[He mutters it; it comes out thin and strained, forced out from clenched teeth and jaw--he knows, of course he knows, without James saying anything more than dammit. He could identify nearly every tick of James' eyebrow and twist of his mouth, he hardly needs words to tell him what James is thinking. But he keeps his hand firm on his shoulder--he grips a little firmer, even, like he's going to hold him up when really it's as much for his benefit as it is for James.
Because he has to know that he's real. He has to remember this: Sirius and James against the world, against fate, against everything. The two of them together, just the way they'd always said they would be, in jokes and in deep conversation, in shouts and in whispers--together, they can face it down.
--And if it does happen anyways--which it won't but if it does--he'll need this moment more than anything. And suddenly, stupidly, he feels his throat close up and that heat behind his eyes gets worse than ever, and he stares down between them, down where their feet are practically entangled, that's how close he is to James--and he lets go of his shoulder only so he can pull him into an embrace, just as fierce as his grip had been, holding tightly to him. His eyes fix furiously on one point over James' shoulder and he swallows, hard, until he's ready to answer.]
There's a way. We're-- bloody hell, James, we're the Marauders, there's nothing they can throw at us that we can't take, right? [Only Marauders includes Peter, too; he can't think of that--] We'll kill Voldemort, we'll remember everything and we'll tell it to Dumbledore and none of it is going to happen. If anyone can do it, it's us.
[But, still, he holds to James a moment longer, until he's managed to get control of himself, until his voice sounds less watery and stupid--and then he steps back, still gripping at James' arm, not yet ready to give up some small contact with him.]
action;
[He mutters it; it comes out thin and strained, forced out from clenched teeth and jaw--he knows, of course he knows, without James saying anything more than dammit. He could identify nearly every tick of James' eyebrow and twist of his mouth, he hardly needs words to tell him what James is thinking. But he keeps his hand firm on his shoulder--he grips a little firmer, even, like he's going to hold him up when really it's as much for his benefit as it is for James.
Because he has to know that he's real. He has to remember this: Sirius and James against the world, against fate, against everything. The two of them together, just the way they'd always said they would be, in jokes and in deep conversation, in shouts and in whispers--together, they can face it down.
--And if it does happen anyways--which it won't but if it does--he'll need this moment more than anything. And suddenly, stupidly, he feels his throat close up and that heat behind his eyes gets worse than ever, and he stares down between them, down where their feet are practically entangled, that's how close he is to James--and he lets go of his shoulder only so he can pull him into an embrace, just as fierce as his grip had been, holding tightly to him. His eyes fix furiously on one point over James' shoulder and he swallows, hard, until he's ready to answer.]
There's a way. We're-- bloody hell, James, we're the Marauders, there's nothing they can throw at us that we can't take, right? [Only Marauders includes Peter, too; he can't think of that--] We'll kill Voldemort, we'll remember everything and we'll tell it to Dumbledore and none of it is going to happen. If anyone can do it, it's us.
[But, still, he holds to James a moment longer, until he's managed to get control of himself, until his voice sounds less watery and stupid--and then he steps back, still gripping at James' arm, not yet ready to give up some small contact with him.]
All right?