aching just as bad for someone far away, if the small shrine containing a wallet photo of another young man and a map of France marked by a careful hand was anything to go by. When Remus had asked, the shop’s owner had simply shrugged and said my boys by way of explanation. The wistfulness is his expression was more of a comfort than Remus could ever say. His chocolate-colored cat had a penchant for napping in Remus’ lap as well, which wasn’t half-bad when he and the shop’s owner swapped book recommendations for hours on end.

He just wished he had someone to share it with.

Someone tall enough to get a pitcher down from the cupboards without a stepstool, someone to help him fill the house with trinkets and pictures, someone to introduce to his bookstore friend, someone who would dance with him in the living room to an old French record they both knew the words to. Someone whose voice replayed in Remus’ dreams and made him ache when he woke.

He sighed, and dragged himself out of bed to pad across the chilly floors. Only one robe hung on the pair of hooks on his bedroom door; he shrugged it on to fight off the cold and wandered into the kitchen, switching the radio on for background noise. The coffee pot burbled and hissed as he pulled down one of three chipped mugs, two of which were housewarming gifts from Lily and James. In private, Remus had laughed a little at the irony of his best friend getting to keep her French boyfriend without ever stepping foot outside the country. Perks of office work, he supposed. She never had to fade in and out of existence. She could be bold, fiery, wonderful Lily and hold tight to what she loved.

His coffee finished at the same time his toast popped. Butter on one side, jam on the other, a towel over his arm to prevent sticky fingers. Remus loved to cook, but it seemed like overkill to get a whole breakfast going when it was just him.

He stopped in the doorway to his office with a sigh. The papers had begun leaking out into the family room, and unfortunately no magical cleaning elf had appeared overnight to sort out the mess Remus made during his all-nighters when he couldn’t sleep. He would tell himself he would rest as soon as he found a name, an address, a picture, but always woke groggy and sore on the floor, empty-handed.

Remus tiptoed over the semi-legally acquired, half-organized filing boxes and stacks of paperwork to flip his daily calendar.

The bright red heart that stared back at him was a slap in the face.

He flipped the page back down to the 13th, set his breakfast on the desk, and knelt to resume his search through endless piles of paperwork for a single clue that would bring him home.

–

June 1, 1945

Dumo was judging him.

Not in a bad way, granted. It was just the way he watched everyone, noticed everything. He had this… sixth sense for upset people. Being the fixer he was, he could pick out people struggling in a crowd of thousands and somehow know exactly what to say, what to do to help. It was a bit like magic. Sometimes Sirius wondered if he’d always been like that, or if it was something he’d learned by being a parent, a husband, a leader. Or maybe he’d just learned by being here, in this shop, watching the idiosyncrasies of his customers.

Nevertheless, Sirius didn’t really want to talk about what was bothering him. Dumo probably already knew, anyway.

It had been months since Remus disappeared. Sirius had lost count of how many, which he found odd. He felt like he remembered every questioning, anxious day in vivid, excruciating detail, but remembering just how many days had passed was elusive to him. It was a strange limbo, trapped between then and now. Which was ridiculous.

But Sirius knew his emotions, he watched Logan and his weekly café visits for a soldier who probably wasn’t going to show up, he got his hopes up when he thought he saw Remus right there, just outside the café, waiting for him, and he understood that love was a wild, sentient thing that sometimes couldn’t be controlled or willed into submission. Sometimes it was best to just sit back and let it run its course.

It was a slow day - probably due to the weather. Rain was coming down in sheets, soaking the streets and making them glisten. Most people were staying indoors, or running to their destinations under umbrellas or newspapers or anything they could find, not stopping for a coffee or pastry today. The café had only served a handful of customers during Sirius’ shift, including a woman who was still seated by the window watching the rain. She sipped at her coffee idly, bright red lipstick leaving a residue on the rim of her cup.

Sirius wiped down a table (again) and looked for anything to keep him occupied. He smiled at Logan as he joined them, hair messy as if he’d been running his hands through it - a distracted tic Sirius knew he had. He didn’t have a shift that day, but Sirius suspected he was just bored. Lonely. Transitioning from Resistance member to run-of-the-mill café employee was a bit of an adjustment for all of them; they leaned on each other to get through it, sometimes leaving coded messages to decode or little “missions” to complete - who could find Katie’s lost teddy bear first (a classic rescue mission, which Sirius proudly won), who could make the best pancakes (Dumo, to no one’s surprise), who could steal the little ceramic deer on the mantle without Celeste knowing (no one won that one, Celeste was much too attached to that little deer). It helped with the repetition of their days now. And it was a fun way to keep up their skills. There was no danger to any of it, no risk. Sirius loved their games.

That was why, when the woman with the red, red lipstick left and Sirius went to clear the table, he didn’t even bat an eye when he saw a tiny, inked note on the table. He was a bit impressed that Logan had managed to slip it under the plate without the woman noticing, but people always seemed to have a habit of underestimating Logan. He figured he was just next on a very, very long list.

“Dumo,” he called, spinning on his heel to face the two of them, note lifted with a teasing flutter. “I bet my slice of pie tonight that I can solve this before you do.”

Logan scowled at him. “Why can’t I play?”

Sirius blinked, brow furrowing as he looked at the note again. “Because you’re the one who wrote it?”

“I didn’t.”

“Dumo?” Sirius asked, thinking maybe the older man had left the note there when he’d served the woman her coffee. But he just shook his head, as clueless as the rest of them.

Sirius stared down at the paper, a new puzzle to solve. There was something about the code that looked familiar… but he knew it was one he hadn’t seen in…

Sirius dove for the chair closest to him, digging out a pen and his old, tattered book of cyphers from back during the war, and feverishly getting to work. He let his heart race in a way he hadn’t in months, stringing together letters to form words, sentences, until he finished. The paper shook in his hand as he inspected it.

“I’ve got to go,” he blurted out, jumping to his feet again. “Logan, can you - I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll cover your shift,” Logan confirmed. Then, “Where are you going?”

Sirius was already halfway out the door. “I’m going to find the love of my life!”

Come and find me where we first met, the note had said. Nothing more, nothing less. But Sirius knew who it was from. He stepped out into the pouring rain, the chill refreshing in the summer afternoon - an extra shock to his system.

He took off running.

Faster, faster, his heart pounded with the tempo of his footfalls, echoing the splashes of rainwater he left in his wake. Around a corner, zipping past a cart full of flowers, narrowly dodging a woman with a dog, he ran. Down one alley to the next, where he skidded to a halt and stared.

There was a lone man standing stock-still in the rain, umbrella hiding the top half of his face - but Sirius could see his side profile, his lips curled into that lopsided smile he knew from all those months ago.

Remus knew he was there - how could he not? Sirius wasn’t exactly quiet in his haste. But he approached slowly now, in such a stark contrast to his pulse, wet hair plastered to his forehead and rivulets of rainwater tracking down his face. He stopped in front of Remus, the toes of their shoes touching, and raised a hand to tilt the umbrella up, unobscuring his vision.

Whiskey eyes, chocolate freckles, and caramel curls.

“Lousy weather we’re having, huh?” Sirius asked, breathless and barely over a whisper.

Remus beamed up at him, eyes sparkling in recognition at the phrase. “Maybe it’ll shape up,” he replied, and all Sirius could do was cradle his face in his hands and kiss him, deep and fierce and attentive, just like he’d always wanted to. Remus’ head tilted up sweetly to compensate for their height difference and he kissed Sirius back, moving the umbrella so that it covered them both. It was sweet and passionate and - well, wet, with the rainwater and all.

Sirius thought it was perfect.

With rain pattering lightly on the umbrella over their heads, he blinked his eyes open when Remus pulled back, absolutely in love with the sight that greeted him.

Well, shit.

What was there to be afraid of now? Remus wasn’t going to leave, not after finding him again, not so soon. Plus there was no way Remus didn’t have some semblance of feelings for him, not after a kiss like that.

“I think I love you,” he breathed, pushing a curl away from Remus’ temple tenderly, letting his hand linger. The resulting smile was everything.

“I’ve told you I love you in… three languages so far,” Remus recalled, laughing at Sirius’ stunned face. “Plus morse code.”

“I thought I’d imagined that one,” Sirius admitted, thinking back on that meeting. “And I thought the others were compliments or goodbyes, based on the circumstances.”

Remus nuzzled into his hand, then pressed a quick kiss to his palm. “I thought it was too soon,” he confessed. “Or too risky. And then I got reassigned and…”

And.

They both knew the rest.

“Can you tell me now?” Sirius finally asked, right as the rain started to soften. “In a language I actually know?”

Remus laughed, sunshine peeking through the storm clouds. “I love you.”

And Sirius kissed him again, smile against smile, as his heart directly opposed the falling raindrops and soared.

June 2, 1945– 8:15 am

The world was settling. Paris was better than he left it. The morning was calm and bright. Sirius was beautiful.

He had found peace in sleep, sharp cheekbones softening under the sunlight coming through the window and jaw slack with each heavy breath. His hair was longer than before; it spilled over his forehead in loose waves and just brushed the tips of his ears, still mussed from the night before.

They hadn’t bothered with a shower once they were sated and the moon was high overhead. The thought of separating for even a moment had been absolutely out of the question, so they had laid together, as close as they could get, until sleep came for them both.

Remus sighed and tucked a piece of Sirius’ hair behind his ear. He was even in love with the way his nose whistled with each exhale. Really, it was starting to get ridiculous.

He had started searching the second he landed in New York - the janitor of the Manhattan headquarters had to boot him out of the building that first night, luggage and all. Colonel Weasley could mark him as ‘reserve duty’ on paper, but that didn’t mean Remus was ready to shed his spy mantle just yet. He was the best of his division; it seemed a shame to let it all go to the wayside so fast.

It had taken months, but he did it. Sirius - Sirius Black, age 23, resident of Paris, France, Resistance photographer - existed. He was alive, too, as far as the reports could tell. The few photographs of him tucked into a folder stopped Remus’ heart when he first saw them, kneeling on his office floor and losing hope, and every time after that he had to put them behind the other pages so he didn’t get distracted just looking at that picturesque face.

But those long nights and exhausted days and ink stained fingertips had led him right back to Paris, in the end. They let him kiss Sirius breathless in the rain and take him to bed after three years of silent pining, and they let him wake in the mid-morning light to watch his face twitch with a dream.

Remus was never going to let him go again.

He traced the shell of Sirius’ ear with his thumb and let his head rest heavy on their shared pillow. For once, he could just watch. There was no trade of contraband; no goal to excuse their meeting. Remus thought he could handle a quiet existence for once.

Never let me go, Sirius had whispered to him as they left their wet clothes in a heap and tangled each other in the bedsheets, shivering from the rain and the sudden release of years’ worth of suppressed emotion. Remus, he had said, and the sound that escaped him when Sirius’ voice curled around his name like an embrace after so long nearly broke him. Remus, don’t ever let me go.

I won’t. He had not hesitated. Not while Sirius was real and warm and there, right in his arms. Not if you keep me, too.

He hadn’t bothered setting up the little room when he arrived in Paris beyond dropping off his bag–Dorcas had been waiting for his message at their favorite lunch spot with a gleam in her eye, a ring on her finger with M&D engraved in the band, and a kiss for his cheek that left a waxy red lipstick print behind. Missed you, Moonpie.

He had missed her, too. More than he cared to admit.

There was no alarm clock on the nightstand and Remus’ wristwatch was… somewhere, likely in the mess of his clothing where it lay on the floor. He had no idea how long they had spent in bed. Long enough to learn every inch of each other and still have room for more. Long enough to make a dent in the bone-deep yearning to touch that had been plaguing them for a thousand days.

Sirius hadn’t even brought a coat when he ran after Remus. That was stupid, you’re going to get yourself sick, Remus had said into his lips as he practically ripped the buttons of Sirius’ shirt in his haste to get it off.

I’m stupid for you had been the breathless reply before there were hands on his belt and everything went hazy.

Sirius inhaled slowly, his legs stretching all the way out until their feet brushed, and Remus came back to the present to watch the realization wash over him in real time. Sirius was smiling before he even opened his eyes.

“Bonjour.”

Remus’ heart seized. “God, I love your morning voice.”

The sleepy smile vanished in half a second. Sirius tucked his arms under the pillow and sat up to look at him properly, lips parted in befuddlement. “What was that?”

Remus frowned. “What was what?”

“You’ve never spoken English to me.”

“I–” He cut himself off with a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of Sirius’ shock. When he thought about it, though, it was true. They had never spoken anything but French, aside from the occasional ‘I love you’ in whatever language he was sure Sirius wouldn’t know. If Sirius suddenly started speaking Swedish to him, he supposed he would be just as surprised. “Sorry, I’m tired–”

“No, no, no, it’s good,” Sirius said hurriedly, settling back down and shuffling right into Remus’ space until their faces were mere inches apart. His eyes were bright and clear, like summer clouds. A warm hand wove with Remus’ own and squeezed; his heart gave a kick and he kissed Sirius’ nose, just because he could. “Say it again.”

Remus smiled. “I love your–”

“In English.”

“I love your morning voice,” he repeated, then reached out to trail his fingers over Sirius’ stubbly jaw. “Better?”

A soft, dopey smile made his eyes sparkle. “You love my voice?”

Always. “Especially in the morning.”

Sirius’ grin grew. “Why?”

“It’s sweet,” Remus mused, rolling over until Sirius was on his back below him. Two strong arms wound around his waist without hesitation and Remus melted a little, but covered it up by kissing each peak and plane of Sirius’ face as he spoke, pressing every word into his skin. “It’s all rough. You sound happy. Nobody else gets to hear it.” His lips feathered the hinge of Sirius’ jaw and made him sigh. “It’s hot.”

“Re-mus,” Sirius groaned, and Remus grinned into his skin as he was hugged close to Sirius’ sleep-warm body. “Do not say that.”

“Why not?” he teased.

“I have to go to work.”

“What time?”

Sirius dragged him down further and buried his face in the crook of Remus’ neck with a huff. “9 o’clock.”

“Mmm, you’ve definitely missed it by now.” Did he have any clue what time it was? Absolutely not. Was he willing to lie like he was paid for it to keep Sirius cuddly and warm and fucking adorable in bed with him for the rest of their lives?

Well, obviously. And not too long ago, he did get paid for it.

“Hey.” Sirius’ voice was raspy, sending a waterfall of shivers down Remus’ spine. “I love you.”

God. Remus closed his eyes and rested their temples together, breathing in everything about that moment. He wanted to keep it like one of Sirius’ pictures - a perfect snapshot of a perfect morning. “Mon amour,” he said into Sirius’ wayward curls, and felt his chest cave slightly. “In every language.”

He was very glad they had decided not to rinse off the night before. The salt of Sirius’ skin was better than anything he had imagined on those long, lonely nights.

–

“Why do you like it so much when I speak English?”

Sirius ran his hand over Remus’ shoulder blade, silently memorizing the feel of him, bare and warm and a little damp from the shower they dragged out until the water ran ice-cold. They were half-lying on each other again, though they had swapped out the sheets for a clean set in the closet. Remus’ weight on him was as familiar as if they had been sleeping next to one another for years already.

Sirius sighed, and cupped Remus’ cheek in his hand. He could do that, now. Touch him. Hold him. Reach out and not fear Remus shying away. “It’s how you speak to the people that know you best,” he said after a moment. Amber eyes were hooded with drowsy bliss, but entirely focused on him. He would do whatever it took to wake up to that expression every morning of every day to come. “Your family. Your friends. The people you grew up with. It’s your voice, not your French voice.”

Remus’ voice pitched up when he spoke French; not much, but enough that Sirius was coming to adore the low rolls of his American voice with each new word. It meant Remus felt safe and comfortable with him. The careful walls he had constructed could come down a bit. Remus blinked slowly, then nuzzled into Sirius’ palm. “You’d like my family. They’d like you, too.”

“Would they?” A giddy firework exploded in Sirius’ abdomen.

“Mhmm. I told them about you.”

“What did you tell them, mon coeur?”

Remus’ cheeks went pink at the nickname–even pinker than they had been before their shower, when Sirius had him flat on his back. He made another little humming noise. “Told them about my French friend in Paris, who was allergic to shellfish and knew the best places for contraband chocolate. Told them you were kind, and smart, and capable, and brave…”

“Careful, I’m starting to think you have a crush on me.”

“Because I do,” Remus murmured in English, and leaned in to kiss him again.

Sirius had dated before, but none of them had ever been like Remus. He would kiss Remus for days if he had the chance. Could talk with him for hours and never get bored. He wanted to hold Remus’ hand and introduce him to his family and take showers with him every morning - the feeling of Remus washing his hair had blown his mind and weakened his knees - and a million other things that used to seem so mundane. They had had enough action for one lifetime, in his opinion. They were tired. He wanted to rest with Remus.

Speaking of…

Sirius glanced out the window and had to stifle a laugh. Remus was an excellent liar, but after so many years with a window facing the rising sun, Sirius knew where it was supposed to be when he needed to drag himself out of bed and go downstairs to open the café. “Remus.”

He got a happy sigh in response.

“I have to go to work.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

Remus cracked an eye open and glared at him. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Sirius laughed. “Don’t you have things to do, too?”

“I’m on reserve,” Remus said around a groan as he stretched, wrapping both arms and a leg around Sirius. “Means I don’t have to do shit until they call me. And they won’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m very good at disappearing.”

Sirius’ heart stuttered. It was meant as a joke, but Remus had disappeared enough for his liking. It had seemed so easy for him to just go - there had been no warning, no goodbye, no note. Not even a phone call. Logan lingered at the same table every week, but Sirius had watched the phone and searched the crowds just as often. Sometimes he imagined he saw honey curls among the sea of hats or a mischievous, crooked smile, and it shattered him a little every time he was wrong. For a good three months in the middle, once the shock and fear had worn off, Sirius had almost convinced himself Remus did it on purpose. Perhaps he had scared him off. Perhaps Sirius was nothing more than a contact to him, after all.

“Sirius?”

He glanced up. “Ouais?”

Some of the contentment had faded from Remus’ face. “Lost you for a second.”

Lost you for months. Sirius kissed his forehead, right where worry had creased his golden skin so many times. “Don’t disappear on me.”

Remus made a soft, punched-out sound and pulled him impossibly closer. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant–”

“I know,” Sirius assured him. “I know. But still.”

“Never again.” Remus’ long, slender fingers cradled the back of his neck and pulled him down, not to kiss, just to hold. “I never stopped looking for you, Sirius. You were in my dreams day and night.”

“I know.” He allowed himself a full 60 seconds of being held so tight it was hard to breathe before brushing a hand through Remus’ softly curling hair. “I really do have to go to work.” Remus groaned again, louder, and shoved his face into the pillow. “I do! Dumo is going to think I went crazy, or got hit by a car, or something.”

“You didn’t tell him where you went?” Remus hesitated for a moment, then peeked out at him. “Also, who’s Dumo?”

“No, and my…” Sirius faltered. How to begin? “Dad? Boss? My dad, who is also my boss and my landlord and the owner of the café. Adoptive dad, at least.”

“Got it.” Remus didn’t sound like he got it at all, but it was the thought that counted. “You really have to go?”

“I’ll be back by two.” If I can talk Logan into covering for me. Sirius scoffed internally. He would make Logan cover for him, whether he liked it or not. There was not a force in the world that would make him leave Remus alone in a bed for more than a few hours.

“I’ll be here.” A few beats of quiet passed before Remus shifted out of their embrace and took Sirius’ face in his hands. His expression held nothing but honesty and–and a little bit of love. “I’ll be here.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Remus kissed each of his cheeks. “Kocham cię, jag älskar dig, ik hou van je…”

–

June 2, 1945– 1:37 pm

Sirius opened the door and nearly walked right back out again for fear he had stepped into a dream. He settled for leaning on the doorframe instead, stunned into silence save for a soft “oh” that came from somewhere beyond him. Somewhere deeper.

Bacon–not real bacon, of course, probably just very lean meat from probably a pig - sizzled in a pan on the stove, next to two small eggs. Two slices of toast sat on a chipped plate, next to the knob of butter he had been rationing for a month. The whole place smelled better than heaven. It smelled like home.

Then again, that might just have been Remus. Remus, in a frayed flannel robe with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows and a t-shirt over his boxers and a spoon of unknown use stuck between his lips that were still a little red from their morning activities. Remus, whose bedhead looked so utterly ridiculous that Sirius wanted to bury his hands in it and kiss him stupid.

He had only ever seen Remus perfectly professional and put-together before, aside from the previous night, when the moon had been the only thing to illuminate his face with pleasure scribbled across it by a heavy hand. Sirius ached with how badly he needed to see that rumpled gentleness every day of his fucking life.

So he dropped his bag with a thud and kicked his shoes off blindly and caught Remus’ face between his palms, ignoring his surprised noise to pull the spoon away and do exactly what he had been wanting to do since his heartbeat first stuttered. Remus tasted like the morning. He smelled like maybe-bacon and sleep with a hint of the minty shampoo Sirius had worked into his hair after their roll in the sheets.

Remus kissed back just as fervently–perhaps they were getting carried away for so early in the day - and Sirius finally had to drag himself back to rest their foreheads together. “I missed you.”

The spoon clinked as Remus set it in his mug and Sirius suddenly, desperately wanted to know what Remus mixed in with his coffee he needed to know everything – “I told you I’d stay. Also, I made…very, very late breakfast.”

Sirius let out something like a laugh, something like a huff, and wrapped Remus up in his arms. Cold hands untucked his shirt after a moment’s hesitation and came to rest at his lower back; he couldn’t even bring himself to flinch at the temperature difference. “Say it American.”

It was Remus’ turn to laugh, a little husky, before he repeated himself in English. Sirius closed his eyes at the unfamiliar syllables. The hills and valleys of Remus’ voice, the voice the people that really knew him loved.

“Say the last word again,” he requested.

Remus’ thumbs pressed into the divots of his back. “Breakfast.”

“So sharp,” Sirius tsked, drawing another – another! - laugh from him. "Petit-déjeuner. Much more elegant."

“Little lunch.”

“Who’s Madison?” The name felt strange to say. Sirius had met about eight dozen ‘Marie’s and ‘Pierre’s and ‘Jean-Luc’s, but never a ‘Madison’. It even felt like an American name. Remus made a questioning noise. “Your shirt.”

“My– oh.” The last word came out on a snort. “Oh, no, that’s where I’m from.”

Sirius frowned and leaned back to look. Madison, stretching right across Remus’ chest, with a handful of other English words half-hidden by the robe. “You have your mother’s name on a shirt?”

“My city,” Remus corrected, still laughing. His nose scrunched with it and Sirius kissed that, too. “Madison, Wisconsin. I’ll take you there sometime.”

Remus had had a pristine French accent every second Sirius had known him. But the second the words Madison, Wisconsin rolled off his tongue, Sirius recoiled. “What the hell did your mouth just do?”

“My accent?” Remus sounded even more amused than he looked as he tugged Sirius closer by the hem of his shirt. “It’s better, now. I used to call it ‘Sconsin. My dad still does.”

“'Sconsin,” Sirius mimicked.

“You have to say the ‘n’ at the end!”

“I don’t know how!”

Remus’ rounded nose brushed his own, then pressed into the dimple of Sirius’ cheek accompanied by a kiss that made butterflies fill his stomach. “I’ll teach you,” he said in quiet, perfect French that rumbled in his chest. He was solid in Sirius’ arms, warm against his front. His curls tickled Sirius’ nose when he bent to kiss them, and he felt Remus sigh. “We have all the time in the world, and nowhere else to be.”

Oh, but they had thousands of places to be - the park Sirius and Logan took the Dumais children to on Sunday afternoons, the huge, sprawling library he knew Remus would love to get lost in, all the places that had become bare, vulnerable pieces that made Sirius who he was, he wanted Remus to see it all. The good, the bad, everything in between. He wanted to be known, even though it was more terrifying than he could put into words. But, at the same time, there was no one else Sirius trusted more to guard those secrets.

They had time, though, like Remus said. Sirius could show him those places and more, adding new ones to the repertoire because they were special to them, together, as a unit. He wondered what hidden Parisian gems they’d uncover together.

Sirius stayed close, even though it was hot in the kitchen. Kisses were pressed to Remus’ face, a gentle squeeze to his hips. “Secret for a secret?” he asked, delighting in the way Remus laughed, quiet and close and sweet.

“I thought that tradition ended when the war did.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Remus landed a kiss of his own onto Sirius’ collarbone, making him melt more than the heat wafting from the stove. “Go ahead, then.”

“I never thought I’d get to have something like this.” It wasn’t sad, or self-deprecating, just honest and straightforward. Between his parents and the war, the secrets and the hiding and the uncertainty of it all, Sirius had tried his best not to think about it. Why dream of something if it wasn’t meant to be? “I’m glad I do, though. I’m glad you’re here, with me.”

Remus pulled back just far enough to meet Sirius’ gaze, bright and warm and loving and everything Sirius had let himself dream about, once in a blue moon. ”I’m glad I’m here, too.” His hands were making small circles at the small of Sirius’ back, around the dimples there, then farther up under his shirt. Sirius let himself get lost, for just a second, before looking away with an embarrassed laugh.

“Ok, your turn to tell a secret; don’t make me be emotionally vulnerable all by myself.”

Remus pressed his smile against Sirius’ cheek, and god, it was everything. “Yeah, yeah, alright.” He seemed to stall for a second, hesitation in the shape of his frame, the way he held his breath and then let it all out in a quiet rush. “Sharing secrets is… hard for me. Guess that makes sense with the whole, y’know, being a spy thing. Goes against all my training. It’s not as hard with you, though. And I know most of my secrets for a secret-” he laughed a little at the phrase, how it got jumbled up in his mouth, “they haven’t been very deep or meaningful or anything like that - and I’m gonna work on that, I am - but it’s always been… easy, with you. Sharing things. It’s a lot harder to be scared when you’re… you, with that excitement to actually know me, and that big heart, and those soulful eyes-”

Sirius grinned. “Soulful, huh?”

“Shut up, I’m trying to be profound here.”

Sirius laughed, heart swelling, but quieted back down to let Remus continue, soulful eyes watching him adoringly. He was toying with the bottom seam of Sirius’ shirt now, for something to distract himself. Sirius found it strangely endearing, even as he pleated the material between his fingers and left a crease on the shirt he’d just ironed that morning. “I guess… feeling safe is hard for me. I’m sure it is for you, too. But you - you’re safe. I feel safe when I’m with you.”

And fuck, what was Sirius supposed to say to that? Thank you? That didn’t even begin to encompass the rush of emotions currently wreaking havoc on his heart. He simply pulled Remus closer, letting him feel the galloping cadence of his heartbeat, and breathed. Tucking his head, he tried to get closer, closer, he still wasn’t close enough. He finally settled on, “It’s kind of insane how much I love you,” the words a breathless rush, an awed whisper. Remus choked on a noise in the back of his throat, nuzzling into Sirius’ shirt.

“I love you, too.”

They stood like that for a while, food getting cold, and just enjoyed the closeness, the mundane intimacy they’d been desiring for so long now. Breakfast could wait just a little longer.

June 4, 1945

Pascal liked to think he had a sixth sense to detect upset people. It came in handy with his children the most (by birth or by acquisition), as well as the many café regulars who looked as if they needed a little extra boost to get through the day. A free cookie usually did the trick - an extra dash of sugar, or a splash of chocolate in their espresso to brighten their view.

None of those tricks had worked in the wake of Sirius and Logan’s obvious heartache, though. Logan’s wistful staring and silent afternoons at the table by the window hurt to watch after a while; Sirius, bless his heart, was about as subtle as a tank when Minerva delivered the news that his OSS meetups were no longer necessary. Again and again, Pascal wished he could fix their hollow hope with a touch of sweetness.

The beginning of the end of the dark times began with Sirius’ return to the café in the same clothes as the day before, when he had thrown himself into the pouring rain and remained radio silent for more than twelve hours. His radiant smile lifted the heavy stormcloud that had been hovering over their home. There was no more constant downturn to his mouth; no more searching the mail for a note that would never come. Something in him that the war had jarred loose had settled once more.

Pascal was not surprised when Sirius took the next day off - presumably to spend with the still-nameless ‘love of his life’ - and even less surprised when Sirius came shuffling up to him the day after that with anxiety pinching every inch of his face.

“Should I change into something nicer?” he asked mildly as Sirius slowly tortured the edge of his apron between two fingers.

“What? Why?”

“I should make a good impression on your lover, shouldn’t I?”

Sirius froze mid-fidget. Honestly, it was a miracle he had survived as a spy. “I - well–”

“I understand. Coffee stains aren’t usually good for first meetings.”

“Dumo,” he managed, sounding rather strangled.

“What?” Christ, it was fun to tease his sons again. “This is the first date you’ve brought home. I want to do it right.”

The bright red coloring Sirius’ cheeks spread to his ears and he smacked Pascal on the arm with a spare towel. “Stop, it’s not funny!”

“On the contrary, it’s very funny,” Pascal chuckled. “But I’ll leave you be. Where are we meeting?”

“Here.”

Oh. “Oh?”

“Out–” Sirius jerked his head toward the window, where the regular flood of Parisians in the early afternoon milled past. “Outside.”

Pascal squinted, but couldn’t pick out anyone truly exceptional. Everyone seemed either busy or bored - there were a few lovely ladies here and there on their way to work, but nobody he would clock as ‘waiting for their boyfriend to come back’. Then again, if this was who he thought it was, they would be well-versed in blending into a crowd.

“Well, then,” he said, untying his own apron and smoothing his shirt. “After you.”

But Sirius stopped him just before they stepped around the cashier’s counter with a hand on his chest. “Pascal.” He raised his eyebrows at the unease shadowing Sirius’ face. “Pascal, I want you to know that I don’t want this to change anything. And - Dumo, I have never been as happy as I am now. This makes me happy. You’ve become a father to me and it was the greatest gift of my life, so please take this with an open mind.”

Pascal softened, taking Sirius by the hands. They trembled in his own. “I would never judge you for what makes you this happy, mon fils. Your heart is what matters most.”

He only caught a second of Sirius’ face crumpling before he was engulfed in a hug, one he fiercely returned before patting his son on the back and releasing him with a kiss to each cheek. “I’m nervous,” Sirius muttered as they headed for the door.

“I can tell,” Pascal snorted. “One step at a time.”

The sudden noise and chaos of the street made him wrinkle his nose; he had grown too used to the gentle ambience of the café and allowed Sirius to make a path for them through the bustling crowd while he adjusted. Despite his careful casing of each person that passed, he couldn’t place a single one who stood out.

A young woman in a flowered hat - brushed past without a word.

A brunette with shoulder-length curls - frowned when they continued onward.

A tall blonde in a red coat - Sirius ignored her up-and-down look over him, or perhaps didn’t even notice.

Pascal couldn’t help his quiet frustration. What good was a life of spy work when he couldn’t pick out his own son’s lover in a small crowd? It was like Sirius was trying to–

Ah.

Well.

In hindsight, he felt a little stupid for missing him. A single touch from Sirius’ hand, and the young man seemed to materialize next to the postbox despite obviously standing there for several minutes beforehand. His face was mild and freckled, his shoulders broad beneath a light jacket. Sandy hair fell over his forehead, not obscuring his vision but enough to soften the sharpness of his amber eyes. Sirius’ earlier concern made sudden sense.

“Bonjour,” the man said in perfect French. One side of his mouth tilted up higher than the other when he smiled.

“Sirius,” Pascal admonished, though Sirius couldn’t seem to take his eyes off his lover. “An American? Really?”

Sirius shrugged one shoulder, poorly hiding a grin. “C’est la vie.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Moony.”

Moony took the offered hand with a firm grip; Pascal liked him more with each passing moment. “Remus Lupin.” The name came with a mellow American accent before Moony switched back. “And the pleasure is mine, Monsieur Dumais. You make truly excellent coffee.”

“I–” Good Lord. “You’ve come in before, haven’t you?”

Impish mischief flickered over Moony’s – Remus ’ - expression for a millisecond. “Your wife’s sandwiches made for a much-needed dinner many times. If it wasn’t for my job, I would have been here more often.”

Pascal couldn’t recall the last time someone had so thoroughly rendered him speechless. Age seven, perhaps. Maybe eight. He let out a bark of laughter and shook Remus’ hand once more before glancing to Sirius. “I like him.”

“You can’t have him,” Sirius warned, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with the force of his smile. He seemed almost shy as he touched the small of Remus’ back, gesturing toward the café. “Come in, we’ll sit and talk. The street is too busy.”

“Aren’t you busy?”

“We have a back room,” Pascal assured him. “My wife is more than capable of running the front herself, though she’ll want to meet you as well.”

“We can let Adele handle it. She’s capable,” Sirius joked, shepherding them both toward the door with a kind of lightness Pascal wanted to bottle for a rainy day. He had never seen his oldest son look so calm - the fire in his heart had cooled to warm embers, settling a gentle glow over his skin. He watched Sirius’ thumb slide over the fine bones of Remus’ wrist and down to his knobbly knuckles, and in that moment he knew exactly what was coming.

Or rather, what was going.

The handful of customers in the shop hardly batted an eyelash when they entered again and made a beeline for the back room; Pascal caught Celeste’s eye and nodded when she tilted her head toward Remus. A fine blush lit her face like cherry blossoms as she bit down a beaming smile, then bent to Adele’s level and murmured to her for a moment.

“Please, sit,” he said to Remus with a wave of his hand while Sirius closed the door behind them for privacy. “I must say, it’s so good to see you here. I hated seeing my sons pine.”

“Your–” Remus faltered, turning to Sirius as he sat. “I thought your parents left Paris?”

“Pascal took me in.” There was so much patience in Sirius’ voice. So much peace. He was a very different man than the boy burning with righteous fury Pascal had brought into his home all those years ago. Sirius glanced at him with half a smile. “He’s been a better father to me than I can ever say.”

“And you have been a better son than I could have asked for,” Pascal added, watching Sirius’ throat bob. “Which is why I am very glad he has you.”

“I’m lucky to have him,” Remus said honestly. “I was only given a few days’ notice before I was sent back to America and I didn’t know where to find Sirius. I never meant to cause your family pain.”

“I never thought you did.” Pascal reached across the table and patted the back of his hand, then folded both of his own and turned to Sirius with an arched brow. “But that’s not why we’re here, is it?”

Sirius frowned. “What do you mean? I wanted to introduce you to Remus.”

“Sirius.” Pascal gave him a look, and Sirius shifted in his seat. “It’s alright.”

Remus placed a hand on Sirius’ thigh. “I already told you, it’s okay if you don’t come–”

“Let him speak,” Pascal interrupted gently. “Sirius, it’s alright.”

“I–” He exhaled, lacing Remus’ fingers with his own as he kept his eyes firmly on the table.

“It’s alright,” Pascal repeated again, softer.

“Paris is free.” Sirius swallowed hard. He ran a hand through his hair and looked to the side, where spare aprons hung neatly on their hooks. “Paris is free, and Regulus still hasn’t contacted me, and - Pascal, I waited for so long.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have Logan,” he continued. “The café is doing well, and you can give my room to a new hire. Or Logan, his apartment is completely gone.”

Pascal raised his eyebrows. That was news. “His–”

But Sirius wasn’t done. “I’ll come visit.” It was forceful, a sudden gust of wind in the beginnings of a storm. He fixed his eyes on Pascal, and in his gaze was the same spark he had seen when Sirius first arrived on his doorstep. I know you work with the Resistance, he had said then. And I will help. It appeared he had found a new purpose in the calm man still holding his hand. “I will, I promise. This is not goodbye. This is something I have to do.”

God above, Pascal was so proud. “Okay.”

“I can’t let him go again.” There was a tightness in Sirius’ voice; the ghost of something passed over Remus’ face and he looked away. Their last goodbye had been so abrupt–by the way Remus leaned into Sirius even as they sat, the way they couldn’t seem to part more than a few feet, Pascal could guess it had been a harrowing experience for both.

He couldn’t stand another cycle of Sirius’ aching glances out the window for the whisper of a second chance. “Are you following your heart?”

“Yes,” Sirius answered without hesitation.

“Then why would I ever stop you?”

His face crumpled at that, silver eyes turning bright and lip trembling. “I – shit , I knew I was going to cry, and I still have to talk to Celeste–”

Pascal stood and held his arms out; Sirius fell into them in the span of a breath. “I’m so proud of you, mon fils,” he managed through the emotion clogging his throat. “This is the right choice.”

“But I’ll miss you.”

“You’re going to visit, yes?” Pascal gave him one last squeeze before stepping back and taking Sirius by the shoulders as he wiped his face dry and took a few shaky breaths. “You want this?”

“Yes.”

“You’re happy with Remus?”

“So happy.”

“Then go, and live your life, and don’t you dare feel bad for going when we’ll be right where you left us. Come home and bring stories with you.”

Sirius hugged him again after that, then dragged Remus over to join them despite his vibrant blush and slight awkwardness shuffling into the embrace. The door opened just as they parted and Celeste made a soft sound when she saw Sirius’ face. “Oh, mon cher.”

“I’m going to America with Remus,” Sirius said, more solid than before. She gave him a significant look. “Oh! Oh, right, yes, this is Remus. My boyfriend.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Remus,” she laughed, shaking his hand. “Am I correct in assuming you’re the mysterious Moony?”

“I was,” Remus confirmed with a grin. “I take it you figured that out early?”

She winked. “Our Sirius is not known for subtlety.”

“I was a spy,” Sirius noted, winding an arm around Remus’ waist. “For several years, in fact. A good one.”

Remus reached up and touched his cheek gently, where dark stubble was just beginning to appear. He looked at Sirius with such gentleness, such devotion. Pascal remembered watching Celeste with those same soft eyes the day she laughed in the sun and it lit her up like a star on Earth. After everything he had fought for, Sirius deserved to be loved like that. “Definitely my favorite.”

–

September 4, 1945

It was over, really and truly. The death, the pain, the terror of the unknown–after six long years, they could be done. There was so much left to rebuild in the aftershocks, but for now, people were cheering and crying in the streets as fireworks sparkled overhead. They could breathe, and not fear that each exhale would be their last.

“Mon cœur?”

Remus set the newspaper next to the small stack of correspondence from Regulus as Sirius entered the room, soft music following behind him. “Hey,” he said, leaning back for a kiss. “Lunch?”

“Mhmm. I got your… pichet? Water holder thing.”

Remus smiled into the kiss. Since arriving in New York, Sirius had been bound and determined to polish up his English. Said he wouldn’t visit Remus’ family without knowing more than a few greetings, though the nervousness on his face told a slightly different story. It was alright. There was no rush, and Remus was only too happy to help. “Merci beaucoup, mon amour.”

“Quel est le mot?”

“Pitcher.”

Sirius hummed. “Close enough. Sounds the same. Viens avec moi.”

Remus let himself be guided through the house by the hand, but rather than going into the kitchen as he had assumed, Sirius caught him around the waist in the living room and pulled him close. They kissed, chaste and light, before Sirius began to sway in place to the hum of the record player.

“Sing for me,” he murmured, his accent thick and sweet like honey.

“Was it the spell of Paris or the April dawn?” Remus sang softly as he nudged their noses together and kissed Sirius again. He still missed Paris–they both did. He missed the people and the food and the way he could drown himself in another language. He missed breakfast by the Seine, Sirius pressed so close to him that he could feel his warmth. But it was time for a fresh start.

“I love your voice.”

“I love how you dance.”

Sirius grinned as Remus dipped him. “Quite a pair, oui?”

“Oui,” he agreed, and drew him in close once more.

There was so much light, with Sirius. Ease. Repainting the house took them less than a week. Clearing out the evidence of Remus’ desperate search - abandoned in his haste to get to Paris - had taken a day. He was fairly sure Sirius had taken a picture of it before they cleaned up, though he hadn’t asked. There were more important things to talk about.

They spent the first day in bed, exhausted from jetlag and still absorbing their new reality. Remus had tentatively asked whether Sirius wanted to start out with a city apartment before they moved in together and was silenced with a thorough kiss before he got the fourth word out. That was answer enough - they had begun unloading Sirius’ meager belongings that same day.

Sirius had always been a joy, a haven, a companion to share the load Remus broke his back on every day. He was the only person Remus could trust to catch him when he stumbled or slipped - he was the only person Remus could rest with. Rest, and not think about the crushing responsibility he was tasked with. Nothing could touch him in Sirius’ arms.

As they danced in the living room, lit by the sun through gauzy curtains that had once seemed so heavy, Remus could scarcely believe he had been such a wreck mere months ago. He remembered the way he used to feel, as if the mystery of Sirius was a physical wound in his chest. It was soothed by the balm of his smile.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he continued, carrying the tune just above a murmur. “In every lovely summer's day.”

“Quel est le mot?” Sirius asked, sweeping him in a small circle.

“Which one?”

“Lovely?”

Remus closed his eyes at the long ‘o’ of Sirius’ sweeping accent. “Joli. Charmant? One of those.”

“Like you.”

He scoffed, moving closer to hide the blush creeping up his face in Sirius’ neck. “Romantic,” he teased, tickling Sirius’ side lightly before sliding his hand around to the small of his back. “You are the lovely one.”

“Hmm, maybe.” Sirius led them around the room again, spinning and rocking at complete odds with the rhythm as Remus laughed and followed his steps as best he could. And when they reached the end of the song, Sirius let go of his hand so abruptly Remus stumbled, hurrying into their bedroom.

“Hey!” Remus called, a little breathless. “Where’d you go?”

Sirius reappeared a moment later with his camera in hand. “Viens ici,” he panted, dropping a sloppy kiss to Remus’ cheek as if they were back in the Coney Island photo booths.

“I - what–” But Remus’ confusion was cut short when Sirius held the camera at arms’ length and pointed the lens back toward them.

“Sourire,” Sirius whispered with a playful nibble of Remus’ jaw, startling a laugh out of him. The shutter clicked. Their perfect moment froze.

It would be another week until they got the photo. Another week until they saw Sirius’ broad grin next to Remus mid-laugh, both clearly flushed from dancing even in black-and-white against a blurred gray background. It would be eight days until it was framed and hung with care on their bedroom wall. Something beautiful. Something permanent. And at the bottom, next to Sirius’ signature (written after much pestering from Remus), sat a small caption in looping script: I’ll Be Seeing You.

#Sweater Weather #Coast To Coast #lumosinlove #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #coops #ww2 au #rendezvous with destiny verse #cw: food #cw: references to violence #fruitcoops #i’ll be seeing you

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