[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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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.]
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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.
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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.]