Chapter Text
Nebraska stretches out in every direction like an endless, beige carpet. The only things breaking up the monotony are the rusty barbed wire fences and the solitary barns leaning into the wind. It’s quiet.
Remus has always appreciated quiet, but this?
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing sideways at Sirius, who is far too comfortable for someone stuck in what feels like hell, lounging with his seat nearly horizontal, the wind tousling his hair into wild black strands whipping across his face with every gust. His right arm dangles lazily out the window, sunflower seeds occasionally flying from his lips in poorly executed spits. Half of them seem to boomerang back into the truck, tangling in his hair or landing in his lap.
The pickup truck hums along, and they’ve been driving for hours. The GPS now claims they’re just twenty minutes away from Regulus’ house.
He sighs, casting another glance at Sirius, who’s adjusting his aviator sunglasses. There’s something infuriatingly charming about Sirius—looking like he could both belong on a fashion cover or fit in right here as a cowboy. Remus wouldn’t trade him for the world, though he briefly considers if maybe he could’ve traded this trip for literally anywhere else.
Not Remus’ first choice of holiday destination, but as Sirius says, Quand on aime on ne compte pas, which has to stand for something along the lines of, when you love the person you’re with, you’ll buy plane tickets to see your husband’s brother in Nebraska using one of the only four weeks of annual leave you get with your job. One entire week, in fucking Nebraska. This… charming Midwestern purgatory.
Remus loves Sirius like he has never loved anyone else, ever.
Sirius catches him looking, lips twitching into a smirk.
“What?”
Remus leans over the steering wheel, squinting at the road ahead. “When exactly is Reg expecting us?”
Sirius tilts his head, sliding his sunglasses down just enough to meet Remus’ gaze. “Whenever we show up.”
“That’s not a time.”
Sirius shrugs, sunflower seeds rattling somewhere between his legs. “Well, we’re not going faster or slower, my love. We’ll get there when we get there.”
“Sirius.”
There’s a warning in Remus’ voice now, stern and threaded with fondness.
Sirius raises an eyebrow, voice lilting with exaggerated sweetness. “My love?”
“Can you…”
The expectation is there, and Sirius sighs.
“Fine.”
He pulls out his phone and texts what Remus assumes is his brother.
It’s a thing. Remus likes being welcomed. He needs people to know when he is arriving and leaving places. He doesn’t just—show up. Not the way Sirius does.
Sirius throws his phone into the center console. “Done, brother dearest will see us arrive on his doorstep at dusk, provided we don’t hit a deer and die. Speaking of.”
Sirius shifts in his seat, pulling himself upright with a surprising amount of energy for someone who’s been lounging for the last hundred miles. The sound of the seat clicking back into place snaps Remus out of his driving daze.
He raises an eyebrow, side-eyeing him. “What are you doing?”
Sirius, now fully sitting up, casually folds his aviators and tucks them into the collar of his shirt.
“I’m becoming your second set of eyes.”
Remus blinks. “O…kay?”
Sirius stares at him. “Deer are morons.”
Remus says, “I’m so confused.”
“Nebraska’s got a lot of them. Reg keeps telling me they jump right in front of the car like they’ve got a death wish, and that between dusk and dawn is the worst time. He texted earlier and said he made enough food to feed us all and he doesn’t know what he’ll do with it all if we die.”
“Lovely.”
“Isn’t he just?”
“…Deer try to die here?”
“Supposedly they just, whoosh, out of nowhere. One minute it’s just cornfields and existential dread, and the next, you’re face to face with Bambi on a suicide mission.”
Remus bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “So… what are you going to do if we see a deer?”
Sirius shrugs. “Yell?”
“Sirius, we haven’t seen another living soul for two hours. Let alone a deer.”
“Exactly. They’re biding their time.”
Remus glances over at him again, one eyebrow raised. “You do realize we’re in Nebraska, not some enchanted forest, right? This place barely has trees.”
Sirius waves a dismissive hand. “They hide in the ditches by the road.”
“What are you on about?”
“I’m telling you,” Sirius continues, “the deer here have no self-preservation instincts. They love the headlights. Anyway, I’ll keep an eye out.” And then he’s back to lounging with one foot propped up against the dash. There is silence for a little while. Then, “You know, I think I was made for this. The open road. The wild nothingness. A man and his thoughts,” he muses, making a grand gesture at the horizon.
“Really? Because I thought you were made for shagging and breaking things,” Remus replies. “Isn’t that what you said last night?”
“Same thing, really.”
“I don’t think—”
“Did you see that?” Sirius straightens up, squinting into the distance. His whole body goes still, like a dog catching a scent on the wind.
Remus glances at him, unimpressed. “No, because nothing’s there.”
“Rude. I’m telling you—”
The stag barrels out of the rising darkness like it’s been flung from another dimension. One second, the road is clear, the sky tinged with fading purple, and the next, a massive wall of fur and antlers explodes into view, hurtling straight at them.
Remus barely has time to gasp before the stag slams into the front of the truck with a sickening thud.
The entire vehicle jerks violently, throwing both of them forward as Remus slams the brakes, tires screeching against the asphalt.
The world spins for a disorienting second, headlights painting the trees in harsh white as the world finally grinds to a disorienting halt.
Sirius is the first to break the silence.
“Holy shit. Are you alright?”
He turns to Remus, eyes wide. Remus groans, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“That was not a deer. Are you?”
Sirius is already fumbling with the door, adrenaline kicking in. “Yes. Let’s check on it.”
Remus watches him leap out of the truck, half in shock, half in disbelief. He scrambles out after him, legs still shaky from the impact, knees buckling slightly as his boots hit the gravel.
The stag is huge, its antlers majestic. One tine has been snapped off. It doesn’t move, motionless in front of the truck.
Sirius stands over it, hands on his hips, breath coming out in visible puffs in the cool evening air. “Well… we killed a stag.”
“We… we killed a stag,” Remus repeats, voice flat, like he’s processing it in real time. “I can’t believe this.”
Sirius runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, technically, it killed itself. We just happened to be in its way.”
Remus throws him an exasperated look. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart.”
Sirius points at the dead stag. “Look, all I’m saying is we can’t be blamed for the poor life choices of a suicidal cervidae.”
They both stare at the stag for a few moments longer, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. They’re in the middle of the road, and the sun is sinking, barely visible anymore. No one else is there. There’s a dead stag in the middle of the road that they killed.
“So… what do we do now?” Remus asks, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well, unless you want to drag it to Reg’s house and call it dinner, I suggest we move it out of the road.”
Remus sighs, glancing at the massive body of the stag, then back at Sirius. Neither of them can be called athletic, and the creature is hundreds of pounds. “You’re joking.”
Sirius raises his eyebrows, dead serious. “Do I look like I’m joking?” He crouches down, eyeing the massive, unmoving form of the stag, and starts poking it. “I think we should—”
The stag’s eyes pop open.
Both of them freeze.
A low, guttural bleat comes out of its mouth.
It’s not majestic. It’s not even remotely dignified. Then it bleats again, louder, legs twitching weakly as if trying to get up.
Remus stares at it, dumbfounded. “It’s alive?”
“Hell yeah, it’s alive!”
Sirius slaps the stag on the side—gently, but still—and the poor thing lets out another mournful bleat. “See? It’s just a little stunned.”
Remus gawks at him, incredulous. “Don’t slap a stunned stag.”
“Motivational encouragement,” Sirius counters brightly, already moving to the back of the truck. “Come on, help me load him up.”
“’Load him up’?” Remus repeats, voice climbing in disbelief. “He’s bleating at us, Sirius. That’s not a sound of something that wants to be loaded up.”
“He doesn’t know what’s good for him.”
“It’s not a him, it’s an animal!”
The stag makes another pitiful cry, legs jerking feebly again in a desperate, half-hearted attempt to stand. Its antlers scrap against the road with a dull thud. Remus winces in sympathy, then turns to find Sirius now sitting in the driver’s seat, pulling the truck back and maneuvring it so the truck bed is facing the stag. He motions to Remus with a wave.
“Are you actually serious about this?”
Sirius stares at him, deadpan. “Remus. I am always Sirius. Let’s load it up.”
Regulus opens his front door to the strangest event.
He actually closes the door, waits a few seconds, then opens it again—just to make sure, but no.
Still there.
So he does the next best thing.
“Why do you have roadkill in the back of your truck?”
Sirius looks at him with hopeful eyes.
“Because I thought you could fix him? Also, hi.”
He smells awful, like wet fur and gas, and looks the part, too. His bun is half undone, strands falling into his face, damp with sweat. He looks like he’s been in a fistfight with a bear.
Regulus blinks, eyebrows lifting to his hairline. “Hi? Sirius, I can’t resuscitate dead things, I’m not a necromancer. Why didn’t you leave it on the side of the road?”
“It’s not dead. It was alive ten minutes ago. Can you fix it?”
Regulus’ gaze drags from the dead stag to Sirius, eyes blank. Deadpans, “I certainly can’t make it worse.”
“Reg—”
“Don’t ‘Reg’ me, Sirius.” He gestures at the massive, limp body sprawled across the bed of the truck. “You brought a dead stag to my house. To my house.”
“It’s not dead—”
“It’s dead.”
“—I swear it moved after we hit it. It’s just napping.”
Regulus side-eyes his brother, the flat kind of stare that speaks volumes. “I’m not getting close to that thing. I’m a vet, not a taxidermist.”
Sirius spreads his arms wide. “Precisely. You’re a vet.”
“For live animals, Sirius. This thing is—”
Before he can finish, the stag jerks suddenly, its massive head lifting with a pitiful bleat. A gust of warm breath hits Regulus square in the face, smelling faintly of grass. Its eyes roll back as it slumps once more unto the truck bed in a disgraceful thud against the metal.
“—alive,” Sirius finishes, smirking.
Regulus inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a long moment. He counts to five, then exhales slowly, looking skyward as if hoping for some divine intervention. When none comes, he turns back to Sirius, his patience thinning.
“Sirius, if I were still practicing—and I’m not—I was a vet in Paris. The wildest animals I treated were ferrets with colds and overly pampered lapdogs.”
“So you’re just going to let this poor, majestic creature die?” Sirius’ voice takes on that imploring tone, like he’s genuinely shocked at the thought. Regulus hates him.
“I’m not equipped to handle rural wildlife, I’ve never even taken wildlife care.”
Sirius squints at the stag, then back at Regulus, face scrunching in confusion. “Looks just like a big horse to me. You treated horses in your fancy vet school, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, during my apprenticeship. Ten years ago,” Regulus says, exasperated. “And horses don’t typically fling themselves in front of moving cars for sport.”
“Ok,” Remus interrupts. “I can tell there is some tension here, but either we improvise and splint the stag’s leg with a piece of wood and hope for the best, or we put it out of its misery.”
Regulus turns to Remus, his expression deadpan. “Great. Do you have a machete on you?”
No sooner have the word exited his mouth that the stag jolts again, broken leg spasming. Its wide, wild eyes lock on Regulus, and it lets out another desperate, wavering bleat.
Sirius jumps into action, physically shoving Regulus back a step and throwing an arm protectively over the stag. “Don’t say things like that! It can hear you!”
Regulus throws his hands up. “Stop anthropomorphizing animals, Sirius! This—this—” he points an accusing finger at his brother, “is why you flunked out of med school!”
“I wanted to go to med school even less than you wanted to go to vet scho—”
Remus, caught between the two brothers, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are we fixing the stag, or are we—”
“We’re not killing it!” Both brothers shout in unison, glaring at Remus like he’s the mad one. He lets out a long suffering sigh, palms pressing into his face.
Regulus inhales sharply, the cool air filling his lungs as he stands there, contemplating his life choices. The stag—massive, wild, and inconveniently alive—lays draped over the back of his brother’s truck. Its antlers are cracked, one tine twisting at a bizarre angle, another completely snapped off. One leg is evidently broken, which is about the extent he’s able to diagnose from a distance, in the darkness.
He glances toward the barn, where he still keeps remnants of his old vet life—small crates for the occasional injured rabbit, a few syringes, bottles of antiseptic, gauze, knick knacks. Nothing for a creature this size.
“Alright.” He sighs, resigned. “Let’s get it into the garage. I don’t know, I. Fuck. Maybe I can improvise.”
Within moments, the pickup is back-parked with the tail facing the garage. Regulus jumps out and walks toward the tailgate, giving the stag one last wary glance. “Remus, you grab the front. Sirius, help me with the back.”
The three of them move into position. Regulus’ hands hover for a moment above the stag’s body before he grips the rear haunches, the muscles under his palms taut and alien in their texture. The animal smells of dirt, iron, and a kind of wildness.
“On three,” he grits out. “One... two...”
They lift. The stag’s body is awkward and heavy, and its antlers clinking softly against the metal of the truck as they move. Regulus feels a jolt of anxiety every time it twitches.
It’s one thing to maybe heal a stag. It’s another to have to heal a human, if said stag decides to punch one of them in the face.
They drag the stag into the garage, where the scent of apples lingers faintly, left over from the bags Regulus had gathered earlier that afternoon. They set the stag down gently, its chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths as its eyes blink.
Regulus wipes his hands on his jeans, already regretting every decision leading up to this moment.
Sirius glances around. “So... where do we start?”
“I need to look at the leg first.”
He rifles through a wooden chest in the corner, digging past bandages and matchstick meant for birds, searching for something—anything—that could help. His rummaging leads him to pull out a pair of old surgical shears, a spool of gauze, and a half-empty bottle of iodine. And then, knowledge floods back into his bones. He’s rusty, but the process is familiar—welcome even.
He gestures toward the stag’s twisted leg, the injury more obvious now that they’ve laid it out on the garage floor with the bright lights. “Remus, hold its head. Keep it calm. Sirius, you’re going to need to brace its side. If it bucks, we’re all fucked.”
Sirius gives him a slightly incredulous look. “How is this animal supposed to know not to crush us?”
Regulus pins his brother with a glare. “You loaded him up to my house. You figure it out. And how did you even load it up in the first place?”
Remus winces as he shifts his weight. “My back is forever broken.”
“This is not the way to break your husband’s back, Sirius!”
Sirius takes a step back, offended. “Oi! Don’t speak to me about my sex life!”
“Don’t bring roadkill to my farm!”
“You’re making it nervous,” Remus says, kneeling by the stag’s head, hands carefully placed on either side of its muzzle, keeping its wild, glassy eyes focused on him. The stag lets out a shallow, uneven breath, but it doesn’t struggle, and the brothers quiet down.
Regulus kneels down, examining the leg. His fingers deftly press along the joint, feeling for other signs of damage. The bone is fractured but not shattered, likely a hairline break. Which means, definitely bad, but also better than a compound one.
“Right, we’re going to splint it.”
He takes a steadying breath, pulling his focus entirely to the injured stag. The rest of the world falls away as his fingers trace along the leg, feeling the misalignment of the bone under the skin, the familiarity of this kind of work coming back to him like muscle memory. He grabs a sturdy piece of wood from the side of the garage—a leftover scrap from repairing the barn, and places the piece of wood against the stag’s leg, carefully aligning it alongside the break. His fingers work quickly, looping gauze around the wood and the limb, tightening it just enough to stabilize without causing more pain. The stag flinches slightly, but Remus whispers something, calming it with gentle pressure to its head.
“You’re really good at this,” Remus comments.
The animal has settled under his touch now that he seems to have understood no one is pulling out a butcher’s knife and gutting it open.
“I used to be,” Regulus mutters, focused as he wraps the gauze tightly around the wound. His voice is terse enough that Remus doesn’t say anything else.
The stag is observing all of this with very curious, glassy, judgemental eyes. Regulus glares at it. “Don’t look at me like this, my dude. You’re the one who tried to die.”
The stag, if possible, narrows its eyes. Then bleats in Remus’ face in complaint.
“Shh, you dumb beast,” Remus soothes.
The stag bleats vaguely, until Remus puts a hand on its face again and starts soothing the skin there.
Regulus turns his attention to the stag’s antlers, frowning at the cracked tine. Nothing to do about the snapped one. The cracked one, though… he presses his fingers lightly along the crack, feeling the sharp ridges under his fingertips.
“Antlers are tricky,” Regulus mutters, considering his options. Antlers aren’t like bones that can be set. They regenerate, but the healing process is slow, and with this kind of break, there’s no guarantee it will heal naturally without the risk of infection or further damage. He sighs, glancing toward his limited supplies. He sighs, then grabs more gauze and a small vial of antiseptic, dabbing the liquid carefully along the cracked surface, the scent of alcohol mixing with the earthy smell of the stag. The stag twitches under the cold touch, but Remus keeps its head steady, murmuring quiet reassurances. Regulus continues, applying the antiseptic thoroughly before beginning to wrap the base of the cracked antler, working delicately to avoid applying too much pressure.
After securing the gauze with a tight knot, he steps back and looks down at the stag, which is staring. And staring. Regulus pulls his tongue out childishly, says, “You wouldn’t be in this situation if you used your brain, my guy. Serves you well.”
He stands up, brushing the dirt and hair off his hands on a rag.
“What do we do with it?” Sirius asks.
Regulus stares at the stag, at the garage door. He sighs again.
“We’ll lock him in here for the night, check on him in the morning. I’ll have to make some calls to find a local vet who can handle wildlife.”
Sirius looks at him like he’s just performed a miracle, and says it.
“You’re miraculous.”
The stag bleats.
Regulus rolls his eyes, and promptly ignores the compliment, turning to the stag instead. “If you’re not quiet tonight, I’m shooting you in the morning.”
“You don’t have a gun.”
Regulus glares at his brother, the irritation flaring in his eyes. “I’ll invest,” he snaps. Pointing at the stag, “You’ll be quiet,” he warns.
The stag stares back at him with wide, blank eyes, entirely unaware. Its massive head shifts slightly, but it doesn’t say anything, which is normal—yet it somehow manages to convey the same level of stubbornness that Sirius is known for. Then, as if in response to Regulus’ command, the stag lets out yet another loud, guttural bleat, rancid breath reaching Regulus again, thick with the smell of chewed grass and something unpleasantly sour. He winces, waving a hand in front of his nose.
“All right, I think he gets it. Anyone hungry?”
As they move to close the door of the garage behind them, the stag bleats once more, as if voicing its dissatisfaction with the whole affair. Regulus and Sirius exchange a look—one brother exasperated, the other amused—before they leave the creature to its own grievances for the night.
Regulus wakes up at 5 a.m. the next day, because the world hates him and his brother took all the Black family’s natural ability to sleep until noon, leaving Regulus with the cruel fate of waking up at ungodly hours.
He does what he always does: swings his legs out of bed and plants his feet on the cold wooden floor. The chill shocks him into a groggy sort of wakefulness, but his brain still lags behind, caught somewhere between the remnants of a half-dream and that pesky anxiety he tried to escape by leaving Paris. Groaning softly, he slips his feet into his fur-lined crocs and heads downstairs, his body moving on autopilot as he sets about his morning routine.
He grabs the hummingbird feeder from the counter and starts filling it, barely conscious, eyes still half-closed. The steady drip of syrup into the feeder is mindless work, and he appreciates the simplicity of it. From there, he checks on his plants—thriving a little too well, if he’s being honest, almost like he’s doing something right. The succulents by the window have spread out, the herbs in the kitchen looking almost aggressive in their health. He waters them, trims back the overachievers, and wipes a few stray flecks of soil from the counter with a flick of his wrist.
After that, he moves outside, circling the barn as he checks on the outside plants, though there’s little need. His gardens are growing wild, the earth bursting with life. By the time the sun is fully up, painting the horizon in muted golds and pinks, he’s already exhausted every task he can think of to keep himself busy—it’s time to stop running from it, and check if the stag’s survived the night.
Regulus straightens, wipes his hands on his jeans, and heads toward the garage.
The garage is empty.
Regulus stares, and stares, one hand going to the back of his head, scratching. It’s stupid, he knows, but he looks in corners, because somewhere. The stag’s got to be somewhere. He cannot have disappeared. Except he must have, because the huge fucking stag isn’t in the garage anymore, and where is it?
Once he’s looked into every single impossible corner of the garage, even the ones that couldn’t possibly fit an adult stag, Regulus turns back to the door leading inside the house, baffled.
A dream?
A vivid one, if that’s the case.
He walks into the house almost on autopilot, mind circling around the events of the night before, trying to find the hint that it might have been a dream, when he stops dead in his tracks.
The garage is empty.
But sitting at the kitchen island, on one of his stools, is a naked man.