Oh, Mama, Don't Fuss Over Me
“Sirius,” Remus said.
That was the only warning.
He said it softly, like a statement, almost casually– so casually that Sirius turned expecting him to ask something about what they were having for dinner, or telling him he wanted honey in his tea, or complain about how off brand sports-drink didn’t taste as good as Gatorade.
Instead, Remus’ knees were already buckling. His arm was sliding off of the granite corner of the countertop, and his shoulder was colliding with the barstool to his right, and his body was thudding against the hardwood, and the only warning Sirius got was his name. That was it.
He was moving before he even realized what was happening.