Eleven

                                    

                                          
The front door is slammed against the door with a defiant thud, startling Remus. A large mattress is shoved through the door with two hands on either side. Peter pokes his head from around the side; his face is cherry red and he can barely utter a word out from being winded. Remus jumps to his feet and grabs the mattress from Peter's arms. 
                          
"Thanks," Peter gasps. 
                          
"I reckon this is mine?" Remus asks, leaning the mattress against the bathroom door. "Where'd you get it?"
                          
"Some bloke was selling it." Remus wipes the dust off his hands, suppressing the sudden nausea arising. "Don't worry, it was in the pub down the street, not on the streets. We can vacuum it and put the new sheets on."
                          
"Well at least my feet won't hang off the end." Remus shuffles back to the kitchen table in his socks, slumping down in front of his computer and various newspapers bundled together. 
                          
"Busy working?" Peter asks, peeling off his jacket and hanging it on the hook. 
                          
"I'm looking at old articles I wrote at the Harper Post." Peter glances over Remus' shoulder curiously as he passes. "Have you heard of the money heist?" Remus sorts through his things and pulls out his most recently published work. "I was working on this expose before I...was fired." 
                          
Peter picks up the paper and scans over it. "Do you think..." 
                          
Remus shrugs. "I think Black Inc. could be a part of it. It's the biggest fashion company in London."
                          
"Won't you get in trouble if your boss finds out?"
                          
Remus places the paper back into his stack. His hand hesitates a second before he closes his computer. "I'm just curious is all. A little research never hurt anybody."
                          
Peter opens the fridge and leans down to inspect. "Would you care for lasagna tonight?" 
                          
"That sounds great." Remus finishes off the last of his pastry, wiping his mouth with the napkin. "You know, I never asked. Where did you learn to cook?" 
                          
Clanging cookware rings around the room as Peter gathers his ingredients. "My mum taught me," he says prying open a bottle of tomato sauce. The green cabinets creak open and shut with a soft tap every few seconds; Peter glides through the kitchen expertly knowing exactly where everything is by memory. "My dad left when I was young. And cooking was all I had to fill the void." A hard chop slams against the wooden cutting board followed by the aroma of garlic. "Well that's how it started. I cooked meals for my mum because she was so depressed she barely left her bed. It became therapeutic for me. I would watch the food channel religiously and pretend that I owned my own restaurant. My stuffed animals were my customers."
                          
Remus listens intently to Peter. The way he maneuvers his way about the kitchen, flirting with the cutlery and dancing with the ingredients, is almost magical. His passion pours into every dish. 
                          
"Finding a cooking job without any fancy degree turns out to be much harder than anticipated," Peter continues. Steam flows from the pot his spoon stirs consecutively. "I was working at Lucille's as a busboy. The closest thing I could get to a kitchen. Then thrown out when I tried to enhance an otherwise bland dish. Which I suppose is how we met." He pulls out a pale green, not to Remus' surprise, square Le Creuset dish to start layering the lasagna.
                          
"Can I ask another question?" Peter glances over his shoulder, nodding. "What's with all the green?"
                          
A chuckle. Peter's hand moves swiftly left to right as he grates a block of cheese over the first layer of meaty sauce. "No particular reason. I just like it."
                          
Remus' eyes wander over the tiny place. Though eccentric, it has character. A warmth wraps around him. Home.
                          
*
                          
*
                          
*
                          
Remus readjusts the knot of his tie for the fourth time in the past five minutes. A pen dangles between his fingers, every now and then being used on a half filled spreadsheet. Words he can't understand, nor does he chose to attempt to, go in one ear and out the other. Should he be paying attention? Most likely. But after the fifth meeting of the day, he's lost interest. 
                          
Sirius occupies the chair next to him. His legs are crossed at the ankle - the only indication of casualty amidst the formality of the meeting. He nods his head along with the two other women at the table discussing the new store's architecture.
                          
Sirius picks up his pen and scribbles a short message onto his notes. He slides it in front of Remus, not bothering to look at him. 
                          
Remus' concentration on the clouds outside is broken by Sirius. His eyes drift down at the words written at the bottom of the page and he almost laughs. 
                          
Try not to look like you're being held against your will, would you?
                          
Remus writes his response in the other corner and slides the paper back in front of Sirius. He watches the corner of Sirius' lip go up before returning to his usual deadpan look. 
                          
The meeting wraps up in another ten minutes and they exchange handshakes before departing. Sirius rolls his neck side to side, pressing on the knots in his muscles. He rolls the sleeves of his white buttoned shirt just below the elbows, revealing veins that stretch the length of his forearm to his hands. A few tattoos are marked on both arms catching Remus' attention. 
                          
"That wasn't too bad of an afternoon," Sirius states. 
                          
"I don't know how you do it," Remus says while gathering his belongings. "Sitting through meetings all day every day."
                          
"Patience is something I learned early on." Sirius pushes his chair in all the way, grabbing his notes and handing them to Remus. "Come to my office. I have a few things I want to discuss." 
                          
Remus follows Sirius into his office, and no matter how many times he's been in it, the view always takes his breath away. The city looms beyond the glass like a living portrait. The room itself is gorgeous, but not an inch of personality can be seen. Being Sirius' personal delivery system, Remus has been in nearly every room in the office. Mostly everybody has decorated their desks with personalized items - family, pets, friends. In here, it's like a ghost town. 
                          
The black leather couch calls his name; its plush cushions melt around him when he sits. Sirius stands in front of the window with his hands clasped behind his back. His angular jawline is darkened by shadows of the overcast outside and he appears like a silhouette. 
                          
"How do you enjoy working here?" Sirius asks. 
                          
Remus fiddles with his thumbs on his lap. He finds himself staring at Sirius' arms, tucked leisurely in the pocket of his pants. One of the wealthiest men in all of London, standing on the marble empire he built from the ground, asking how he enjoys working for him. 
                          
Sirius turns around, walking up to his desk to sit upon the corner. "It's not some sort of trick question. I only ask because, believe it or not, I care. My employees are the backbone of my company." 
                          
And then some, Remus thinks to himself. His conversation with Alice and Mary lingers in the back of his mind. "I like working here," he answers truthfully. "It's different, but like I told you, I'm a hard worker and do my work."
                          
"They don't think I can hear, but I do. I know everything that goes on in this building. All the gossip that floats around." The words appear as a threat, but Sirius speaks without an ounce of menace. "I hope you find your new office fitting. The only other available room is next to the bathrooms, and I use that as a threat for anyone who wants to complain."
                          
Remus presses his hand on the arm of the couch to haul himself up. "I've got Alfred's old office." As the words leave his mouth, he keeps his sight fixated on Sirius for any sort of reaction. 
                          
Sirius's eyes narrow ever so slightly and his jaw clenches with a deep breath, but he doesn't say anything. "I'll get the mock ups for next week ready by six," Remus adds.
                          
Sirius slides off his desk and slips back into his chair. Remus makes his way to the door, casting one last glance back at Sirius. The sharp corners on the chair protrude over his shoulders like horns. A king on his throne.