He looks from the ID to the fake moustache (blonde) and back to his friend before he breaks out into helpless laughter.
“Take that thing off, you idiot,” he says, and reaches out to rip the moustache from his friend’s face. ”We’re wizards, aren’t we? A quick confundus and we’ll be right in.”
“Ouch.”
James pouts, because he spent money and time on finding those. Has Sirius got any idea on how hard it is to find a guy who makes fake IDs?
It’s cold, but pleasantly so. The noise of a crowd and of the thumping beat of the music is spilling out onto the dark street, accompanied by the sound of a few already-very-drunk clubbers stumbling around as they try to smoke a cigarette in six-inch heels. Sirius peers more closely at the ID that James has produced with a flourish.
“—— it says you’re thirty-six years old and that your name is Monty Von Wifflebang.”
"— Shut up.”
Taking the ID from the other, he gives it another look before he lets out a sigh. Yes, it’s not the brightest one of his plans.
“I even bought fake moustaches. Look. I look like a Monty, don’t I?”
He tries to do an accent, a horrible one at that and puts the faked moustache on his upper lip, a lopsided grin on his face.
"And here’s yours dear Pads. An ID and a moustache.“
” — you think you can bribe me, James Potter?” he asks, with mock outrage that’s so sincere, anyone who didn’t know him as well as James did might think he was actually angry.
“I can’t be bought! Or at least, not for the measly amounts of booze it takes to get you drunk.”
"Are you suggesting that I’m ‘lightweight’? Come on, Pads, no need to be so rude.“
"Tell me what you want mate. Name it and I’ll do it. Promise.”
Send me a ◭ and I'll tell you something my character does or would likely do around yours that is unique or specialized to their interactions.
People will say that everything he does around James is unique. There’s the just-for-James smile, secretive and smug and always accompanied by a quirked eye- brow as some conversation passes between them with- out so much as a word needing to be spoken. There’s the just-for-James laugh, practically tucked into the other boy’s ear has Sirius throws an arm around his shoulder to deliver it. There’s just-for-James jokes, and there’s just-for-James insults, and there’s just-for-James expressions that are nigh-on unreadable to anyone else.
Oh, there’s just-for-Remus things, and just-for-Peter things, too, but somehow they’re something less, a little less intense, a little less obvious, though no less meaningful.
Of all the just-for-James things, that’s the thing that strikes the most. The intensity of it. No one has ever managed to demand from Sirius such focus, such rapt attention.
