Peter kicks his feet up onto the table after his fourth and final attempt at Baked Alaska. Remus had taken the torch away and scolded him before he could burn the flat down to ashes. Grease plays on the television, flashing scenes of John Travolta thrusting his hips on top of bleachers. Remus hums along from the kitchen table as he reviews Black Inc.'s expenses for the month. 

"Remus, you want popcorn?" Peter asks. 

"Uh yeah," Remus answers. "I'll make it in a minute. I'm almost done here." He flips over the second to last page and moves to his calculator. Punching in the last few numbers, his brows furrow. "That's not right..." His finger runs down the line and compares it to the previous month. 

"Remus you're missing it!" 

He ignores Peter, lost in his world of numbers. An extra 3,500 pounds of sent to an anonymous  recipient under "miscellaneous expenditures." The money appears on last month's spreadsheet as well but not on any after that. Remus grabs his journal, scribbling down the numbers he sees to examine later. He collects the rest of his work neatly and sets it aside, ready to turn in for the night. Grabbing a bag of popcorn, he places it into the microwave and leans against the counter while he waits. 

A buzz from his phone vibrates against the countertop. The name Mr. Bossy flashes on the screen - a nickname Remus likes to call Sirius when he was way, way out of earshot. With the popcorn loudly blasting behind him, and Peter's singing coming from the other end of the flat, Remus picks up his phone and steps outside. The air has cooled to a comfortable 60 degrees. 

"Hello?" Remus answers. 

"Remus," Sirius says loudly. "You're good at crafts."

"Erm...I suppose I could be. Why?"

"I need you at my place. Now." Remus swallows hard. "I'll send the address. Just get here as soon as you can."

The phone call ends as quickly as it had begun, leaving Remus standing out under the stars. Sirius needs his help, now? He can't quite figure out what the urgency could possibly be, but that doesn't really matter. A text with an address flashes on his screen, and without a second thought, Remus hurries back into the flat to change out of his pajamas. 

"I'm sorry I can't watch the movie," Remus mumbles. He switches into the clothes he wore earlier in the day and hastily packs his backpack up. 

"What's going on?" Peter questions, his attention finally breaking from the TV. 

"Sirius needs me at his place - some sort of problem I think?" Peter makes a face, but leans back into the couch. "I'm being fired. Maybe it was the stain on my sweater yesterday. Or when I accidentally faxed Michelle Obama instead of Michelle Ohana." Through his frantic ranting, Remus manages to be ready in record time. 

The drive to the Bridges isn't very far, but every minute feels like an hour to Remus. The building is exquisite, but then again, he didn't expect Sirius to live in some dump. His nerves jumble in the pit of his stomach as the numbers tick by on the elevator to the top floor, hundreds of feet above the city streets. 

The ding startles Remus and before he can compose himself, the doors slide open revealing Sirius Black's home. 

Remus takes a cautious step onto the black marble floors. The penthouse is decorated straight out of magazine; all the furniture is modern with crisp lines and elegance, and priceless artwork hangs on the walls. It feels like walking through a museum. There's hardly any sign that anybody actually lives here.

"Ah, you're here." Sirius rounds the corner from the kitchen still dressed in his suit, minus the jacket. His pace is leisurely despite the urgency he had exhibited over the phone.

Remus refrains from snickering. Of course Sirius would lounge around his house in a suit. 

"Um, I got here as fast as I could," Remus tells him. He remains in the foyer, unsure what to do. 

"Well don't just stand there, we've got work to do." 

Sirius guides Remus past the kitchen and towards a large bonus room down the narrow hall. It's as if this room has stolen all the colors from the rest of the penthouse - a mad house of fabric and machinery.  One long scroll of butcher paper is taped up and runs along all four walls filled with sketches and designs. Along the far wall are boxes stacked up overflowing with what seems to be bags.

"The event tomorrow," Sirius begins to explain, "Nobody prepared the guest's gifts and we have about three hundred individual goodie bags to make tonight."

Remus swallows the lump in his throat. "That's a lot of goodie bags," he mumbles. 

"Grab some boxes, we'll go out in the living room." Sirius passes to his left and carries three boxes in his hands. His muscles flex against the white shirt hugging his arms, bushing past Remus as he heads out of the room. 

Remus squats down to grab as many boxes as he can and shuffles blindly into the hallway. The lights are dim, and the fireplace roars across the room when he enters. He sets the boxes down on the slab of rock in the shape of a table that Remus is sure could crush him if he pissed Sirius off. 

"Care for a drink?" Sirius asks, sauntering over to the kitchen. The massive island is of pure black granite, sparking under the two chandeliers. 

"Um, water's fine thank you," Remus answers. He sets his bag on the floor beside the couch, examining the room in silence. The rug under his feet is gray, woven with intricate detailing that made Remus feel bad for walking over it. In front of him, the dining room table is set for eight, though he couldn't imagine Sirius sitting down having a dinner there. The view is what takes his breath away. Overlooking the entire city, much like the one at Black Inc., Remus stands in front of the ceiling to floor length windows observing the lit up city below. "You have an amazing place."

Sirius joins his side, offering an unopened bottle of water to him. "It's nice," he says. 

"Nice? If this is nice I must live in a sewer." Remus gazes longingly at the view. "You have everything you could ever want..." His eyes fixate on the reflection of Sirius in the glass, noticing his sullen expression. "Right well we should probably get to work on those gifts." He takes a step towards the couch, turning back to touch Sirius' arm. 

Sirius flinches back, facing Remus with an alarmed look. 

"Sorry!" Remus quickly apologies. "I didn't -"

"It's fine, I just got...startled." Sirius finishes his brandy in one gulp. He crosses the room back into the kitchen where he grabs a silk purple bag. "I had Evans do one to show me how what it should look like." 

The small bag is heavier than it looks, topped with a large bow. Remus unravels it, peering inside at all the small things: a block of handcrafted Belgian chocolate, a bottle of Gucci Flora Emerald perfume, and a Black Inc. silk sleeping mask paired with a two night stay at an all inclusive resort in Bora Bora. 

"Blimey!" Remus exclaims. "This whole bag could cover my rent!"

Sirius chuckles. "Maybe you'll get lucky at our Secret Santa drawing." He opens one of the boxes and pulls out a handful of the purple bags. 

"We should do an assembly line to make things go faster," Remus tells Sirius. "You put all the resort tickets into the sleeping masks and I'll put everything into the bags, then you can put them into the boxes when they're done so you can bring them to work tomorrow."

"And here I thought I was the boss." Remus' cheeks are painted a shade brighter when Sirius laughs. "I'm joking, you should really take it easy sometimes. You're so tense."

Remus narrows his eyes, but opts not to comment. Together, they get to work on the goodie bags. The moon crosses the meridian as the clock strikes 3 am. Music plays in the background softly from Sirius' record player system. They hardly ever speak to each other, but they don't need to. A serenity passes through both of them while they work in synch. Sirius' pile of sleeping masks grow tall while he sits on the floor with his legs criss cross. His lips hum along to the song as he's distracted by his own thoughts. 

Remus taps his foot gently to the beat. He's unsure who sings it, but the song is familiar. An older one - Just the Two of Us. The saxophone solo glides through the air like butter, lulling Remus to a comfortable rhythm. He ties the strings of his near two hundredth bag, and sets it with heap on the floor. His eyes flicker across the table at Sirius, watching how his hands slide the ticket into the mask delicately. A tugging feeling pulls deep in his chest.

Sirius' entire life revolves around his job. Hell - the man is wearing a suit at 3 am. The entire penthouse is cold and bare, reflecting that of Sirius' personality. Of course, Remus knows that can't be true of him. Though he's cold and distant, somewhere deep down Sirius used to be that happy teenager in the photos at Potter Manor. 

It amazes Remus what Sirius thinks of his own life. Everything he could ever want is available with the snap of his fingers, yet he doesn't take pride in his massive wealth. As if he doesn't deserve it. He has everything but nobody to share it with. 

Remus frowns slightly, almost pitying Sirius. It must be lonely at the top.