Work Text:
Most days, Sirius comes home to a quiet, dark house. Those days he flicks the light switches mindlessly, breathing life back into the house he’s shared with Remus since the war. Those days he clicks on the radio in the kitchen, tunes it until he finds a station playing Queen, or Bowie, or the Beatles, and sets off slamming cabinets in search of food to cook and good spices to chase away the gloom.
Eventually, after enough slamming and humming along to Ziggy Stardust and wafting smells of caramelising onions towards Remus’ room, Remus himself will emerge, usually bleary-eyed, wearing something cosy, and clutching a bottle of some drink or another. Some days, he’s actively crying.
On those days Sirius removes whatever he has cooking from the heat, grabs Remus’ wrists, and together they sit down on the couch, while Remus talks, or sometimes listens, or sometimes just cries. And Sirius understands, and sometimes he cries too.
But some days, Remus is in the kitchen when Sirius gets home. Usually standing helplessly over something hopelessly burnt or pulling his hair out over a recipe, but he always looks up when Sirius enters and he always smiles (even if it’s a rueful one). And dessert has usually turned out okay, and Sirius can thank Remus for dinner (even on the days it didn’t work out), and they can pull something together from leftovers in the fridge, and eat strawberries and scones and whipped cream on the couch together.
Sirius has been counting, and those days have happened more and more recently, and even though Remus’ cooking hasn’t gotten better, Sirius knows that Remus has.