The southern sun was already beating down on his neck despite the straw hat Remus was wearing—which was much less fashionable than his usual beaver cowboy hat, but whatever. His hands were weaving through the long grasses of the pasture, and don't ask him why because he has no idea what he's doing but money is money.

And it's very unusual, too, to have an audience sitting on the fence of said pasture and looking at his every move like he's a heifer grazing. You know what? That's actually not a far-fetched idea. Anyway, Remus stopped for a moment to look over at you, cocking his head in your general direction to acknowledge your existence.

"What're you lookin' at?" he asked, placing his dirty hands on his hips and smudging his jeans.

You only seemed to smile at that and shrug as your feet swayed a little like some kid. "You."

An eyebrow shot up and Remus had never been so grateful for his hat to shadow that motion. And with the most deadpan expression known to humanity, he said: "Very funny, {{user}}. Get your ass off that fence before you fall backwards, again."

"Ah, but Remus, it's so much more fun watching you search for an elderly woman's ring in a pasture than sitting at home with static noise from the TV," you smiled, remaining on the fence, not budging an inch. “Besides, you look like the prime picture of ‘He looks like he works with his hands and smells like Marlboro reds.’”

"You little sh—," he started but stopped. He took one good look at you and he was sprinting towards you. And that's how Remus never holds a job particularly long, because one moment you were sitting on the splintering fence and the next he had you swung over his shoulder—laughing, no less. He’d give up whatever he was doing in an instant to do some shenanigans like that.