Work Text:
They do this sometimes, in Muggle London.
Padfoot following Remus, obedient as anything. Trotting at his side without a lead. Sitting at crosswalks, watching Remus’s face until the traffic lights change, something like a smile showing over lolling tongue and sharp white teeth.
They stop into their regular shops, and the butcher who frowns at Sirius’s painted nails gives Padfoot a bone and a scratch on the head.
The shop girl in the bakery asks Remus where that handsome friend of his is, then, at Remus’s nonanswer, gazes up at him from under long lashes and asks if he’d like to go to the cinema at the weekend. Padfoot starts out the door without looking to see if Remus follows, a low grumble echoing in his throat. Remus pays hurriedly. He finds Padfoot sitting on the pavement, ears flat against his head, tail curled across his toes.
“She asked for you first,” Remus says under his breath as Padfoot slinks away. Never too far ahead.
At the corner cafe, tucked out of the drizzle under a striped awning, Padfoot lets the staff coo over him while Remus drinks a coffee and eats breakfast. Warm buttered toast and eggs, beans and tomato and mushroom. He offers bites of sausage and bacon to Padfoot, who refuses at first. Later, when he takes them, he licks Remus’s fingers, searching for lingering hints of grease.
“What breed is he?” One of the waitresses is on her knees, rubbing Padfoot’s belly. His tail slaps the pavement heavily. They’re not supposed to let dogs into the cafe, really, but they somehow always have one last table outside, ready for Padfoot, especially on the cool, rainy weekends. Which are most. His long neck is arched back to watch Remus, eyes bright and curious. He’s leaned up against red-and-gold striped socks, weight almost uncomfortable over the arch of Remus’s foot.
“Lurcher, maybe? Bit of a mutt,” Remus says. Padfoot sneezes, something like a frown on his face.
“He makes me think of the hound of the Baskervilles. I’ve just read it, and your Padfoot is what I’d pictured. He’s much sweeter, though.” She says this directly to the dog, leaning over to sink her fingers into the thick fur around his neck.
Another sneeze. The pace of the wagging picks up.
Remus grins at the woman over a forkful of egg and tomato. “He’d be very good at haunting some rich old family.”
She laughs and says to Padfoot, hands still running over him, “who’s a good boy?”
The man at the newsstand harrumphs at Remus as usual. Frowns at the dog, as if suspicious of his temperament around paper. He’s both larger and scruffier than the other dogs in the neighbourhood. Much like his owner.
“‘Licensed, is ‘e?”
“Of course,” Remus says, handing over a few pence. They jingle as they pass from hand to hand.
“Where’s ‘is collar?”
Remus tucks the paper under one arm in lieu of replying. Padfoot lets out a disgruntled huff as they walk away. "Wanker," agrees Remus.
At the dog park, Remus starts his paper while Padfoot sniffs the perimeter, tail waving high in the air like a banner. He chases the ducks into the water and the pigeons into the air. They go in a flurry of feathers. Some dogs he’ll chase, or wrestle. Others he'll give a polite sniff, tail wagging in a friendly way.
Remus often finishes the paper with a large black dog sprawled across his lap. Sometimes he doesn’t finish the paper at all, standing stiffly and wiping overeager slobber from his face. He always makes an attempt to frown at Padfoot, but the dog only barks cheerfully at the grin lurking in the corners of Remus’s mouth.
If Remus lets his hand tangle in Padfoot’s long fur while they walk home, and if Padfoot leans into Remus, nosing at his hand and nipping playfully at his ankles, they don’t mention it later.
It’s almost like holding hands. Almost.