Chapter Text
Remus doesn't like his job.
It's the first thing people assume about him when they see him at work, and it's usually the only thing they're right about.
What Remus likes is being able to pay the rent and have enough left for food and his library card subscription.
Plus, it's an absolute rarity for an employer to be okay with him disappearing for two days every month and showing up haggard, with bruises and cuts that look too lethal to have healed so quickly. Yet he's been working at the remote petrol station for half a year.
And Remus should be grateful.
This is usually the only thing that keeps him walking to work at 3 AM. As of three weeks ago though, there's been a new motivation, albeit one he represses every time it crosses his mind.
A smile, and the man it belongs to. Sirius, he's said his name was, which is a vast improvement on 'man who's been coming into the shop bi-weekly to buy a pack of cigarettes, a cola and flirt ruthlessly with Remus’.
The attendant doesn’t have a crush on him or anything, he doesn't. It’s probably just the regularity of the customer’s appearances standing out in Remus' otherwise pretty solitary life.
He’s expecting to see him, but he never knows whether he will. That’s why he keeps wondering about what his day’s been like, why he’s started perking up at the entry bell ringing again, why he fusses with his hair like he hasn't done since he was a teenager.
That’s why.
For once, Remus is grateful he doesn’t have anyone close enough to him to call him out on the new shampoo he bought specifically because of a compliment on his curls Sirius had given him. But that doesn't say anything, right? Compliments are just nice?
On a rainy Tuesday where the possibility of seeing the practical stranger again had pulled Remus out of bed, he sees him again.
He makes his usual entrance, it being around noon and Remus having just got off break. The entrance bell sounds and he looks up from the cash register, greeted by Sirius cheerfully smiling at him.
“Morning, John.”
Remus got his middle name put on his name card months ago as a small rebellion, so even the most demanding customers can never get all of him. Sirius doesn’t know this.
“Afternoon, Sirius,” Remus greets, already getting up to grab the familiar brand of cigarettes. “The usual?”
“That’s disappointing, have I become predictable?”
“Depends, are you about to make a candy pun?”
Sirius’ smile dims a little as he lowers the Flake bar he’s picked up.
Remus, while trying his hardest not to laugh and failing, takes pity.
“Let me guess, being predictable is better than flakey?”
Sirius brightens. “Yes! You’re getting better at guessing them, you’ll be making them to me soon.”
“God, I hope not,” Remus winces.
“Are you afraid of my magical comedic instincts rubbing off on you?”
Remus fights the smile on his face and fails again. This ridiculous man. “Magical? You’re confident.”
“Oh, more so than you know, John. And the confidence thing too,” Sirius says faux-secretively, leaning casually against the counter.
The attendant feels like he’s missing something there but the entrance bell rings before he can figure it out.
A man in his twenties, about Sirius’s height, closed posture, wearing an ugly leather jacket walks in, slamming the door so it shakes the glass.
He takes out a gun and points it at Remus, eyes set.
“Give me everything you have right fucking now.”
Oh shit. Weren’t they talking about stupid puns a second ago?
Apparently he waits too long to move. “Are you deaf? Get your fucking money and put it in the bag!,” the man shouts. He shrugs his bag off his shoulder awkwardly and throws it onto the counter. Remus can’t move. He can’t breathe. What the fuck?
“Mate, you’re not wearing a mask.”
The voice comes from Sirius, who is now slowly moving towards the man.
He points the gun at him. “Shut up, give me your wallet. And get the fuck back!” He’s clearly caught off guard by the frozen attendant and utterly calm customer, looking between them warily.
Sirius, for some reason unfathomable to Remus, keeps walking.
“We’ve both seen your face, and you’re on camera pointing a gun in ours. Do you really want to do double murder-jailtime instead of a robbery one?,” his voice is earnestly informative, not condescending, but it makes no difference.
His head is almost to the gun now, and the man shifts his feet, nervous.
“I said get the fuck back!” The man rears back so fast Remus thinks he’ll shoot him and springs to life, hearing a ragged “NO!” yelled in his voice.
Instead he punches Sirius in the nose, hard.
He stumbles, caught off guard, and crashes into the shelves, making it rain bags of candy around him. He clutches his face, blood seeping through the gaps in between his fingers already, but thankfully conscious.
“What the fuck,” Remus mumbles, and then the gun is back on him.
“Think I’m fucking around? Put the money in the bag, now! I’ll shoot him AND you!”
Remus feels capable of movement now, but he still doesn’t go for the cash register, just looking in the man’s eyes, down the barrel of the gun.
Who the fuck does this guy think he is, thinking he gets to hurt people? This random guy who smiled at Remus for weeks with barely any response or expectations. Who does he think he is to cause that guy pain?
Cause- he-
Remus’ eyes blur. He squirms, stretches out his arms and hits the counter with his palms, barely registers the flat pain, barely registers the man yelling “What the - wrong with- hand - money- NOW!”, there’s a ringing in his ear, then it’s buzzing, no, a hum, a microwa- NOW.
The moon isn’t supposed to be taking over until tonight, it never has before dark before, but it is anyway, Remus realises, feels, and then he doesn’t, because the animal is feeling it for him.
He tries to keep it in- in keep it in can’t you keep- shit- words are echoing around his skull, but he can't tell whether they’re thoughts or memories.
He’s barely aware of his shaking hands, why is he gripping the counter? When did he- Humanity, cling onto cling onto- barrel of a gun. Blood seeping through fingers. Man.
NOW.
Who does he think he is?
Remus is gone. He is aware, he always is, but barely, a lingering entity in the back of the wolf’s mind. Vital, someone to protect, blurred in the lines of the other DNA, an episodic memory of feelings, attachment.
The giant, bony then wildhaired, furious, terrifying wolf that now stands with its long curved claws digging into the counter may be a reflection of Remus, but it is nothing human.
The man with the gun recognises this immediately, eyes wide as saucers, and instinctively selects the fight-response.
His hands are shaking wildly but he shoots anyway.
The bullet pierces a pack of cigarettes on the shelf.
The wolf he’d aimed for had jumped forward just before. He now stands with one paw on the man’s chest, leaning in close, snarling.
Eye to beast’s eye, the man struggling to breathe under the weight, utterly defenceless, gun slid under a shelf.
The wolf growls, digs his claws in just a little, killer instinct present. This is new, he’s only ever killed animals.
Bad man, danger, protect, destroy. Eyes, brown eyes, human’s eyes to beast’s. Human. Sweat. Fear. Emotion. Man. Autonomy. Person.
A voice in the back of its mind screams.
The beast suddenly lets up.
The man is frozen for a second, but he isn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth (let alone a wolf) and runs . He whizzes straight past his car and runs on foot, slipping on the smooth concrete, a gun lighter.
Once he’s out of sight the wolf remembers the other man, the nice one, the good one. When he looks for him he is there, and he is looking at him. Nice man, good man. Blood on his face. Hurt friend.
The wolf whines, and skitters over. The man flinches, scared, and the sound of paws clicking on lino flooring stops. The wolf half-howls quickly. The man’s shoulders drop a little, getting up. The man is saying things it can’t understand, placating.
When he reaches a hand out the wolf runs out, confused. He expects the man to follow him out, but when the door rings open there is no man, only a dog. He’s smaller than the wolf but still big, with shiny black fur and a bloody nose.
The dogs ends up being easier to understand. At first the wolf is scared and defensive, but slowly and surely the dog gains his trust. It leads him through the rainy quiet streets and alleys under the cover of night and broken street lamps to a familiar forest.
There they play for hours, running, chasing, catching, running again. It’s fun, at one point he sees a white rabbit and chooses to chase after the dog still. The wolf is much faster, much stronger, but he feels no urge to kill or harm. Pack, maybe. Friend. Close.