Chapter Text
“Bones, what the actual fuck?!” Remus shoves the door open, seething, as Amelia Bones glances up impassively.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Remus,” she shoots back, eyes back on her screen.
“You’re pulling my article? I thought you liked it!” He crosses his arms frustratedly, shooting daggers at her with his eyes and hoping to God that it comes across as semi-intimidating.
“I do, but-”
“Oh, yeah, bloody looks like it,” he snorts, eyes flicking away for a moment in disbelief. Yes, he should probably care a little more that she’s his boss, but right now he’s too irritated. He’s fucking proud of that article, over his dead body will it be pulled from the issue. He watches as she rolls her eyes, before turning back to him and gesturing to the chair opposite her desk.
“Sit down and listen for a minute, Lupin.” Against his own will, with the knowledge that he’s not going to win in a standoff with Amelia, he drops into the chair, waiting silently for an explanation. “I do like your article,” she starts, shutting the laptop with one hand and grabbing a printed copy of his work with the other, “but it’s about euthanasia.”
“...yeah? Interestingly enough, I know what the topic of my own writing is,” he says sardonically, taking the copy Amelia offers him and flicking through it. Remus Lupin isn’t an egotistical man, but he spent two and a half months making sure that his article was perfect, and he knows that the final draft is good.
“Remus, this is the December issue. I can’t let a divisive and dark piece slip through this month, they’ll have my head.”
“It’s not that divisive,” he grumbles quietly, drawing a laugh from Amelia.
“You can’t write an article supporting euthanasia and let people read it for Christmas. They’re expecting soft stories! I’m not running it this month and you’re not changing my mind.”
“Next month?” He tries, conceding to her slightly in the hopes that it’ll put him in a better position for getting his work run. He doesn't want to push his luck and get his proudest work thrown out permanently. Instead, she presses her lips into a thin line.
“If it gets through higher management. To be perfectly honest, it’s a brilliant piece, but it’s not impartial. We’re trying to remain impartial. It’ll need major edits to guarantee getting published.”
“Seriously? We should be allowed to discuss serious issues. You’re kidding yourself if you think the unconscious bias of all of your journalists isn’t fucking obvious.”
“Maybe, but that’s what heavy editing, cutting, redrafting is for.”
“So you’re telling me I’m not going to get an article through for the next two months,” Remus says bluntly. The thought of quitting, finally starting his own blog and writing whatever the hell he wants, crosses his mind again. No, not yet. He needs to pay rent, to make sure his name is well known enough that it won’t fall flat.
Soon. Hopefully.
Even if that dream is seeming less and less likely by the day.
Amelia seems to feel bad for him for a moment, a flicker of sympathy passing across her face as she reopens the laptop and scrolls on it for a moment.
“I could use another page. Is two and a half weeks enough time to come up with something new? Run it through just before the issue goes live. Can’t be a minute later than I tell you though.” Remus’ face brightens. He’s in with a fucking chance.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s enough time,” he assures her, and himself. She’s giving him what he’s asked for.
“Oh, and it has to be festive. Unbiased.” He can’t help but roll his eyes at that. Sure.
“I’ll make do,” he answers, drawing a small smile from Amelia. She can deny being invested all she wants, she loves the journalists. He gets up to leave, searching for some way to make a festive article into his breakout piece. There has to be one, there just has to be.
“Remus?” She stops him quickly. “Are you coming to the office Christmas party?”
“Oh God, no,” he answers with a derisive laugh. “Not a party person. Also, I’ve got writing to do now.” With that, he walks out, grabbing his coat and walking out quickly.
-
Remus hates the bloody cold.
By the time he makes it to the tube station, his hands are bright red and going a little numb, as if his gloves weren’t even there . If that isn’t enough, the biting air has penetrated his two pairs of socks, his nose has gone pink and he’s a little worried that he no longer has ears. As he shoves his way onto the tube, he tries to find an idea, any idea for this bloody article. Two and a half weeks absolutely isn’t long enough to perfect an article, but he needs to hand something in. He turns his head, half hoping for inspiration to just… hit him. A couple dressed as elves are snogging on the seats. Brilliant. Remus laughs at himself, then. As if looking around London will help him. If anything, it takes inspiration away. He shouldn’t be pretending that he’s just going to find a spark in the middle of the street. That’s not how life works, and he knows that. He averts his gaze from the brazen PDA and back to the floor of the tube, where they should be to avoid being traumatised.
He almost runs the rest of the way to his flat, not willing to freeze his bollocks off, thank you very much . After fumbling with the keys for a few seconds, he gets into the building and straight into the old, rickety lift, ignoring the half-arsed ‘Merry Christmas’ sign that the landlord had quite clearly just printed off and stuck to the wall of the lift to distract from the fact that it does nothing but break down. Remus is still willing to roll the dice, though, he’s done enough exercise for one day on his way back to the block of flats.
He resists the urge to cross his fingers as the lift slowly makes its way up to the fifth floor, Remus’ box of a flat waiting for him. He runs a hand over his laptop bag, itching to open it and start writing something. Not that he knows what just yet, but usually he starts getting his ideas when he’s sat with a cheap as fuck instant hot chocolate, a shitty slasher film and a pot noodle; all he can afford for the time being. London rent ruins everything.
He has to barge his door a little with his shoulder to get in, almost tripping yet again before turning his flickering light on and glancing around his flat. He makes his way over to his small, open kitchen space, pulling out a tin of cat food and dropping it into a bowl, trying to get everything done as quickly as possible so that he can start writing.
“Trixie?” He calls, waiting patiently until his black cat, with her startlingly bright yellow eyes and curious ears, saunters out. He scratches behind her ears with a soft smile.
With that, he flicks the kettle on and opens his laptop bag, pulling it out and setting it on the black and dusty countertop, a mug right beside it. Part of him wants to settle down and forget about his work for the night, but the biggest part of him, that insatiable voice in his brain that is always clawing at success, screaming for more, incessant in his mind, is what pushes him to sit on his old, uncomfortable, faded red sofa with his laptop and open a blank document.
He can do this. He’s done this millions of times before.
Writing.
Why the fuck has his mind gone blank?!
Fighting the urge to bash his head against the keyboard until he passes out, he starts scrolling through news articles in the hopes of figuring out what most papers write about. All he had to do was what they do but better, then maybe he could get The Londoner, Amelia, and hopefully himself some notoriety. It doesn’t have to be perfect.
It really doesn’t.
Okay, it does.
Remus knows full well that he won’t hand anything in if it isn’t up to his standards, which meant that he had a fraction of his normal time to produce a near perfect piece. Brilliant. Fucking Christmas! If Christmas wasn’t a thing, maybe he could have weaseled his way into getting his piece published. All of his free time is just… gone now.
With a sigh and the acceptance that he isn’t going to be able to start writing that evening, he settles for titling the document Ideas . The writing could wait.
As he starts listing off every stupid, puff piece title and a few harder stories that he’s seen, highlighting the ones he thinks are at least semi-interesting, his phone starts buzzing. He groans, nothing but distraction sending irritation through him, before lifting the phone with every intention of declining the call. A glimpse at the number sends ice through his veins, dread suddenly creeping over him.
POSSIBLY: Llanwrtyd Wells
It has been about a year since he’s seen that name, and he knows it can only mean one thing.
His hands start to shake and he can feel his breathing go uneven as he hastily picks up the call, holding it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sir, is this Mr Remus Lupin?” The thick Welsh accent is an all too familiar one, an accent that should send comfort rushing through his body, but instead only makes everything worse.
“Uh… yeah. Yeah, that’s me.”
“Mr Remus Lupin, my name is Arwen, I’m calling from Llanwrtyd Wells Local Hospital?” Remus nods a little helplessly, despite knowing full well that she can’t see him. “You have been listed as Mrs Hope Lupin’s emergency contact?”
“Ms,” he corrects without thinking, desperately trying to regain some control over the situation, stall, delay the inevitable that he knows he’s about to hear.
“Ah, my apologies, sir. Ms Hope Lupin has just been brought into our care after fainting in the street. Tests are currently being run to determine why, but consent is needed to carry out some more invasive tests. Do we have your consent?”
“Of- of course you do,” he answers, because of course they do. The sinking feeling doesn’t stop, won’t stop, because he knows what this means. They had talked about it for hours, after her diagnosis.
“I also want to encourage you to come and visit, if possible. In situations such as your mother’s, rapid deterioration is possible.” The words feel as though they drive straight into his skull, embed themselves in his brain and send every alarm bell possible ringing through him, rattling him. He knows all of this, why is he suddenly so terrified? He feels… small, like he’s a child again. “We have support in place for you also, Mr Lupin. Is it possible for you to get here? I can-”
“I- I can, uh…” He starts doing the maths in his head. “It’ll be four hours. Is that- d’you reckon that’s alright? Half eleven, is that-”
“That’s okay. If you can keep your phone on you, I can always give you a ring if anything changes...” Remus is barely listening, at this point, already running out the door, laptop in one hand and keys in the other. The door shuts and he immediately curses under his breath.
His fucking cat .
“Yeah, yeah, that’s all fine, I’m leaving now,” he tells the woman, Arwen, over the phone, before promptly hanging up and calling the first person he can think of.
Marlene.
She picks up on the second ring, much to Remus’ relief.
“Wotcher, Remus!” Marlene says, voice cheery.
“Hey, listen, I’ve, uh… can you feed my cat?” He cringes at himself as he starts to book it down the stairs, almost dangerously so.
“Sorry?”
“I have to go home for a while. My hometown, I mean, and I- I can’t really bring Trixie with me. There’s a spare key under the mat,” he explains quickly, voice shaking slightly.
“Yeah, sure, is everything okay?” She asks, concern thick in her voice.
“Not really. Once a day, if that’s alright.”
“Of course, it’s fine,” she answers quickly. “I’ll even water your dying plants.” Somehow, magically, she manages to draw a half-hearted laugh from him. He pulls the door to the flats open, sprinting to his car and trying to pull the door open before he’s unlocked it. A huff of frustration and a fight with his keys later and he’s in the car, thanking Marlene profusely, and making his way to the small Welsh town in the middle of nowhere.
Merry fucking Christmas.