[Feelings are very hard, and there is no such thing as playing Chicken.
In the lounge, on the most comfortable of the space sofas, the one that has been plumped up with magical modifications, Padfoot is flopped with his chin laid on a stack of pillows. If he would sit properly, head raised, tail curled at his side, he might look regal, like a bookend. He would make a horrible bookend, sat as he is right now, limp and dejected, all of the air let out of him.
Dejected, but still: his nose works at the air, picking out the smell of Remus as he comes closer. His tail doesn't wag, and he doesn't lift his head, but his ears prick a little, and he turns his eyes toward the door, expectant.
On the floor beside the sofa is the bottle of awful space whisky. Dogs can't open it, but it's been opened, and someone (zero guesses as to who) has already imbibed some.]
if you don't laugh/cry can i still keep the action?
[ Remus can think of exactly one thing sadder than a deflated, mourning dog, and that'd be Sirius, human-shaped, in the same position. This is easier. Miserable, but easier.
He stoops to swipe the whisky up off the floor and takes an experimental swig from the bottle, fighting against the tickle in his throat until he's sitting down near Padfoot's hind legs—probably on his tail, sorry—and the movement jostles him enough that he can't help coughing. ] I keep hoping it will really put hair on my chest, [ he says while he blinks the water out of his eyes. It's a weak joke, if it's even a joke at all, mumbled without a proper smile and followed by a regretful face-scrunch. Not the time for jokes.
Not the time for anything, probably, except sitting here and trying to soak up some misery through proximity. Remus rests the empty bowls on his lap for now, looks sideways to consider how much liquor something Padfoot's size could hold vis-à-vis Sirius, and while he's considering stretches his free hand over to tug with gentle-but-not-too-gentle affection on one of his ears. ]
Were you serious?
well i did laugh but my answer still would have been yes ftr
[Padfoot is a good-natured dog, or else a more patient version of Sirius, an expression of all the leeway he grants his friends condensed into expressions and moments just like this. If someone pinched Sirius' ear while he was laying on a sofa, he would turn around snarling, no matter what sort of day it had been. When Remus does it to Padfoot, he only tips his head back a little, almost obligingly--certainly with a great deal of patience--and rolls his eyes backwards to consider his assailant.
Eventually he gives a shake to his head, freeing his ear--not because he lost patience, but because he wants to turn around and answer the question. He tugs his tail free as he rises to his feet, and does the paw-prancey dance known to all dogs who try to walk on soft surfaces before, at last, he's turned about toward Remus.
Pointedly, he leans in to lick the whisky bottle, tongue slurping quickly over the ridge of the bottle where Remus' mouth had been just moments before. There's a few drops still there; Padfoot licks his mouth, and then again, trying to get used to the taste. But that's still a yes, he was quiet serious.]
[ When Padfoot licks the bottle, Remus makes a habitual and half-hearted scoffing noise in protest—he lost the right to be finicky the fifth time he tried to eat his own arm, if not the first, and he wouldn't have any qualms about drinking after Sirius. But dog spit is different, if only in principle.
Still: half-hearted. Maybe only quarter-hearted.
He tips the whisky over the bowl long enough to pour out maybe half a human-sized portion, moves the bowl off his thighs and onto the sofa in front of the dog, and gives the lip of the bottle a cursory wipe with his sleeve. ]
You'll have to tell me what it's like.
[ Maybe it's not so different. Remus puts a hand on Padfoot's shoulder blades and scratches his fingers down between them. It's more an absent minded gesture than a sympathetic one, with Remus' head lolling back against the sofa so he can look at the ceiling.
Remus doesn't hate this place. He doesn't want to go home. But if Edgeworth comes back, and James comes back, and they stop somewhere habitable—
He doesn't say it. Maybe when Sirius has had some time to recover. And isn't a drunk dog. ]
[Padfoot watches the filling of the bowl with a measure of doggy eagerness that he can't quite stamp out, despite his malaise. His tail doesn't wag, but his ears prick, hopefully, and as soon as Remus sets it down, he's on it, snuffling wetly at the interior before he really digs in.
The industriousness of his feeding makes him a little wriggly, but he is, generally, rather still, especially under the slight weight of scritches. It's as pleasant a feeling as the slow spread of numbness at his mouth. He has to take a break for a moment to lick at his chops, cleaning off some of the excess droplets of whisky. It isn't a pause that lasts very long, and the next time he finishes, the bowl is empty.
With a snuffly grunt, he noses at the bowl. It is well and truly empty, but he licks at the interior for good measure, then pushes at the bowl until it's pressed against Remus' leg. And then he makes a whiney growly noise, almost a yap, and paws, hopefully, at the same leg. Oi, in dog, comes out a little needier in drunk dog.]
[ Remus un-lolls his lolled head and moves his hand under Padfoot's chin to hold him still, for just a second, and look him in the eyes. Like he'd be able to tell how intoxicated he is by his pupils. Maybe he would be able to if he knew what he was doing, but as it is it's just for show. I have my eye on you. No alcohol poisoning on his watch.
Probably.
He lets go and pours a dash of alcohol into the bowl, says, ] No more until that's settled, [ and resumes staring at the ceiling. He isn't quiet very long. ]
I tried to thank him for helping me once.
[ Maybe that's abrupt, maybe it's unwelcome, maybe it's unhelpful when Sirius is canine and drunk, but the ceiling is only so interesting. And Remus is thinking of home, where he can't talk about James or Peter because anyone who cares at all is trying to put it behind them, moving on because they have things to move on to, and sometimes it feels like no one else remembers. ]
[Some dogs might try to pull away from such a direct grip, but Padfoot is capable of holding quite still under the hands of certain people. Remus falls on that list, right toward the top--still, once he's been released and there's whisky in the bowl again, Padfoot goes right for it, slurping noisily at the contents. The limitation goes nearly unheard; he's too eager to get his fill.
He does manage to catch the bit about Edgeworth. Dogs aren't incapable of their own form of jokes, but the verbal subtleties of a human joke are sometimes lost on them--Padfoot has the advantage of his more nuanced comprehension, informed by human bits of thought that sometimes filter through. He's finishing off the bowl when the remark comes, and the huff of breath that he makes comes out all echoed against the interior, amused at the thought. That does sound like Edgeworth, and he raises his head to look up at Remus, droplets of whisky hanging from his muzzle. A quick swipe of his tongue wipes them clean, and he makes a quiet whine of agreement. He was awful, was Edgeworth. There's a bit of whisky left still, but Padfoot lowers his head to press his wet nose to the back of Remus' hand, like: yes, or thanks, maybe.]
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action now as reward for linking me to tumblr which i can't see at work but will probably laugh/cry
In the lounge, on the most comfortable of the space sofas, the one that has been plumped up with magical modifications, Padfoot is flopped with his chin laid on a stack of pillows. If he would sit properly, head raised, tail curled at his side, he might look regal, like a bookend. He would make a horrible bookend, sat as he is right now, limp and dejected, all of the air let out of him.
Dejected, but still: his nose works at the air, picking out the smell of Remus as he comes closer. His tail doesn't wag, and he doesn't lift his head, but his ears prick a little, and he turns his eyes toward the door, expectant.
On the floor beside the sofa is the bottle of awful space whisky. Dogs can't open it, but it's been opened, and someone (zero guesses as to who) has already imbibed some.]
if you don't laugh/cry can i still keep the action?
He stoops to swipe the whisky up off the floor and takes an experimental swig from the bottle, fighting against the tickle in his throat until he's sitting down near Padfoot's hind legs—probably on his tail, sorry—and the movement jostles him enough that he can't help coughing. ] I keep hoping it will really put hair on my chest, [ he says while he blinks the water out of his eyes. It's a weak joke, if it's even a joke at all, mumbled without a proper smile and followed by a regretful face-scrunch. Not the time for jokes.
Not the time for anything, probably, except sitting here and trying to soak up some misery through proximity. Remus rests the empty bowls on his lap for now, looks sideways to consider how much liquor something Padfoot's size could hold vis-à-vis Sirius, and while he's considering stretches his free hand over to tug with gentle-but-not-too-gentle affection on one of his ears. ]
Were you serious?
well i did laugh but my answer still would have been yes ftr
Eventually he gives a shake to his head, freeing his ear--not because he lost patience, but because he wants to turn around and answer the question. He tugs his tail free as he rises to his feet, and does the paw-prancey dance known to all dogs who try to walk on soft surfaces before, at last, he's turned about toward Remus.
Pointedly, he leans in to lick the whisky bottle, tongue slurping quickly over the ridge of the bottle where Remus' mouth had been just moments before. There's a few drops still there; Padfoot licks his mouth, and then again, trying to get used to the taste. But that's still a yes, he was quiet serious.]
score
Still: half-hearted. Maybe only quarter-hearted.
He tips the whisky over the bowl long enough to pour out maybe half a human-sized portion, moves the bowl off his thighs and onto the sofa in front of the dog, and gives the lip of the bottle a cursory wipe with his sleeve. ]
You'll have to tell me what it's like.
[ Maybe it's not so different. Remus puts a hand on Padfoot's shoulder blades and scratches his fingers down between them. It's more an absent minded gesture than a sympathetic one, with Remus' head lolling back against the sofa so he can look at the ceiling.
Remus doesn't hate this place. He doesn't want to go home. But if Edgeworth comes back, and James comes back, and they stop somewhere habitable—
He doesn't say it. Maybe when Sirius has had some time to recover. And isn't a drunk dog. ]
no subject
The industriousness of his feeding makes him a little wriggly, but he is, generally, rather still, especially under the slight weight of scritches. It's as pleasant a feeling as the slow spread of numbness at his mouth. He has to take a break for a moment to lick at his chops, cleaning off some of the excess droplets of whisky. It isn't a pause that lasts very long, and the next time he finishes, the bowl is empty.
With a snuffly grunt, he noses at the bowl. It is well and truly empty, but he licks at the interior for good measure, then pushes at the bowl until it's pressed against Remus' leg. And then he makes a whiney growly noise, almost a yap, and paws, hopefully, at the same leg. Oi, in dog, comes out a little needier in drunk dog.]
no subject
Probably.
He lets go and pours a dash of alcohol into the bowl, says, ] No more until that's settled, [ and resumes staring at the ceiling. He isn't quiet very long. ]
I tried to thank him for helping me once.
[ Maybe that's abrupt, maybe it's unwelcome, maybe it's unhelpful when Sirius is canine and drunk, but the ceiling is only so interesting. And Remus is thinking of home, where he can't talk about James or Peter because anyone who cares at all is trying to put it behind them, moving on because they have things to move on to, and sometimes it feels like no one else remembers. ]
It was like force-feeding a kneazle.
no subject
He does manage to catch the bit about Edgeworth. Dogs aren't incapable of their own form of jokes, but the verbal subtleties of a human joke are sometimes lost on them--Padfoot has the advantage of his more nuanced comprehension, informed by human bits of thought that sometimes filter through. He's finishing off the bowl when the remark comes, and the huff of breath that he makes comes out all echoed against the interior, amused at the thought. That does sound like Edgeworth, and he raises his head to look up at Remus, droplets of whisky hanging from his muzzle. A quick swipe of his tongue wipes them clean, and he makes a quiet whine of agreement. He was awful, was Edgeworth. There's a bit of whisky left still, but Padfoot lowers his head to press his wet nose to the back of Remus' hand, like: yes, or thanks, maybe.]