psocoptera

So I kind of think I'd like to be writing more, without worrying about whether stuff is good, just to build up some writing muscles. I've even been thinking about posting scenes and parts of things before they're finished, which would be a big step for me, just to remove the temptation to tinker with them and encourage me to get on to something else.

Also I totally failed to do the first half of one of my main goals for the week yesterday (was very bad day, anxiety and inability to focus and all that), such that I now can't do the second half today, and am sitting around at work without much to do dreading my boss coming back and asking what I've been up to, especially as I don't seem to have any colonies from the major thing I *did* do yesterday, possibly because I screwed it up because of the aforementioned badness.

Er, anyways, so I figured I might as well post fic. This was mostly written on the bus a week or two ago; I think the basic idea was interesting but I'm not sure I like what I did with it.

Remus wants. Sirius wants to help. A moral argument ensues.
Reciprocal.

"You don't have to suffer like this," Sirius tells him.

Remus flinches and snarls.

"No," he says lowly. It rumbles.

"But-"

"No!"

Sirius has learned enough to wait until the red points fade from Remus' eyes and he draws a long breath, to wait for him to - there - look at his fingernails and let the breath out.

"I just think it might help," he says. "It wouldn't... it wouldn't be real, you know. I just want to help."

Remus is trembling more or less constantly, as he has been for the long six days that Sirius has been thinking about this, and the longer seven weeks he has been worrying about Remus who has never once looked completely relaxed. But now he twitches, a quickly-snuffed grab for Sirius' arm.

"It's okay," Sirius says. "It would be okay."

"Really?" Remus says in a small voice. "You'd..."

"Yeah," Sirius answers, not wanting to make Remus say it. "I can. I mean, I have. Not - not for..." He blushes deeply and Remus has to bite his lip to hold himself back.

"I'm so telling James that," he says instead.

"Actually before Lily -" Sirius blurts out, then catches himself and splays his fingers between them, wincing.

"God," Remus says, "Did you all? And Peter, too?"

Sirius gives up, rolls his eyes. "It wasn't *together*, Remus. And you know how much help he needed with the Animagus."

"But - surely it's not - "

"Well, it's *easier*, of course, since the really tricky bit is holding your mind together enough to pull out, but it's all the same thing really, knowing your body. And you know we're going to be doing the frog transfiguration in Defense this year, so really, it's not - "

"It *is*, Sirius." He's shaking hard now, and Sirius thinks he knows something about cravings; can't he just see how much better he'd feel?

"Really?" he says, challenging him. "Worse than enfrogging a living, thinking wizard?"

"It's not about the transfiguration," Remus growls, "It's about what's after."

"But if it's what you need," Sirius says. "It doesn't mean you want it. You know you didn't choose this. I know."

"You don't know anything about what I want," Remus snaps.

"But," Sirius says. "Look, I - as the dog. I mean, I *smell* them, and I just... well, you know. I have."

"Animals!" Remus howls. "You think there's not a difference? If there's not a difference how come it's never enough, how come I can go out every month and still smell and think and feel nothing else but - " He throws back his head and moans deep in his throat.

"Yes," he says panting. "Yes. Just - tonight," he says, staring at Sirius hungrily, running his tongue across his teeth. And then frowns, one last objection. "There won't - I won't have to see - the mess?"

"Broken glass principle," Sirius reassures him. "Mass times surface over complexity; smash the teapot and you get little blobs of tortoise."

Remus makes a face and tries not to think about it.

It's summer, so there's no James and Peter to get rid of. Sirius goes out and catches a coney, a little doe out of habit, and works the spell. It really is much easier than turning himself into the dog. When he's done she still wants to bolt for the bushes, scrabbling on hands and knees, but he conjures rope and binds her wrists to a tree.

He sinks into the dog then, goes back to where Remus is waiting, waits with him as the moon creeps huge and round up from the horizon. Remus watches his fingernails until the change takes him and he can only twist and shudder.

When he has pushed himself to his feet, there's no need for Sirius as guide; he sniffs the air and is running. Sirius is a stumble of paws trying to keep up with him. When he finally catches up, it's in time to see him pausing on the edge of the clearing where he left the doe. She's still there, against the tree, kicking spasmodically, and Sirius wonders if he should have let him have the thrill of the chase, or if this will be enough. Sirius can't remember what color hair he gave her; it looks black in the moonlight. Her eyes are doe-wide and witless. Her heart beats rabbit-fast as the wolf slinks forward, and leaps.

***

Right, so if that wasn't clear, the "reciprocal" in question is that if you can transfigure humans into animals (as in the Amazing Bouncing Ferret), you should be able to transfigure animals into humans. Animal-to-human transfiguration (and the implication that it's for sex) is not original to me; Barb did it to her snake character in Triangle Prophecy. The idea that these "humans" might be able to satisfy a werewolf's desire for human blood is my own, though. I kind of wish I had come up with something better to do with this than bait-and-switch ("they're talking about sex! no, they're talking about killing! no, they're..."), but, enh, good to get back to writing dialogue...