Cate (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} sheafrotherdon) wrote,@ 2005-02-28 22:33:00 |
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| Entry tags: | fandom:hp:post-hogwarts, fandom:hp:remus/sirius, fanfic:genre:comedy |
Fic: Abner of Astlegate's Most Splendid Pox
Fic: Abner of Astlegate's Most Splendid Pox
Author: sheafrotherdon
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG-13 (for language and innuendo)
Disclaimer: JKR owns the pups, I merely play with them
Summary: Remus is sick, and Sirius is nursemaid. Imagine . . .
A/N: Talk about it takes a villlage. Thanks to raelala and starstillwonder for brainstorming the bunny. Thanks to statelines, who once again held my hand, proof-tested many cookies, and read the whole thing twice. And thanks to devkel who is an unparalleled beta, not least of which for her joy when I reference Yeats in my stories ;)
It was four in the afternoon on Friday, November 17th, 1978, when Sirius Black’s Very Important Thoughts About Radishes were irreparably disrupted by Remus coming home. Sitting at the kitchen table, hearing Remus’ key slide into the door, Sirius thought but why not orange? then Bombay in February? and finally, something’s very, very wrong.
Casting a glance at the toast he’d left on the counter, and the can of sardines still sitting on the floor, Sirius stood in a hurry, folded the paper (to hide fourteen doodles of mangoes in wizarding superhero costumes) and bounded into the hall. “Moony!” he beamed as the front door opened, hoping he could ward off bad news with a sound investment of cheer.
“Hi.” Remus’ smile was wan as he dropped his keys on the floor, and winced as the front slammed shut behind him. He sighed and looked as pathetic as Sirius ever remembered seeing him. “I don’t feel good,” he said at last.
And there it was, the dreadful news. Hardly I lost my leg today in a tragic incident involving a puddle, a monkey, and a packet of crisps or even I just transformed into a werewolf and you know, that hurt like hell but, nevertheless, it was dreadful. Sirius stepped forward and helped Remus out of his coat. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“M’head hurts,” said Remus, leaning against the wall, pressing his cheek to the plaster that Sirius’s had spent a catastrophic weekend in September painting green. “I think I have a fever. And m’so tired.”
Of all the things Sirius hated in the world – purple feather boas, the werewolf registry, pea soup, his mother, jodhpurs, the smell of begonias, and the way that Muggles said ‘cheese’ when they were having their photos taken – Moony feeling unwell was pretty much top of the list. It just seemed so patently unfair to throw illness at him on top of everything else – lycanthropy, poverty, and the world’s worst taste in socks. Sirius pressed his hand to Remus’ forehead and sighed. “Bed,” he said, easing a hand under Remus’ elbow.
“I don’t want to shag . . .” Remus murmured pitifully.
“You daft plonker,” said Sirius, guiding him toward the bedroom. “To sleep.”
Remus managed to huff out a ghost of a laugh.
It didn’t take long for Sirius to ease Moony out of his work clothes, into clean pajama bottoms, and to tuck him between cool, cotton sheets. “A cold, do you think?” he asked, kneeling beside the bed, pushing Remus’ hair back from his eyes.
Remus shook his head. “M’not sneezing. Can breathe all right.” His eyes widened slightly. “No Pepper Up. I won’t. I won’t do it.”
“But it’s fun when your face gets all woogly,” Sirius teased.
“Hmpf.” Remus frowned and shook his head. “Don’t have a cold.”
“What then?” Sirius tilted his head. “People at the bookshop been ill? The kids who stop in after school?”
“No.” Remus yawned and squinted, staring at Sirius through one partially opened eye. “No one’s been coughing or sneezing or . . .” A look of sudden comprehension passed over his face, followed quickly by one of resignation. “‘Cept . . .”
“Except what?”
Remus pressed his lips together. “Nothin’.”
“Remus . . .”
“S’nothin’. Honest.” He closed his eyes and inched further under the blankets. “Goin’ sleep now.”
Sirius knew a stalling tactic when one he saw one (having invented 167 new varieties of his own volition during third year alone) but decided not to push. He kissed Remus on the end of his nose, crossed the room to close the curtains, and crept out of the bedroom to ponder the general problem of How To Make Moony Feel Better, Right Pronto and Fast.
~*~
Remus slept for most of that evening. He refused food, drank water under protest, and only agreed to swallow Muggle headache pills after cursing Sirius (and seventeen generations of Black men in general, which Sirius really rather enjoyed). For his part, Sirius spent his evening trying desperately not to sneak into the bedroom every fifth minute to check everything was all right, because that (as he told his reflection in the kitchen window) was the act of an absolute ninny. Instead he fell to tidying the flat, a task that involved gathering the scattered detritus of their lives into neat but precarious piles, and getting terribly distracted by the instructions printed on four different tubs of custard powder in the pantry. He drank two cups of tea, ate a pickled beetroot, cheese, and chutney sandwich, and sent an owl to James to call him a pribbling spur-galled hedge-pig (since there was never a good reason to stop insulting Prongs). Remus stayed feverish, so Sirius charmed several flannels to stay blissfully cool, and pressed one to Moony’s forehead with a gentle hand. When he finally turned in for the night it was to find himself sharing a bed with a lanky, pointy furnace, so he spelled the sheets to remain crisp and cold, as much for his benefit as the man who slept fitfully beside him.
Sirius dreamed of monsters made of snow (most of whom bore a striking resemblance to Peter) doing battle with fiery demons (commanded by the Giant Squid) over the nation’s supply of Wellington boots and the proper way to say thank you after a six-course dinner. When Remus whimpered “nnuffulle,” in his sleep, Sirius replied, “with cannons?” and neither stirred again for the rest of the night.
~*~
At seven-thirty in the morning, Sirius opened one eye to peer mutinously at the world and made a vague noise of surprise when he found his vision full of spots. He screwed up his eyes and looked again, but the problem remained, brilliantly pink. He arched his eyebrows and stretched his face, blinking rapidly to bring everything into focus. It was only then that he realized the spots were all over Remus’ back.
“Moony?” Sirius shoved himself backwards in alarm and promptly fell clean out of bed. “Ow,” he managed weakly.
Remus stirred and groaned. “P’foot?”
Sirius knelt up, resting his elbows on the mattress, the better to stare at Remus (who’d rolled helpfully onto his back). “You’re covered in spots,” he hissed, urgently.
“S’mean,” mumbled Remus. “S’just a li’l zit.”
Sirius jabbed a finger in the direction of Remus’ chest. “Would you look?” he asked, keeping his distance.
Remus lifted his head and studied his torso. “Bugger,” he said, flopping back against his pillow with a sigh. “Thoughtzo.”
“What, what?”
“S’chickenpox.”
“Chickenspots?”
“Chickenpox.”
Sirius peered blearily at the spots covering Remus’ chest. “They don’t look like chickens.”
“That’s not why . . . “
“Why call it chickenspots if the spots don’t look like chickens?”
“Nggghhhh.” Remus rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Chickenpox. Pox pox pox.”
Sirius gasped a little, and clutched at the sheets. “Are you clucking?”
Remus whimpered. “No.”
“Will you . . .” Sirius reached out as if touch one of the spots but decided against it. “Will there be feathers?”
“No Sirius, oh Merlin . . .” Remus made a small noise of despair and rolled over, face down in his pillow.
Sirius climbed back into bed and fwumped down beside him. “Moony, I don’t want you to turn into a chicken.”
Remus turned his head and gave him a look of supreme patience. “I’m not going to turn into a chicken.”
“Then why’s it called . . . ’
“It’s a chickenpox because of all the poxes in all the world, it’s the weakest. Chicken-hearted blighter.”
“You’re having me on.”
Remus shook his head. “Nope. Learned it in Muggle St . . . “
“Muggle Studies, yes, yes. Why on earth you kept listening after they explained toasters and how the post office works is still beyond me. Chicken diseases. I ask you.”
“And then there’s the wizard explanation. Somethin’ to do with donkeys and old Widow McDaniel.”
Sirius blinked. “Widow McDaniel, the plaid-wearing whore?”
“That’s’a one.” Remus made as if to scratch his shoulder, then stopped himself. “Anyway. Pox’s been going around at the school near the shop for a couple of weeks.”
“Remus Lupin.” Sirius propped himself up on one elbow and scowled with dismay. “You knew what this was last night.”
“I thought it might be . . .”
“You should’ve said! I could’ve done something.”
“Like what?”
Sirius pouted, mutinously. “Plucked the feathers off the blasted little chicken germs for a start.”
Remus half-smiled. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.” He squirmed a little. “Shit, I itch.”
Sirius chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip. “Should I scratch your back?” The thought was particularly appealing to the doggy portion of his brain.
“Musn’t scratch. It makes everything oogy.”
“Oogy?”
Remus yawned. “Technical term.”
“Sounds it.”
“P’raps if I sleep a bit . . .” Remus nestled his cheek deeper into the pillow. “ . . .forget about the itches.”
Sirius paused then nodded, slipped out of bed and pulled the sheets over Moony’s shoulders. “I’ll go see what I can find out about the spotted chickens,” he whispered, conspiratorially.
Remus whimpered softly as Sirius patted him on the head and walked away. Sirius paused at the doorway, then padded back. “Moony?” he murmured. “You won’t . . . you won’t start laying eggs will you?”
The pillow thrown at his face was an eloquent reply.
~*~
A hasty trip to the local branch of the National Wizarding Library thankfully yielded Ye Curious and Captivating Book of Muggle Diseases, as well as two editions of Thomas Tontafont, Power Auror (which Sirius sneaked from the children’s section), and the latest Quidditch retrospective (which was chock full of moving photos of athletic men on brooms). As tempting as the last book was, Sirius hid it under a cushion once back at the flat (working on the surprisingly successful principle of ‘out of sight, out of mind’) and settled at the kitchen table to read about the poxes of chickens.
Ye Chicken Pox
Ye Chicken Pox is a curious disease. Caused by Ye Great Magicks gone Most Terribly Awry, the illness affects Muggles and those possessed of Muggle blood. Summoned into the world by Abner of Astlegate (a traveling wizard with grand proficiency in the hexing arts) the origins of Chicken Pox warn Muggles and Wizards alike to be wary of causing insult and to avoid the intemperate urges of stubborn pride.
Twas Thursday afternoon at half past lunch (1373) when Abner of Astlegate did happen upon a Muggle (John, son of John) tending his flock of peaceable chickens near the Yidminster road. Dusty and travel-worn, yon Abner did request of John the honor of purchasing eggs for his journey. John, liking not the look of Abner, did refuse most heartily, protesting that his hens had not laid. Abner did offer his service as a healer of chickens, a curious profession that did cause John to wrinkle his forehead and say, “Yer crazy old barnpot, there int no such thing.”
At this – weary from travel and possessed of a righteous craving for the taste of egg – Abner did take offense. “Do you doubt me, lad?” he asked in a most Terrible Tone. “I do,” replied John. “Be off wi’ thi y’daft appeth.”
Then did Abner raise himself to his full fifty-one inches and cry, “Thy Rooster is short and unappealing to thy henfolk!”
John (son of John) was taken aback. “I beg y’pardon?” he asked, feeling his manhood cheapened.
“Look how he droopeth!” quote Abner. “He makes not ready for the act of chicken love.”
At this did John’s eyes bulge out from his head and Ye Most Grand and Lasting Argument did take place. After some time, John did charge that Abner bore relation to a donkey’s rear, and Abner did reach the end of his patience. “A pox on both your houses!” he said to chicken and man, and waved his wand in a Manner Unbecoming. Immediately did John (son of John) begin to itch, and Abner of Astlegate rode on to Pondorth (there to save the mayor from a most compulsive backgammon habit, and the Widow McDaniel from purchasing gowns of chartreuse plaid).
There is, alas, no magical cure for ye Chicken Pox. Abner of Astlegate did die of Great Pleasure in the arms of Widow McDaniel the evening of the curse, long before Regret could work upon his mind, and a Counter-Hex be cast. Chicken Pox dost therefore plague the Muggle world, causing Muggle children to suffer the fever, the ague, and the itching spots that do scab and fester if scratched. Adult Muggles do suffer the disease in more rigorous form, and their fevers should be closely watched.
Ye offspring of parents both Muggle and Wizard do suffer the Pox, but without the added dangers which attend ye Muggles of full age. The characteristics of the part-Muggle illness do include (beyond feverish ague and most plentiful spots) the tendency toward:
1) grumpiness
2) petulance
3) sarcasm
4) whining
5) most general pitifulness and woe
Pure blood wizards may rest easy. Their magic dost make them immune.
Sirius closed the book with a snap and almost choked upon the cloud of dust that rose as a result. He was relieved to learn that pure-blood wizards were immune to the disease – or, as he casually remarked to the butter dish, “it’s nice to know that in-breeding’s good for something.” Flipping to the book’s appendices, he consulted the list of ‘Things That May Bring Relief to the Afflicted in times of Trial and Illness,” and after discarding the idea of asking Remus to stand on his head while chewing lavender flowers, or walking naked through the park answering questions with the ‘rebbit’ of a frog, made up a shopping list and apparated to the alley at the end of the High Street.
When Remus next woke, it was to find he’d become the victim of a stealth attack by Sirius (who was feeling helpful). He was covered in pale-pink calamine lotion, had a purple mitten duct-taped to his right hand, and an oven mitt (in the shape of a wedge of cheese) duct-taped to his left. “What the . . ?” he growled, voice rough from sleep.
“It’s so you don’t scratch yourself,” said Sirius as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He cheerfully daubed calamine lotion onto Remus’ neck. “The book said lambs wool was best. That mitten has rayon in it, but . . .”
“Book?”
Sirius nodded and carried on babbling. “ . . . you don’t want to end up with scars.”
Remus looked from his wolf-marked belly to Sirius and back. “Scars?” he asked, incredulously. “Heaven forbid.”
“Oh pffft.” Sirius stood up and wiped at his forehead with the back of a hand. “How’s that feel?”
Remus lifted his right hand. “You’d know if you could only see my fingers,” he offered.
“Hey . . .” Sirius frowned. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Good. Cause I’m about to need a lot of help.”
“Help? How?”
Remus struggled into a sitting position. “I need to use the toilet, and . . .” He thrust his covered hands in Sirius’ face. “I don’t seem well disposed to do it on my own.”
Sirius thought quickly. “How about I find a pair of scissors and snip those right off?” he offered.
Remus blanched. “Snip them off?”
There was a tense moment of silence until Sirius’ face broke in an expression of abject horror. “The gloves!” he said hastily.
Remus fell back against the bed, weak with relief.
~*~
As the day progressed, Remus’ fever went down while the miserable itching of his spots increased.
“Kill me,” he pleaded at half-past three.
“I thought I was the one with the gift for melodrama,” said Sirius, rather put out.
Sirius shared his borrowed Quidditch book, and was mildly appalled when Remus read the articles about the players instead of ogling their brooms. He cooked soup (not chicken, lest it anger the pox) and surprised himself with his world-class ability to coax Remus to eat. When Remus’ eyes began to hurt, Sirius read aloud, his voice lingering over every line of Yeats and cummings’ poetry, charting the contours of other worlds as he dabbled in Tolkien and Lewis, and causing Moony to wince when he recounted the tale of How Great-Uncle Dolton Earned That Limp. He reapplied calamine lotion and chilled the sheets and held Remus’ hands when the latter swore he had to scratch his spots or go mad for want of trying (which produced the only wrestling match Sirius had won against Remus in eight long years). He made up seven bad jokes, and sang four new verses of “Wizards Do It With Their Wands,” and offered to let Remus braid his hair if it would help with the boredom. By seven o’clock, Remus was sleeping again, and Sirius watched for quite some time, curiously uninterested in walking away.
With nothing to do and nowhere to go, Sirius devoted his evening to cleaning the kitchen for the first time in weeks, reading one of his Tontafont books, and calling James a knavish elf-skinned puttock by return owl post. (“Dear James. Nice try with the ‘currish flax-faced flap-dragon,’ but I think you’ll find that’s actually your future sister-in-law.”) He checked his diary for the dates of the following week’s training exercises (two days of home-study, a written test, a practical, and a three day workshop in Uzbekistan with the other Auror trainees) and practiced his belching for a while. After successfully burping his way through ‘God Save the Queen,’ (it took three tries to get it just right) Sirius eyed the wall above the fireplace, and tried to imagine it pale blue. By the time Remus called for him, he’d mentally redecorated the entire living room in shades of violent tartan, and it was a mercy Remus woke when he did and saved the walls from imminent doom.
“All right?” asked Sirius, sticking his head around the bedroom door.
“Itchy,” said Remus, miserably. “Thirsty. Can’ve some water?”
“Mmmhmm.” Sirius collected the empty glass from beside the bed. “You know, the book has one more suggestion for helping with the itching thing.”
Remus eyed him doubtfully. “Does it involve sex?”
Sirius looked at him like he was mad. “Of course it doesn’t involve sex. Who do you think I am?”
“Sirius Black.”
It was an excellent point. “Be that as it may . . .”
“Does it involve beetle innards?”
“Definitely not.”
“Am I required to recite anything in Senegalese?”
“No.”
“Do things end up glittering?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
Sirius smiled. “It can be a surprise.”
Remus stared at him for such a long time that Sirius actually considered checking the mirror to see if he’d grown a second head. Finally, Remus nodded. “Anything to stop the bloody scritch scritch scratch,” he murmured, pushing himself into a sitting position and waggling his fingers distractedly.
Sirius fetched water and left Remus to sip it while he made his preparations. It took seventeen trips to the kitchen and back to get everything ready (he counted, somewhat viciously) and he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ever get the smell of breakfast out of his clothes. Nevertheless, after twenty minutes and a couple of spells that backfired rather tragically, he showed up in the bedroom doorway wearing purple Bermuda shorts and a beatific smile. “Ready!” he crowed.
Remus swung his legs out of bed and watched him warily. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Getting things ready.”
“You just look so . . . smug.”
“And you look crankier than my mother on her wedding day. Would you come on? It’ll be cold if you don’t.”
Remus chewed on his bottom lip, and stood swaying gently. “Your shorts frighten me.” He shuffled toward the door. “What on earth are they for?”
“Oh, you know . . .” said Sirius, pointing Remus toward the bathroom with the air of one addressing a child. “Spell bounced off a mirror and instead of . . . . well . . . anyway this happened . . .”
“The same spell that made those shorts is supposed to stop me from itching?”
“So says the book. I . . .” Sirius scratched the back of his neck. “I ‘fess I don’t exactly know how it does it but . . .” He slipped around Remus to stand in front of the bathroom door. “Ready?” he asked eagerly. Without waiting for an answer he threw the door open. “TA DA!” he said, gesturing wildly with his hands.
The concept of an oatmeal bath had, in Sirius’ hands, gone rather awry. Rather than providing Remus with the chance to soak in oatmeal-infused water, he’d filled the bath to the brim with porridge, and placed a bowl of cut fruit where the soap-dish used to be. Sirius pulled Remus enthusiastically into the bathroom, unable to read the stunned expression on the latter’s face. “It’s supposed to be soothing,” he explained with a grin.
Remus’ mouth worked for some time before any sound came out. “You’re trying so hard aren’t you?” he asked, slightly dazed.
“I think you stand in it,” said Sirius. “I think that’s the ticket – you stand it in and then you eat it and somehow that makes the itching go away and I got you a spoon, the spoon you like best, with the curly bit at the end where it fits in your palm? Here.” He pressed the spoon into Remus’ hand.
Remus (befuddled, cranky, touched and speechless) let himself be undressed and guided into a lukewarm tub of Scotland’s best. He stood, spotty and naked, with oatmeal up to his knees, a spoon in his hand, regarding Sirius with the sort of look reserved most usually for the insane.
“Brown sugar?” asked Sirius, offering the cubes they kept to put in the dark Italian coffee Peter liked best.
~*~
Even with the help of magic, it took an age to clean the bathtub, and by the time he was done Sirius was tired and sore. He hobbled back to the bedroom, where Remus was dozing by the half-light of his wand. “Still itchy?” Sirius asked as he took off his sodden, purple shorts.
Remus flinched, startled awake. “Bock-ah?”
Sirius smiled as he padded over to the bed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Bock, bock.” Remus turned on his side to face Sirius, smiling, eyes-half closed. “Bockbockbock.”
It was a testimony to Sirius’ fatigue that he didn’t notice the clucking. Instead he picked up his wand from the bedside table and re-cast the cooling charm upon the sheets before slipping beneath them.
Remus groaned happily. “Bockbockboccccck.”
Sirius nodded, sleepily, eyes drifting closed. “I’m glad it helps with the itching.”
“Bockbock.” Remus shifted onto his side and nuzzled Sirius’ arm. “Bock. Booock.”
There was a long, blessed moment of silence punctured only by the soft whiffle of their breathing . . . before Sirius sat bolt upright in bed. “What the bloody fuck?” He stared at Remus with horror. “You . . . you’re . . .”
“Bock?” asked Remus, wide-eyed.
Sirius gestured wildly and tumbled out of bed in a pile of gangly limbs. “Merlin’s pickled golf balls on toast – you’re clucking like a fucking chicken!”
Remus made a small strangled noise and pressed his lips together hard. Sirius gestured at him, still horrified, and a wholesale chortle burst out of Remus’ mouth. Comprehension began to slowly dawn on Sirius’ face, and that seemed the last straw – Remus burst into full-blown laughter, wrapping his arms around his spotted belly and mumbling feeble chicken noises as he writhed.
“You!” Sirius scrambled to his feet and jabbed a finger toward the cackling man in his bed. “You utter fucking arse!”
Remus laughed harder. “Chicken!” he gasped, a tear rolling over his cheek. “Bock . . . bock . . . chicken . . .”
Sirius squared his shoulders and tried to look dignified, but that seemed to make Remus laugh more. Crossing to the bed he lay back down, yanked the sheets up over his head, and curled up with his back to the laughing bastard who was making the mattress shake. “Arse,” he mumbled from underneath the sheet.
“Aww Padfoot,” said Remus, wheezing happily as his chuckles hitched and began to fade. He inched closer, lifting the sheet so that he might hide under it too, pressing himself against Sirius’ back. “I couldn’t help it. You’re just so . . .”
“Wanker.”
Remus chortled, and pressed his forehead against the nape of Sirius’ neck. “I’m sorry. Come on. It’s funny.”
There was a low grumble from the man he held. “After all I’ve done for you today.” Sirius rolled over, and with the uncomplicated movement of men who knew each other intimately, they both rearranged their limbs until they were curled up together, holding tight. “You thankless fucking arsehole.”
“S’me,” said Remus, head tucked under Sirius’ chin.
Sirius humpfed. “Git.” He reached over for his wand and cast a charm to cool his skin, lest being tangled up together should irritate Remus’ spots. He could feel Remus’ smile, even if he couldn’t see it.
“I thought we needed to laugh a bit,” Remus confessed. “I’ve been s’grumpy, and you’ve been s’worried . . .”
“I have not.”
“Ha.” Remus nuzzled his cheek against Sirius’ shoulder. “You lying shit.”
“Pfft.” Sirius shrugged, feeling sixteen again, unmanned and gawky and a lot like he’d like to break into his father’s wine cellar. “Maybe.” The word had sharp corners, so he shared the discomfort by poking Remus in the ribs. “But I didn’t bloody laugh, did I? I thought you were turning into a fucking chicken.” Remus ouched softly, and Sirius realized he’d been squeezing him as he spoke. “Shit. Sorry.” He sighed. “Guess I might have been a bit worried. A really little bit.”
“Sorry I’ve been such a pain in your behind.”
“S’Ok.” Sirius sighed, pressing a kiss into Remus’ hair. “It’s all OK. All except the fucking clucking, for which you will pay the very second you’re well again.”
“Pay?”
“You can change the oil in the bike. Cook for an entire week and serve cabbage at every meal. Or trade sexual favors. Your choice.”
“I’m not going near your bike. And you know the smell of cabbage makes me vomit . . .”
“Hmmm.” Sirius shook his head slightly, as if in wonder. “Who’d’ve thought? Sex it is. I’m going to make a chart. Make a chart and keep it in a notebook and everytime you’re a whinging bastard you’re going to owe me the sexual favor of my choice.”
“Sirius?”
“Mmm?
“I just . . .” Remus paused as if to gather his thoughts. “I . . .”
“I love you too, y’ great spotted beast.”
“Booooock bock bock bockbockbockbock,” Remus replied.