Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Please don't sue. Red Right Ankle belongs to The Decemberists.

Genesis 4

by gunsandbutter

"Whatever differences our lives have been, we together make a limb."

They meet at a crowded Muggle café, as far from the Leaky Cauldron and Sirius's flat as he could manage.

Regulus looks deeply uncomfortable, fidgeting most uncharacteristically in his jeans and cotton t-shirt. Sirius wonders where the boy even found the clothes, sheltered from the Muggle world as he has been all his life. A moment later, he realizes that the faint scorch mark near the collar is probably not a coincidence.

("Merlin, Prongs, would it kill you to give me a bit of warning? You nearly took my head off with that one.")

Something stutters in his chest, and he clears his throat rather more forcefully than is necessary.

"So, little brother," he says, leaning back in his chair. Regulus does not flinch at the designation, and the first hint of alarm tingles in Sirius's fingertips. He busies himself with lighting a cigarette, and takes a long drag before continuing. "I cannot tell you what an honor this is. After all, it is not every day that one receives an invitation from the heir to the House of Black."

Regulus gives him a sharp look, but Sirius only smiles. Around them, Muggle families argue and laugh and spill their drinks. A little boy at the next table is crying, and his mother chides, "Andrew, for heaven's sake, let your brother alone."

("If you tell Mother, I swear, I'll hex you into next week.")

Sirius raises his cigarette again, savoring the slow burn in his throat. The smoke drifts across the table, lingering in wisps against the familiar angles of Regulus's face. His brother wrinkles his nose in distaste, and suddenly he is five years old, making faces at the nasty potion Tibby urges down his throat.

("It's for Master's own good, yes—there you are—")

Sirius coughs against the itching in his chest. "So why are we here, Regulus?" He slouches back in his chair, willing his muscles to relax. The words pour out of him, cold and scornful. "Couldn't wait to fill me in on the latest family gossip, is that it? Let me guess—another worthless ne'er-do-well got blasted off the old tapestry. Or, let's see—are you marrying a cousin? No? Come on, Reg, I haven't got all day. Truly, I quiver with anticipation."

There is a faint, agitated color to Regulus's cheeks; Sirius is irrationally pleased to see it. His brother clenches his fists against the table, biting the inside of his cheek. His voice is low and detached. "Things have changed."

The cigarette twitches in Sirius's fingers. He arches an eyebrow; for the first time in years, he finds himself hoping he looks like his father. "Have they."

Their waitress arrives then, a decent-looking girl with curly brown hair and a pencil stuck behind her ear. She glances between the brothers, absorbing the tension, and offers a tentative smile. "What can I get for you today?"

Sirius orders for both of them, sandwiches and crisps, with an extra dose of charm to put the girl at ease. It seems to work, and she visibly relaxes as she scribbles their order.

"Anything to drink, sir?" She shifts her weight, letting her gaze slide over his face.

"Coffee, please. Black." He winks at her, and she smiles to herself as she turns away.

A heavy silence falls over the table. Sirius waits—for an explanation, for an excuse, for Regulus to gather up his bollocks and start talking. Whatever it is he needs to say, Sirius will listen, but he refuses to prod and badger like a nosy old woman.

It's not until after the girl has brought their coffee that Regulus speaks again.

"I've received…an assignment. One that I do not feel comfortable completing."

Sirius pauses, torn between laughter and contempt. Of course you have, you little berk, he wants to say. This is a war. Did you really think it would be easy?

So this, then, is what it comes down to. Sirius might have expected as much. He has seen better men than his brother lose their convictions in the face of death.

But he's not a man, he thinks suddenly. He's a kid. A stupid, deluded kid who hates thunder and can't fence and has never had a single bloody thought of his own.

Sirius flicks his latest cigarette against the saucer. His voice is casual. "I must say I'm unsurprised. With the current state of things…well. It was only time."

Regulus swallows. "I suppose." He shakes his head, staring into the depths of his coffee mug. "I can't go through with it, Sirius." He looks up, clearly expecting another insult, but Sirius can think of nothing to say.

(Sirius. Mother is very angry because you are in Gryffindor. She says you will turn out a blood-traitor like the Potters but I don't think you will. Do you see Andromeda and Narcissa very much? What are the Gryffindors like? I've got a new tutor and he is awful. Write soon. Regulus.)

Regulus clears his throat, and hesitates. "I…there's something I have to do."

"Something you have to do," Sirius repeats, holding Regulus's gaze.

"Yeah."

They sit and look at each other. Regulus's eyes are wide and dark, and for the first time, Sirius realizes his brother looks much less like their father than he thought.

Sirius sighs around his cigarette. "This will certainly…put you out of commission."

"I know."

"So." He stubs out the butt on his saucer, and reaches for a new one. "What is it that you expect me to do?"

"I don't know." Regulus shakes his head, wrapping his hands around the warmth of his mug. "I don't know, Sirius. Maybe…just. I don't know."

For some reason, Sirius finds himself thinking about his last night at Grimmauld Place. He doesn't remember much: his mother, pulling her wand—and then Andromeda's voice, calling for Ted, and James's hand on his face. Everything else is a blur, all static and white noise and coughing blood on the pavement. He doesn't trust his memories.

Most of the time, he's sure he imagined his brother's hands pulling him from the floor.

Sirius blows out a mouthful of smoke, studiously glances at a nearby table. "So who was it?" he asks conversationally.

There is a sudden crash; a waitress has dropped her tray. Regulus's reply is lost in the reverberation of shattered glass, but it doesn't matter. Sirius already knows; he thinks maybe he has known since the unfamiliar black owl first swooped through his window.

It's true what they say: a Black is a Black is a Black. Blood-traitors, disowned heirs, disobedient teenage Death Eaters and all.

The waitress comes by with their food. She tops off their cups, though neither of them has touched the coffee. Sirius smiles at her, sly and intimate, and she blushes.

If he made any sort of effort, he could probably get her to meet him at a pub, later. Stupid, silly girl. If she only knew that her other customer would kill her without a second thought.

He glances across the table at Regulus, uneasy and awkward in his Muggle clothes, choking on his pureblood pride for the sake of a mediocre cup of coffee and an hour of Sirius's time.

Maybe not without a second thought, then.

Sirius thinks this has got to be the stupidest thing he's ever done. The Marauders will be just chuffed to bits.

He begins to play with his food, pushing crisps and bits of sandwich around his plate.

"Remember the old Muggle woman we used to see outside the train station? The one with the ugly hat, who used to ask us for spare change?" His fingers hesitate over the arrangement of crisps. A moment later, Regulus clears his throat, and Sirius pushes the food into a pile in the center of the plate.

"No."

Sirius shakes his head, laughs a little. "I don't, either."

He reaches for his wallet, searching for what he estimates to be the correct pound notes. Damned Muggle money.

"We've had a good time of it, haven't we? Really grand to see you without all your little friends."

He throws a few bills on the table and pushes himself to his feet. He feels light-headed; it must be the madness.

"You know, I don't get on so well with that lot. I'd hate to think what might happen if we ran into each other unexpectedly." He pats himself down through his jacket, as if he's forgetting something. Regulus's eyes flicker as they watch Sirius's hand linger over the subtle line of his wand.

"That won't be a problem."

"Good," he says, and begins to walk toward the door. He pauses next to Regulus's chair, and hesitates for just a moment before clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll see you around, then." He squeezes against the soft cotton. The bones feel sharp and delicate under the clutch of his fingers, and he thinks, Don't fuck this up, Regulus.

The door jingles as he pushes it open. London is cool and gray, but getting warmer, and two days later, the news hurts more than he thought it would.